The People We Keep

— Chapter 1 —

November 1994

Little River, NY

I’m standing at the end of my driveway in the dark, watching Mrs. Varnick’s trailer, waiting for her lights to go out, getting really pissed off. I’ve been watching for at least a week and her lights went out at eight thirty every other night. She must have picked up a clear signal on reruns of Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw with her rabbit ears, because it’s a quarter to nine and she’s still plopped in her BarcaLounger in the living room with the TV flickering and every light in the house blazing like she owns the damn electric company.

I decide I’ll wait until nine and then go for it, because she’s deafer than Mozart or Beethoven or whoever the deaf one is, and she probably has the TV cranked up anyway. But it’s freezing, my legs are bare under my skirt, and doing my little so fucking cold jig isn’t getting my blood pumping anymore. So I tell myself Mrs. Varnick must have fallen asleep in her chair. The woman eats dinner at four in the afternoon. She’s got to be snoring away, dreaming about Lawrence and his powder blue tuxedo shirts by now.

Grabbing my guitar, I move in, walking soft, keeping low. The car isn’t locked, but she wasn’t kind enough to leave the keys.

I squeeze my Ren & Stimpy keychain flashlight between my teeth to keep it lit and aimed at the spot my instructions refer to as the ignition tumbler. I don’t know why they couldn’t just say place where the key goes. Thank goodness I read through the instructions in the library when I copied them. I had to look up most of the terms. So I take my dad’s screwdriver and shove it between the metal ignition tumbler and the plastic of whatever the place underneath it is called. I can’t get the tumbler part to come out and I have to keep prying at it around the edges the way you open up a paint can, all the while looking up to check on Mrs. Varnick every few seconds.

Finally, it pops. I shove the screwdriver into what I assume is the ignition switch, hold my breath, and turn. The car hiccups. I let it go. If I can’t make this work, I’m screwed. I promised myself I wouldn’t get into wire stripping and removing dashboard panels. It’s all too complicated and I have to be able to put the car back like nothing happened. I wiggle the screwdriver. Try again. This time the engine turns and the car starts. Headlights off, I back out of Mrs. Varnick’s driveway, watching her living room window carefully. She doesn’t move.

By the time I pull into the parking lot of the Blue Moon Cafe, it’s a quarter to ten, and everything started at nine. I run in, guitar case banging against my leg. The tarnished brass clips and peeling bumper stickers snag the top layer of my skirt. Some guy in a leather vest is on stage singing that song about cats in cradles. His voice is nasal. When he breathes, you can hear his saliva.

The place is packed. I stand in the back and look around, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do—do I get up on stage after that guy is done?—when this girl wearing a knit cap and fingerless gloves hands me a clipboard.

Sign up here. She gives me a pen. Her eyelashes are so pale they’re almost white. We’re supposed to cut the list off at nine thirty, but you’re close enough, she says, sighing like she’s bored with absolutely everything. Bring it to me when you’re done. She points to where she’ll be in the corner of the room.

There are twelve names on the list already, first five crossed out. I lean against the wall so I can balance the board on my knee. The pen barely writes, and it takes forever to fill out April, Little River in the name and hometown boxes, scribbling over each letter to carve an indent into the paper. I don’t put my last name, even though everyone before me has. Sawicki doesn’t have that show biz ring. All the other performers are from Buffalo or Hamburg or East Aurora. I should’ve at least said I was from Cattaraugus, someplace big enough to have its own post office. If the pen worked, I’d scribble over my line and start again.

I don’t have titles for my songs. I try to think of something to call them, but as I’m staring out at the room, running through the lyrics to the first one in my head, I notice that there are a lot of people. Maybe fifty. My legs are wobbly. I want to sit down. I write untitled in both of the song spaces and check a box that says original, leaving the box for cover empty.

When I walk over to give the board back, my stomach flops like a tadpole drowning in air, making me wish I hadn’t eaten so many Pop-Tarts for dinner. The eyelash girl is perched on a stool, hunched over a paperback she’s holding very close to her face. It’s so dark I don’t know how she can even see the words. She must be one of those people who can read no matter what’s going on, because I stand next to her and hold the sign-up sheet out for a whole minute before she realizes I’m there.

