Preferably in the middle of his father´s car dealership.
Another sickish throb of pain twisted through his head, but he went up the steps to the McCains´ door anyway. This had to be done.This was over-fucking-due. Angie needed a lesson.
But just a little one. Don´t let yourself get out of control
As if summoned, his mother´s voice replied. Her maddeningly complacent voice. Junior was always a bad-tempered boy, but he keeps it under much better control now. Don´t you, Junior?
Well. Gee. He had, anyway. Football had helped. But now there was no football. Now there wasn´t even college. Instead, there were the headaches. And they made him feel like one mean motherfucker.
Don´t let yourself get out of control.
No. But he would talk to her, headache or no headache.
And, as the old saying was, he just might have to talk to her by hand. Who knew? making Angie feel worse might make him feel better.
Junior rang the bell.
2
Angie McCain was just out of the shower. She slipped on a robe, belted it, then wrapped a towel around her wet hair. "coming! she called as she not-quite-trotted down the stairs to the first floor. There was a little smile on her face. It was Frankie, she was quite sure it must be Frankie. Things were finally coming rightside up. the bastardly short-order cook (good-looking but still a bastard) had either left town or was leaving, and her parents were out. combine the two and you got a sign from God that thigns were coming rightside up. She and Frankie could put all the crap in the rearview and get back together.
She knew exactly how to handle it: open the door and then open her robe. Right there in the saturday-morning daylight, where anybody passing might see her. She´d make sure it was Frankie first, of course - she had no intention of flashing fat old Mr Wicker if he´d rung the bell with a package or a registered mail - but it was at least half an hour too early for the mail.
No, it was Frankie. She was sure.
She opened the door, the little smile widening to a welcoming grin - perhaps not fortunate, since her teeth were rather crammed together and the size of jumbo chiclets. Once hand was on the tie of he robe. But she did´t pull it. Because it wasn´t Frankie. It was Junior, and he looked so angry -
She had seen his black look before - many time, in fact - but never this black since eighth grade, when Junior broke the Dupree kid´s arm. The little fag had dared to swish his buble-butt onto town common basketball court and ask to play. And she supposed Junior must have had the same thunderstom on his face that night in Dipper´s parking lot, but of course she hadn´t been there, she had only heard about it. Everybody in The Mill had heard about it. She´d been called in to talk to Chief Perkins, that damn Barbie had been there, and evetually that had gotten out, too.
"Junior? Junior, What -
Then he slapped her, and thinking pretty much ceased.
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