Where the Kissing Never Stops Read Online Free Page A

He didn’t plan to get hit by a car in his new jogging suit. But things turned out to be in pretty much of a mess. What it boils down to is this: one insurance policy worth almost a hundred thousand dollars.”
    “That’s a lot.”
    “It just sounds like a lot, honey. There could be a little more — some lawyer’s still pawing through things — but I wouldn’t count on it.”
    “And that’s it?”
    “We’re living off the insurance money now. By the time you get ready for college, there won’t be nearly enough for all four years.”
    “And that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing, to send me to college?”
    “Partly. And to put food on the table.”
    “I’ll never eat anything you buy with that money.”
    She gave a little snort of disbelief, then pointed to the cluttered sink. “If you’re never going to eat that tainted food again, why didn’t you at least wash your dishes from last night?”
    “You know how you just love to dance? How you can’t explain it but you just love it? Well, I just love to leave dirty dishes. ‘Maybe there’s something wrong with me,’” I mimicked. “‘But I just plain love it.’”
    “You really can be a little shit, Walker. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
    “You should talk. You should talk about being ashamed.”
    That morning I peeked out the front door, wondering, I guess, if the police might not be there with a big-hearted social worker or two ready to whisk me off to the warmth and safety of some foster home where my new mother would make desserts all day and feed them to me with a golden spoon.
    The street was deserted. No clucking, sympathetic neighbors, no jeering kids. Business as usual.
    At school, too. No banners saying WALKER’S MOTHER IS A STRIPPER. No gutty saxophone music as I walked in, no whistles or catcalls. Nobody knew. At least not yet.
    “Walker, over here.”
    The girl beside Sully wore a soft brown skirt, tall boots, a white swashbuckler’s blouse, three or four yards of Brazilian peasant shawl, and a little mustache of perspiration. Her hair was cut jagged and pointy across the brow, and her brown eyes were big and kind of sad.
    Why hadn’t I dressed up a little? Why had I picked a T-shirt, much less a T-shirt with the word
T-shirt
on it? Probably she would think I was such a retard I had to have all my clothes labeled.
    Sully introduced us. Her hand was warm and damp.
    “You look hot,” I said.
    They both just stared at me. God, I could have torn out my tongue and stomped on it.
    “In the weather sense, I mean. You’re just wearing all those clothes and your lips are sweating.”
    Her pink tongue slid out to investigate. “My lips are sweating?” She seemed genuinely concerned, and her eyes got even bigger.
    “Your mustache. I mean, where it would be. If you had one.” Ah, the life of a grave-digger. Every time I opened my mouth, I got in deeper.
    “You’ll have to be patient with Walker,” Sully said. “He’s just barely recovered from a tragic love affair.”
    “Sully, for God’s sake.”
    Rachel’s eyes darted from him to me, then back again, like a contestant on
Pick the Loony.
    “When Walker wouldn’t be her one-and-only forever, she committed suicide.”
    “I had this girlfriend,” I said patiently. “Her father got a job in another town and she moved.”
    “That’s bad enough,” Rachel said sympathetically. “I know what it’s like to move a lot.”
    Then we all just stood there, moving our feet a little like the world’s shyest dancers.
    Finally Rachel leaned toward me. “You were going to say… ?”
    “Oh, yeah. There’s this reggae concert in Kansas City this weekend, Burning Spear and —”
    “God,” she squealed. “I love reggae!”
    Sully and I both jumped.
    “Walker has his own car,” said Sully.
    “No, I don’t.”
    “So it’s in the shop. We’ll take his mother’s Cadillac.” He leaned toward her. “So is it a date?” Then he leered at me and winked. “Is it a