Thanks, she says, dropping the book in her lap without marking her place. She takes the clipboard back. I hope she doesn’t notice the way my hands shake. Have a seat. It’ll be a while. She looks out at the audience—little cafe tables, four chairs around each one. There’s like eight tables out there and every chair is filled. I figure I’ll just sit on the floor against the wall, but Eyelash Girl stands up on the middle rung of her stool. There, she points to a table up front, there’s a seat right there. She nods at me, waving her finger toward the chair. She expects me to take that seat and I can’t think of an excuse.

I weave my way around the tables, knocking my guitar case against knees and chair backs, whispering sorrys as I go. Cat’s Cradle guy finishes. Everyone applauds politely. He takes a breath we all can hear and says, Here’s a little ditty I think you guys know. His first few strums are sour but familiar.

I try to make eye contact with the guy sitting next to the empty chair. He’s too busy talking to the other people at the table to notice me, so I tap the chair leg with my boot. Nothing. I put my guitar case down and fumble with one of the clips, catching his glance in the corner of my eye. But when I look up, he’s back to talking, so I have to sit down and lean over to tap him on the shoulder to ask if it’s okay if I sit. I feel like an ass, since I’m already sitting, but he says, No problem, and offers his hand. Jim.

April, I say, meeting his grip firmly, the way my father taught me—a good seal the deal shake. I pull away to position the guitar between my legs so no one can take it. Right before the chorus I realize the guy on stage is trying to play Free Bird. When I look up to check Jim’s reaction to the acoustic crucifixion of Lynyrd Skynyrd, he’s already turned around, busy talking to the woman sitting next to him. His hair is a brown horseshoe with wiry strands spread across the shiny skin in the middle of his head. The remaining total comes together in a long skinny ponytail wrapped in a plain rubber band at the base of his neck. The woman he’s talking to has grey hair like steel wool, braided and not even fastened at the ends, left to unravel over time. She looks like Mother Nature, and the man on the other side of her could be King Neptune with his long white beard and tattered navy cap. They must have come here together and I’m cutting in on their party of three.

I wish, just a little bit, I’d come with someone. I told Matty I had to study for math. I don’t want him to see me play until I’m sure I’m not going to get up there and choke.

I’ll help you study, he said, giving me the toothy grin that usually gets him everything he wants.

We never study when we study, I told him. I’m totally failing.

His eyes flashed with hurt when I sent him away, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what his face would look like if I got on stage and my voice croaked and my fingers wouldn’t move.

I wish I’d brought my dad, but he’s always with Irene and the boy now. It’s his guitar anyway. Your inheritance, he said when he handed it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Music is in your blood, Ape. I know really he forgot it was my birthday, but I took it just the same. I should have told him about this. Made him drive me. When it’s my turn to go on stage he could whistle with his fingers in his mouth like he used to at my elementary school plays. But I’m sure the boy is busy wetting the bed or picking his nose and Dad and Irene have to be there to watch.

People applaud again. That guy walks off stage. I clap because he’s leaving, and I wonder if that’s why everyone else is clapping too.

Jim turns to me and says, This is Wisteria and her life partner Efrem. He leans toward Mother Nature and King Neptune and says, April, pointing at me. They wave and I wave back. Wisteria’s cheeks dimple like crab apples when she smiles, and Efrem’s eyes are crinkly and kind.

Before anyone can say anything else, this skinny scarecrow man in a worn out brown fedora gets on stage and reads off the clipboard. His voice is low and whispery. "Next up, Luke Barstoldt from Cheektowaga is here to sing Sweet Baby James, by James Taylor, and Teach Your Children, by Crosby, Stills and Nash, or was that when they were Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, I can never remember. He shifts around awkwardly, holding his hands out at his sides like a bad stand-up comedian. Geez, isn’t anyone playing originals? He looks at the audience like he’s waiting for a response, but everyone is dead silent. Well, in any case, let’s give it up for Luke."

I am proud while we all applaud, because I wrote both the songs I’m going to play—one about losing my virginity to Matty, and the other about my father and Irene and the boy—but Luke Barstoldt quickly snuffs out my smug when he starts playing and it sounds like James Taylor himself has blessed the audience with his presence. He has long skeleton hands and his fingers move fast even though everything else about him is slow and soulful.

