"Whatever you think is best. I'm just tired, Jimmy. Real tired."
"Honey, that ain't the way to be, if this is going to work."
"Don't worry, I know how to pretend. Fooled you, didn't I?"
The worst part was that she had loved him, and all the things he did to her. But love was another thing that didn't matter a rat's ass in the new real world. "Love" was up there with “pride,” words you knitted onto those heartwarming little samplers you hung on the kitchen wall. Just threads and knots, when you got right down to it.
Jimmy broke the silence. “No need to get mean, Peggy.”
“Just bring them on. However many you can find. And one more thing-”
“What, dah-?” He’d been about to say “darling.” "What?"
She sucked in another tarry hit, then exhaled slowly. She felt worn out already. “Nothing on credit.”
She slammed down the phone. Fuck them. Fuck them all.
It couldn’t be any worse than acting on a stage. In sixth grade, she'd played the part of Sleeping Beauty in the class play. Her Momma was so proud, she'd gone out and spent money the family could barely afford for costume materials. Peggy remembered the feel of the dress her Momma had made, virginal white cotton with lace edging, billowy sleeves, and a veil. She’d worn it for the first time at the dress rehearsal the night before the play.
She felt like a real fairy queen, her small nylon slippers seeming to barely touch the stage as she crossed. The lace swished lightly with each movement and the veil wisped out behind. She had tingled, made of feathers and warm snow, puffy clouds and helium. For that one night, she believed in magic.
She noticed how the boys watched her during rehearsal. Even the girls glanced at her as if she were a stranger, with a mixture of awe and envy and scorn. The drama teacher, Mr. Anderson, said that she looked absolutely perfect.
"Good enough to eat," he said to her privately, in the wings behind the curtains. And when everyone was gone and it was time for Mr. Anderson to drive her home, he locked the school and darkened the gym and turned on the spotlight. Then he led her to the sheet-draped plywood altar where Sleeping Beauty would drift in pretend dreams the next day and await her prince's kiss. Mr. Anderson leaned her back among the plastic roses and lifted her dress and put himself inside her, said that was how princesses found true love.
There was pain and a little blood, but even that couldn't wash away the magic feeling. She had never felt so loved, so treasured and worthy. Even though the play was a disaster and Mr. Anderson never looked her in the eye again, she had carried the memory of that airy feeling ever since. And she'd spent her entire life trying to regain the magic, to step into a bright starring role, to slip again into those soft folds of make-believe.
Well, you can add “make-believe” to that sorry little list, alongside “love” and “pride.” If my prince ever does come, he is damn sure going to have to pay for the privilege.
Junior passed the joint to Reggie Speerhorn. Reggie took a hit and rolled his eyes.
"Good smoke," he grunted as he exhaled, leaning against the dumpster. They were skipping study hall, hiding in an alcove behind the gym. The air circulation pump kicked on, making the wall vibrate, and Junior jumped in stoned surprise.
Wade, the third member of the stoogish group, broke up in laughter. He said, "That reminds me of the way you jumped when that lightning struck the other day, while you were taking a whiz. About pissed all over your boots."
Reggie took another toke and said to Junior, "Yeah, man. You been tight lately. What's got you so spooked?"
Junior huffed a little. He about told them to fuck themselves and the horses they rode in on, but they were two of his best customers. The guys had the scratch, and that's all that mattered.
Wade was an import, from Chicago. His parents were loaded, something about his old man retiring from IBM, whatever that was. He said his parents moved him down here to get him away from the niggers and spics and gangs and drugs. Well, the plan was three-quarters of a success.
Wade didn't care what he paid, either. He was used to big-city inflation, and Junior could charge him ten bucks a gram for sensemilla bud. Good virgin smoke from the fields of Meh-hee-co, grown by dot-headed beaners specifically for U.S. consumption. Wade kept asking Junior to score some smack and crack, but Junior didn't need that scene.
Wade had it going on with the chicks, though, Junior had to admit. Blue-black curly hair, the kind the girls seemed to like, what Junior called "Superman hair." He was tall with a cocksure walk, and that northern accent made him sound exotic to the Bojangle's Chicken-and-Biscuit crowd. Butt-loads of money didn't hurt, either.
Junior had been smoking dope with Reggie Speerhorn since the fourth grade, when Reggie had found a roach outside the teacher's lounge at Fairway Elementary. Junior often wondered what the mayor would think if she discovered her only son had been brain-basted almost half of his waking life. Might put a dent in that "Just Say No" horseshit she'd picked up from the Reagan era, the words she always ended her speeches with at the school assemblies.
Wade and Reggie were good customers, and probably the closest things Junior had to friends. Even though they were a little older, they were sort of like kin. Brothers in the family of dope. Still, there was no way in hell he could tell them about the fucked-up fish he had caught yesterday. He took the joint from Wade.
"Yo, man, blow me a shotgun," Reggie said.
"Naw. That's too faggy." Junior didn't want his lips anywhere near Reggie's. He took a draw and leaned against the bricks, listening to a PE class on the football field, the temporary jocks grunting like hogs rooting for acorns.
Reggie thumped him on the chest, and Junior looked at the freckly green-eyed stoner.
"I ain't no fag, man." Reggie tried to sound as tough as his leather jacket.
Wade grabbed Reggie by the shoulder. "Chill. You're fucking up my buzz."
Reggie squirmed his shoulder free. "Nobody calls me a fag."
Junior knocked off an eraserhead of ash and handed the joint to Reggie. Reggie pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, still sulking.
"Did I say ‘faggy’? I meant ‘froggy.’ Ree-deep," Junior said. He and Wade broke into moist laughter. Froggy was a nickname for Reggie that went whispered around the halls behind his back. And he did resemble a frog, with his squat, spade-shaped head and bulging eyes.
"I'm getting me some good squeeze," Reggie said, spitting out a pot seed that he'd accidentally sucked into his mouth. Apparently, he wasn't aware of his nickname, because he didn't clench his bony fists in rage. But he had to make a play for manhood now.
"Anybody we know?"
"You don't, Wade, but Junior knows, don't you?" Reggie flashed a bloodshot wink at Junior.
Junior had no idea what he was talking about and really didn't care. The lunch bell was about to sound, and who wanted to be standing around with their thumbs up their asses, smoking dope at school, when they could be downtown or out in the woods, smoking dope with their thumbs up their asses?
"Are ya'll interested?" Junior said. "Got thirty grams of Panama Red and ten grams of Tijuana Taxi. I can probably score a half kilo of what we're smoking, but it'll be Monday, at least."
Junior was glad drug dealers had started using the metric system for weighing dope. Always made it sound like you were getting more for your money. Plus you could cut a bit out and customers couldn’t tell the difference. Still, using the metric system was about as close as Junior ever wanted to get to being a French Commie.
"I'm in for the Red," Wade said.
Junior did some math, but the numbers wiggled and sagged in his smoky head. "For you, man, one-fifty."