Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

“It's simple,” she said. “The blood and nutrients go directly into my emergent spell powers.”

Wool Cap Kid pursed his lips and the girl thought it was the same kid as from English class, definitely, which was both a worry and a relief, sort of — because he was kind of ugly and kind of cute at the same time, sitting there in a black V-neck, staring at her all astonished and all. The girl had always had a bit of a thing for him but had never wanted to screw things up by talking to him — that's how things went, once a boy thought you liked him, he wouldn't even make eye contact in the hallway, boys were weird like that, whatever.

His eyes, dark and shining beads, remained trained: the aperture of her summer vest's open and hanging collar, the upper embroidery and lace of her bra. She wondered if he was checking her out. Did he think her bra was just a fashion statement? Truly needed as a support garment? The hull's ovenlike state made the girl seriously question putting wool on your head.

“You're James, right?”

Slowly he nodded.

“We have Mr. Silvestri together. Fourth period?”

Residual light from a cracked lava lamp gave his profile an eerie red blush.

“Can I ask you something? Have you been reading the same book over and over all this time?

“I mean, it's okay if you have. That's better than carrying the thing around because the author has a big fancy Russian name or something, I guess. Or like if you maybe had one of those disorders, like in the after-school television specials — like where you maybe can't read and try real hard and stick with it and after all this time are on chapter five, although you are in advanced-placement English. I guess there has to be some mustard on that there hot dog.”

A smile creased his thin yet kissable lips.

“I been meaning to ask for a while,” she admitted, and felt her face getting hot. “Except the times I showed up for English class, you usually cut. And then, whenever we both blew off class and ended up here in the ice cream truck, mostly you stayed huddled in that corner. Only but now, well, here I am and here you am, all next to each other, so I thought, you know, what the hell.” She fidgeted. “I hope you don't think I'm lame.”

“Not lame.” He flashed perfect teeth. “Just full of shit.”

James spoke rationally and calmly, in no way unkindly, with the snap of a boy satisfied with his thought process, excited to be sharing it. “If you were a witch, you wouldn't need to ask about my book. You could just cast a spell. Peer into your crystal ball and see the answer.”

The outlines of two, three figures moved ambiguously across the front of the truck. Some undefined form sat playing invisible drums to this song, which most definitely did not have drums.

“I'm full of shit?”

The girl heard her voice reverberating off the hull. “How the…How can anyone say that about anyone else?” She felt herself rising now. “You don't know. Nobody is anybody else, so nobody can know. Like, like, look at this ice cream truck. It's the exact same deal. Like, was the fucker found abandoned on the side of the road? Was it liberated from Mister Softee's regional HQ? Depends on who you ask, right? Depends on what they've been toking.”

Eyes were on her now but fuck if she cared. “How is not a subject of debate,” she said. “Truth is not a matter of interest.”

Tugging on her arm. A shaft of light caught the piercing stud in Francesca's eyebrow, creating a momentary incandescence along her profile.

If she needed a ride, Francesca wanted to know.

“Truth is not what you know or what is rational.” The girl continued, her fingers all but trembling with rage. “Some company line about why their product is so fucking wonderful. That totally lame excuse as to why your birthday card might be a little late this year. One more object a person can buy or sell or try to shuck off on you.”

“I've got to get back,” Francesca said.

“The truth is just like this big old dented piece of crap ice cream truck. It's a bunch of bumper stickers clinging to crappy pink spray-paint.” Her arms flailed, pointing in unfollowable directions. “Look at them. Look. ”

CONSUME OR BE CONSUMED.

OBJECTIVITY IS SUBJECTIVE.

I DROPPED ACID IN THE GRAND CANYON.

NUNS WITH GUNS CHICKS WITH DICKS.

FIRST BANK OF NIHILISM, WE DON'T VALIDATE JACK SHIT.

WHATEVER GETS YOU THROUGH THE NIGHT.

3.2

Cheri Blossom planted one of her stilettos on each side of the newcomer's prematurely balding skull, and lowered herself into a squat that was not quite pronounced enough to pee from. Immediately, her taut and bejeweled tummy began a series of undulations, each wave stopping inches from his thick black spectacles. The newcomer's porcine features went slack, his pinkish mouth opened slightly, and Cheri watched as his mind literally receded into the world of private and carnal awe that men retreated into when women like her straddled them.

No biggie. She'd been at the game long enough that controlling a man was, as a process, about the same to her as cutting away the mealy part of an apple that had been left on top of the fridge overnight. Actually, it was more like when the sun was easing its way over the Sierra Nevadas, and a night of shaking her moneymaker was behind Cheri; like when she worked the final locks of her condo and opened the door and, lo and behold, her boyfriend was cooking the final foils of her stash. The similarity in these different situations being that however much Cheri's concern should have been with that particular moment, she always found herself occupied with that moment's inherent dramatic value —how the image of herself cutting away at that apple revealed her to be self-possessed and at peace; or, conversely, the dramatic depths of her tantrum, all the exasperation her boyfriend brought from her. Cheri knew it sounded strange, but she couldn't help it. Sometimes she almost felt removed from her body, as if she were in a multiplex somewhere, watching a person she knew to be herself on the giant screen; as if each day was nothing more than a procession of scenes, acts in the epic movie that was her life, Cheri Blossom's Hard Wild Ride, adapted from the best-selling autobiography, with audio versions available at fine stores everywhere.

Tonight's installment featured Catholic school as her place of reckoning. Never mind that Cheri had not attended Catholic school, she hadn't attended much public school, either, and anyway, it was her movie, she could do what she wanted: wrap her white schoolgirl's blouse into a knot, for example, so that the heft of her breasts was both supported and accentuated. Or wear a skimpy plaid miniskirt with a fold along the crotch, so that when she squatted, the fabric parted down the middle, revealing her candy-pink panties. To thumping bass sounds, Cheri, if the whim struck her, could unwrap her schoolgirl's skirt. She could twirl her blouse above her head and chuck her bra at a table of nearby admirers. Could spread her arms in a crucifixion pose and tilt her head as far backward as it would go, arching back, extending the points of her bare and spectacular breasts toward the tinted spotlights. And here, as sweat dripped from her shadowed and glitter-covered outline, Cheri could wiggle out of her spangled G-string. Never mind that she'd sweated tonight's supply of painkillers out of her system. Never mind that when she shifted her weight, her yeast infection flared. Cheri was mentally strong; she could block out that shit.

An ecstatic yell. Cheri whirled the dampened pink swatch around her finger, swished her hips as if they were windshield wipers, and pranced around the runway in an arcing circle, throughout keeping an eye on everyone gathered at the foot of the stage, watching to see which ones were placing down bills. When she had this figured, Cheri made her way back to her newly discovered mark — that prematurely balding guy, his glasses a bit askew.