Wisteria and Efrem are next. They argue with the scarecrow man about their song choice. Scarecrow says because of its length, Canadian Railroad Trilogy should count as both their songs, but they say they should get to play two separate songs. I think they’re all joking, but Efrem gets red-faced. He covers the microphone with his hand and mutters something to Scarecrow. Scarecrow concedes, throwing his arms in the air and walking off stage without introducing them.

Efrem plays ukulele and Wisteria bangs a tambourine against her round butt. She’s a shrill soprano, but his voice is gravel. They sing into the same mic even though there are two on stage. He’s a half beat behind her on the lyrics.

These guys are here every week, Jim says, resting his arm on the back of my chair, and they never get any better.

I smile and hunch forward, so my back doesn’t touch his arm. When are you up? I ask.

Oh, I’m not playing. I mean, I do play, but not here.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask more or let it go. I let it go. It’s freezing. I pump my hands, trying to trick feeling back into my fingers. Cold in here.

Yeah, Jim says. Here’s the trick. He raises his hand. Eyelash Girl must have looked up from her book at just the right time. She comes over with a small pad of paper and a pen, ready to take an order.

I’m fine, I say, because I only have a handful of coins I swiped from the ashtray in Mrs. Varnick’s car.

Jim doesn’t hear me. Could we have a hot water for her, and a refresh on mine, he asks.

Eyelash Girl gives him a dirty look and clears his mug.

This will help, he says. Hold it or drink it. Either way. And they can’t charge you for hot water.

When Eyelash Girl comes back with our mugs, I make a point of saying thank you as sweetly as I can. She gives me a dirty look too, and I decide I will leave her all of Mrs. Varnick’s change as an apology.

I cup my hands around the mug and hold it up to my face, breathing the steam into my lungs, like cigarette smoke, only clean.

Better? Jim raises his mug in my direction.

Much. Thanks.

No prob. You gotta learn the ropes. And if you know the ropes, it’s your job to teach them.

Wisteria and Efrem finish their songs and come back to the table, flustered and blushing. Jim stands when they sit, applauding loudly. That’s the stuff, man, he says, and mimes tipping a hat in their direction. When he sits, he crosses his leg over his knee and rests his arm on the back of my chair again. I don’t think he’s hitting on me. I think he’s just less into personal space than I am.

A girl about my age climbs on stage. To get away from Jim’s arm, I rest my elbows on my knees like I’m going to pay super close attention. Scarecrow says, "Next up, Marion Strong singing two of her own songs. Her first is South… followed by North. He laughs one big open-mouthed haw. No, seriously, folks, her second song is Awakening. Ladies and germs, the lovely Marion."

Lovely is a stretch. She looks like she didn’t even try. Stretched out sweater, baggy jeans, dirty work boots. It’s one thing to go for that whole don’t give a shit appearance when you do, but she looks like she really doesn’t give a shit.

Marion strums once and twists the knobs on her guitar. Alright, she says into the mic in a soft voice. She strums again. Alright. That sounds good. Her face cares. Her face looks like she gives a shit now. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes halfway. Alright, here we go.

She doesn’t just strum out some opening chords. Her song has an intro. It’s complex fingerpicking, not just a running head start on the lyrics. Her hands move furiously up and down the neck of the guitar, and I feel like I’m watching something that’s a little too private. Then she closes her eyes and opens her mouth and her voice is bigger than the rest of her. It’s clear and arched and she’s telling this story about a lover who won’t steer his ship south for the winter. She says she’s done. She’s going to go where it’s warm, but where’s he gonna dock his boat when his sail gets caked with ice and the sea is frigid and choppy? How will you feel when you’re cold and alone up north when everyone’s south? she asks, and I want to answer, because I can picture him huddled by an oil lamp in the cabin of an old damp ship, a single tear running down his face. I can see he’s miserable without her and I want to tell her that. There’s metaphor or simile or some term I would know if I paid attention in English. It’s full and beautiful and her guitar sounds like rough and rolling waves. I can’t stop watching her. She ends the song with hard, rhythmic strums, holding the guitar out in front of her like she’s presenting the final reverberations to us as a gift. I strain to keep them in my ears until there’s nothing left to hear.

Her next song is even better. Loud and angry. She pulls sounds from those strings that I didn’t think were possible, like she’s playing two guitars or three. I can’t keep track of her fingers to figure out how she does it. But even if I could—I mean, it’s not like I know enough about playing to pick it up from watching someone else.

