Christine knew the boys were only interested in Sunny. Blond and slim and from around the neighborhood, but Sunny didn’t want to go in Joe’s car alone.
       Mr. Carchio locked the store behind them, irritated. Thursday was always a slow pizza night. Sunny brought the left over breadsticks and cokes for the whisky. Christine hungered for the salt and sugar, for warmth in her mouth. She watched Sunny bend and pinch the baked dough into heart-shaped bracelets. Sunny licked them, high on her glossy arm. Christine bit her lip, hard. They parked the Chevy off the old county road, in a field of tall grass, undulating around them like silver flames. Sunny said the radio song reminded her of blue skies and freedom. Her smile bothered all thought.
       The boys asked Christine. You don’t miss the big city, do you? Don’t you like the clean air, the birds chirping outside your window?
       She said yes because it was easier. New girls said Yes.
       The empty pint bottle was laid below the backseat. Sunny laughed. Derek and Joe had always cheated in dodge-ball, in Mr. Wilson’s class. They aimed too high and clobbered fat Leroy that one time. Made him cry. Remember that. What about Eddy Groves, also in Mr. Wilson’s, who tried walking across the Russell Bridge, drunk on his uncle’s white lightning, and had plunged. That stuff tasted like paint thinner. How about when they found him? Eddy’s body, all puffed and looking washed in chalk, except for the opening on his head. Pale pink center and mushy edges. Black hair clung to flapping skin.
       Sunny said she remembered. It was the saddest thing she had ever heard, she said, what happened to Eddy.
       The Appalachian heat filled their blood. The boys teased Christine, shined a flashlight in her eyes. She said stop it. Shut up. And what are we doing here anyway?
       It’s time to play cards, they said. But with no table, only one-card poker will work.
       Oh my God, not strip poker, Sunny said.
       Christine took a card. Nine of Hearts. Sunny. Four of Spades.
       My bracelets count, right? Sunny cooed.
       Seven hands were played. Derek had pulled off his T-shirt and flannel. Black moles dotted tight ridged flesh. Joe kept fully clothed, had drawn all high, including one Ace. Christine lost a sneaker. Sunny trembled in blue cotton panties, beige bra and white skin.
       The boys shuffled the cards, faster now.
       They drew again.
       What you got Sunny?
       Bless-it, a five this time, she whined.
       Christine grinned and quivered. She dropped her card. But no one was watching.
       Sunny hunched her shoulders, unlatched the eyelets on her back. Oh darn it, she said.
       The boys aimed the light on her breasts: full and erect, flooded in yellow. Sunny opened her arms. Posing still as the moon, her blue eyes gleamed over lips, parted and moist.
       Christine looked out at the waving grass. The Two of Clubs at her feet.

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Cora C. Pyles is 25-40 years of age, and a recent graduate of Antioch LA’s MFA Creative Writing program. She lives in Southern California and is currently working on a first novel.
 

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summer 2007 | kaleidowhirl
books and chapbooks from authors in this issue