I want to hear it all, every word, every note, but I get stuck in my head. I can’t stop thinking about how I have to get on that stage and my songs don’t have similes or metaphors or fancy fingerpicking. I can’t stop picturing myself forgetting how to hold my guitar, opening my mouth to squawk like a ragged old crow.

All of a sudden, everyone’s clapping. Some people are even standing to applaud for Marion Strong. I clap hard and my palms sting. Marion bows her head slightly and smiles, her moon face ruddy and shining and gorgeous.

The scarecrow guy gets up on stage. I tap Jim’s shoulder. Watch my guitar?

He nods.

I weave through the seats and tables, trying not to look at the people. I don’t want to think about all those eyes watching me, or worse, not watching me. All those eyes looking at their neighbor, widening to say, Who does this chick think she is?

In the bathroom mirror, I stare at my own eyes. I look at them until they sting because I don’t let myself blink and it smells like someone smoked a clove in here not too long ago. When I finally do blink, my eyelashes get wet. I rip a piece of paper towel from the roll on the sink, fold the corner and brush it under my lower lashes to dry them before my mascara runs. I sort through my bag, find my eyeliner and focus everything on lining my eyes with a thin black line. I pretend I’m an ant, following the curve of my lashes, the way we learned to do line drawings in art class. Slow. Millimeters at a time, until I don’t hear the crowd and I don’t hear the music. I just hear my breath. In and out. So warm it fogs the mirror. I smudge the lines with a twisted piece of paper towel. By the time I’m done my body is loose and warm, my head floating on my neck.

I go out and take my seat, trying hard to cling to the calm. My index finger has a smudge of eyeliner on the nail. I fixate on the smudge until the next singer is done, and the next one too, and Scarecrow Man is on stage again.

Now we have two untitled originals from April.

My heart squeezes tight like a fist. I flip my guitar case on its back and undo the latches.

The scarecrow shuffles papers on the clipboard. Just April? Looks like we have a Madonna on our hands.

Everyone laughs, but I pretend they aren’t real. They are eyeless. They are bowling pins. Giant black bowling pins in chairs, wearing hats and beaded necklaces, hand-woven shawls. They can’t see me, and I can’t hear them.

I climb on stage and sit on the stool. I don’t know what to do with the microphone. Scarecrow must sense that, because he’s almost back to his seat, but he returns to pull the mic closer and angle it at my mouth. Thanks, I say, and it echoes through the room, bouncing off the bowling pins.

My first strum sounds wrong and I realize my fingers are not where they should be. I strum again, pretend to fiddle with the tuning. Okay, I say into the mic once my fingers are firmly in their starting position.

I strum three times, close my eyes and start to sing:

Your eyes tell me what we’re gonna do,

And it’s not like I haven’t thought it too,

And it’s not like it’s wrong.

No, it’s not like that.

So I close my eyes, and you take my hand.

We’re both in the right place,

And it seems like the right time…

The right time.

I keep my eyelids shut tight and hear my voice coming back to me from the corners of the room. Bowling pins wearing wire-rimmed glasses, the black lines around my eyes, the change from Mrs. Varnick’s car, hot water in a cup. I think of all these things and I see myself on stage, like I’m up in the rafters watching.

When I’m done, there’s applause and it’s loud, and the audience is full of people again. People who like me. It’s not polite. It’s real and it just keeps going. I wait and wait. I adjust my guitar on my lap and the applause dies to a few random claps.

For the next song, I am brave. I sing about my father. I sing, Don’t forget you made me. Don’t forget you made me the way I am. And I look right at people in the audience. Right in their eyes, like I wrote the song about them. A guy with dreadlocks, King Neptune, the scarecrow. I sing to Marion Strong and the girl with the white eyelashes. I finish the song looking right into Jim’s eyes. When it’s over, he stands to clap. A few other people stand too, and the applause is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.

They’re still clapping when I get back to my seat. Someone in the far corner whistles. I sit, but I’m also hovering above myself, and smiling so big that my whole body is a grin and my head is warm and fuzzy like the first time Matty kissed me.

Scarecrow gets up on stage and says Th-th-that’s all folks, like he’s Porky Pig.

I rest my guitar in its case, latch each of the clips slowly. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want it to be over. I want to climb on stage again to play more songs and keep them clapping. I don’t want to go back to an empty motorhome and my stupid math book.

Everyone collects themselves, pulling on hats and scarves, big sweaters and secondhand coats. People walk past me on their way to the door. A few smile or say, Good job. A guy in a tunic gives me a thumbs up.

I dig my mittens and scarf from my bag.

I’ll walk you out, Jim says, like that’s what I was waiting for.

Thanks.

Pretty girl. Dark parking lot. You got to. He shakes his head. It’s fatherly. But that’s how everyone else is too. Fatherly. Brotherly. I can’t picture King Neptune jumping from behind a truck to rape and pillage.

Jim pulls my chair out of the way as I stand. I walk in front of him until we get outside. The James Taylor guy shouts, Night, Jimmy!

Night! Jim shouts back, then, Hack, under his breath like a cough.

I thought he was good, I say, letting my feet drag on the parking lot gravel.

They’re all hacks. You and that Marion girl. You’re the only ones who have any chance of making it. And maybe not even Marion. He says it like it’s fact, not opinion.

She’s better than me, I say, and I know it’s true, but I’m high. My head is spinning. Making it. I have a chance of making it. I have more of a chance than Marion. I don’t even know what it is, and I don’t think Jim is the one who gets to hand it down, but I want it. The air is crisp. My breath makes clouds.

She’s—don’t get me wrong, she’s good. But you’re the real deal. You’re the whole package. That’s what it’s about. Everyone buys into the package.

He takes a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and smacks them against his palm until one sticks out. He holds the pack to his lips and pulls the cigarette with his teeth. Want one? he says from the side of his mouth.

I shake my head.

Good girl. He cups his hand to his face. Lights up. Puffs. Save those pipes, he says into the smoke.

Will do, I say. Thanks.

Where’s your car?

Over there. I gesture vaguely. I’ll be fine now. Nice to meet you, Jim. I shake his hand, and sprint to Mrs. Varnick’s car so he won’t follow. The risk of attack is low. The risk of Jim noticing the loose ignition switch is high.

I get the car going again and drive home singing my songs to myself over and over, hearing the applause like it’s filling the car. The drive home isn’t long enough. The exact sound of that clapping starts to slip from my head when I turn down our street.

I park the car in the tire ruts in Mrs. Varnick’s driveway, push the ignition tumbler back in until it pops, and toss the screwdriver in my bag. I walk slowly to the motorhome, memorizing the way it feels to tread the path: the give of the pine needles, the dense winding roots. I am hardwiring my memory, because for the first time it doesn’t feel like this will be the rest of my life.

The motorhome shifts under my weight when I climb inside. I turn on the TV, curl up in the driver’s seat, and fall asleep to black and white static.

The next day, I fail my math test. I can’t even answer most of the questions.

— Chapter 2 —

This test was your chance to prove yourself," Mrs. Hunter says, shaking her head at me with fake concern. Her weather-girl hair barely moves. She hands over my paper, marked with red like it has the chicken pox.

I should have held on to my test until the end of class so I could escape before she started grading. But I turned it in early with the smart kids, because there were song lyrics flashing in my head and I had to scribble them in my notebook before I forgot.

I did prove myself, I say.

Ape-rul! She crosses her arms over her chest, pursing her perfectly lined lips. She was a beauty queen before she was a teacher. I wonder what her talent was.

I proved I can’t do math, I say, dropping the test in the trash can by her desk. I stop in the doorway to wave goodbye. Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, and a big smile like I have Vaseline smeared across my teeth.

April Sawicki! she yells after me as I walk away.

I don’t see any point in going to the rest of my classes. I’ve failed so many math tests already this semester that unless I get perfect scores for the rest of the year, I’ll be stuck in summer school not understanding algebra all over again. And it’s not like I’m doing much better in English or science.

I grab my black and whites from my locker, change in the bathroom, and head to Margo’s. When I get there, the diner’s empty, except for Margo, who’s perched at the counter, her pink high heels kicked off, bare feet twisted around the bottom rung of the stool. Her toenail polish matches her shoes exactly.

She’s filling saltshakers and watching The Weather Channel on the little TV over the counter. Florida’s getting a lot of rain, she says, shaking her head when she sees me. Bad for the oranges. They get watery.

What’s the forecast here?

I missed that part. She pinches spilled salt from the counter, tosses it over her shoulder for luck. It’ll roll around again in a minute.

Sure, I say, grinning. Margo can tell you what the weather is anywhere else, but she never catches the local report.

Aren’t you supposed to be at school, young lady? She screws the top on a shaker and slides the ones she’s finished down the counter to me.

Failed math. No point. I grab four shakers in each hand and walk around, placing them on tables.

I’m harboring a fugitive, she says, waving her hands in mock horror. The truant officer is going to have a field day.

They don’t have those anymore, I don’t think. I finish placing the shakers and sit on the stool next to hers.

Did you at least give it your best shot?

Not really. I twist my promise ring around my finger and avoid making eye contact.

Well, not everyone’s cut out for school, you know? I didn’t graduate and look at me. I did just fine for myself. Margo finishes salt and moves on to pepper. This isn’t because of that Matty Spencer, is it?

Naw.

She raises her eyebrow, scrunches up the corner of her mouth. She’s being polite calling Matty by name. Usually, she calls him Golden Boy, and she doesn’t mean it in a nice way. That kid could charm the pants off a snake, she told me once, and I wondered what it made me. But that’s the thing about Matty. No one else knows him like I do.

I tell her the truth to change the subject. You know that guitar I got for my birthday?

Yeah. She turns her head away from the shakers as she pours, so the pepper dust won’t make her sneeze.

I played at the Blue Moon last night.

Oh, girlie!

Just open mic.

How’d you do? she says, holding her fist to her mouth, then, You did great, before I even answer. I know you did.

I did okay.

Well, where was my engraved invitation? Your dad go?

No. I balance shaker lids in a pile while I’m waiting for her to finish the next pepper. She’s pouting like a little kid. You’re busy, I say, I didn’t want to bother you. Partly I feel bad I didn’t invite her and partly I’m just embarrassed for her. The pouting isn’t as cute as she thinks it is. She would have stuck out like a sore thumb in that crowd. They were all odd ducks, but Margo, she’s a different kind.

Well, that’s not a bother; that’s exciting. Pepper spills. She uses her hand to corral it to the end of the counter and sweeps it into the shaker. Only a little ends up on the floor. Hey, wait. How’d you get all the way out to the Blue Moon?

I smile. You don’t want to know.

What are you doing to me? She swats my shoulder with the towel she keeps tucked in her apron and gets up to go behind the counter. You know I don’t have money for bail just lying around.

I’ll save for my own bail. I have to go to summer school anyway, may as well be for good reason. Can I pull extra shifts? Keep me out of trouble, I say, batting my eyelashes at her. I don’t tell her Matty and I talked about saving for a wedding. She’ll get too excited about dresses and flowers or launch into another lecture about Matty and how sixteen isn’t old enough to be making the kinds of decisions that aren’t easily undone, and either way, she’ll forget I ever asked about the extra shifts.

Hon, things are tight. She looks me over and sighs. Let me see what I can do. I’ll crunch numbers and check the schedule.

You don’t have to pay me overtime or even full on the extra shifts. It’ll be like undertime. Or I’ll just go for tips like I used to.

She shakes her head. I double you up on Lorraine, she’ll get pissy with me. There’s not enough tables to have two girls on at the same time. She looks me right in the eyes. Margo can read my face better than anyone. Let me think on it, she says.

Margo dated my dad in high school and then they tried to date again after my mom left us. That was back when we lived over the Wash ’n Fold on Ames Street, before we got the motorhome. The whole apartment smelled like soapsuds.

When they went on dates, Margo would pick up my dad so she could see me too. She’d braid my hair or help me dress my dolls while he rounded up his wallet, shoes, and keys and checked the score on his radio one last time.

Margo always wore bright pink lipstick. Her red hair was all sprayed up like a helmet of big round bubbles, even though the other women in town were wearing their hair down and getting it feathered. She was thick around the middle, but she always wore miniskirts. When I asked my fourth grade teacher how long a paper had to be, she said, Like a skirt. Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting. Margo’s skirts were always interesting. They covered everything, but just barely. And when she moved, you couldn’t help but watch, just in case they didn’t. She knew it too.

You gotta maximize your potential, she told me once, flexing her foot before slipping it back into her impossibly high pink pump. "I don’t got a bitty waist, but I’ve got killer gams. Play