front door.
“Oh,” she said, stopping abruptly, turning away and blushing visibly, even in the dark.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mr. Peterson.”
“Mr. Peterson?”
“My science teacher.” She pointed with her chin toward a man hunched over in a corner booth. His arm was draped possessively around the shoulders of a girl who looked several decades his junior. The girl looked noticeably upset.
“Who’s he with?”
Delilah shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before, but there are all these rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That he likes younger women,” she whispered conspiratorially as they stepped out into the night.
They were almost at Delilah’s house when John realized he’d forgotten his burgers. His stomach rumbled its displeasure as he watched Delilah open the front door of her modest two-story home, then turn back, telling him with a shake of her head that her mother had yet to return. “Not a good sign,” John said as he pulled the car away from the curb and headed for home.
FIVE
D elilah watched the sheriff’s car pull away from the curb with a mixture of gratitude and regret. Gratitude because she hadn’t had to walk the fifteen blocks home from Chester’s—she was tired enough from the long walk over—and regret because she hated to see the sheriff drive away. She’d always liked Sheriff Weber. Unlike a lot of the people in Torrance, he’d shown her nothing but kindness, and she always enjoyed talking to him. He looked her right in the eye when he asked a question, listened respectfully as she answered, and never told her she’d be such a pretty girl if only she’d lose a few pounds. Probably because he’d packed on more than a few pounds himself since he’d stopped seeing her mother, she thought, closing the front door behind her and wondering where her mother could be.
Officially, she wasn’t supposed to know about their affair. Kerri, as her mother preferred Delilah to call her—she said it made her feel younger, although Delilah always suspected it was more because she was embarrassed at having produced so ungainly an offspring—had never directly acknowledged her relationship with the married policeman, although it had been pretty much an open secret around Torrance while it was going on. She’d dropped a few broad hints—something about liking men in uniforms, and nothaving to worry about speeding tickets for a while—but that was it. Whenever Sheriff Weber had dropped over to the house, Kerri had explained he was there on official business. Delilah never questioned her, even when the kids at school started making none-too-veiled comments about their affair, and even after her grandmother pointedly questioned the logic of throwing away money on cosmetic surgery for her daughter if the stupid girl was going to waste it on a married man. Since Kerri had already decided it was better to look good than feel good, her affair with John Weber had come to an abrupt end. Soon afterward, Kerri had left for Miami to have her already enlarged, “bee-stung” lips “stung” again.
Delilah had lost track of the number of surgical procedures her mother had had over the years. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she made a game of trying to count them—her own, more modern version of counting sheep. Aside from the regular injections of Botox and Restylane, she remembered the nose job, the brow lift, the tummy tuck, the liposuction on her thighs, the several eye jobs, the two breast augmentations—the first time they weren’t big enough—and the face-lift. The face-lift was the worst because her mother had come home from the clinic looking as if she’d been run over by a Mack truck. Bruises blackened her eyes and covered virtually every inch of her swollen face, although within a few weeks the swelling had gone down, and the bruises had faded, and Kerri was pretty much back to normal. Whatever normal was, the words
normal
and
Kerri Franklin
in the same
“Oh,” she said, stopping abruptly, turning away and blushing visibly, even in the dark.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mr. Peterson.”
“Mr. Peterson?”
“My science teacher.” She pointed with her chin toward a man hunched over in a corner booth. His arm was draped possessively around the shoulders of a girl who looked several decades his junior. The girl looked noticeably upset.
“Who’s he with?”
Delilah shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before, but there are all these rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That he likes younger women,” she whispered conspiratorially as they stepped out into the night.
They were almost at Delilah’s house when John realized he’d forgotten his burgers. His stomach rumbled its displeasure as he watched Delilah open the front door of her modest two-story home, then turn back, telling him with a shake of her head that her mother had yet to return. “Not a good sign,” John said as he pulled the car away from the curb and headed for home.
FIVE
D elilah watched the sheriff’s car pull away from the curb with a mixture of gratitude and regret. Gratitude because she hadn’t had to walk the fifteen blocks home from Chester’s—she was tired enough from the long walk over—and regret because she hated to see the sheriff drive away. She’d always liked Sheriff Weber. Unlike a lot of the people in Torrance, he’d shown her nothing but kindness, and she always enjoyed talking to him. He looked her right in the eye when he asked a question, listened respectfully as she answered, and never told her she’d be such a pretty girl if only she’d lose a few pounds. Probably because he’d packed on more than a few pounds himself since he’d stopped seeing her mother, she thought, closing the front door behind her and wondering where her mother could be.
Officially, she wasn’t supposed to know about their affair. Kerri, as her mother preferred Delilah to call her—she said it made her feel younger, although Delilah always suspected it was more because she was embarrassed at having produced so ungainly an offspring—had never directly acknowledged her relationship with the married policeman, although it had been pretty much an open secret around Torrance while it was going on. She’d dropped a few broad hints—something about liking men in uniforms, and nothaving to worry about speeding tickets for a while—but that was it. Whenever Sheriff Weber had dropped over to the house, Kerri had explained he was there on official business. Delilah never questioned her, even when the kids at school started making none-too-veiled comments about their affair, and even after her grandmother pointedly questioned the logic of throwing away money on cosmetic surgery for her daughter if the stupid girl was going to waste it on a married man. Since Kerri had already decided it was better to look good than feel good, her affair with John Weber had come to an abrupt end. Soon afterward, Kerri had left for Miami to have her already enlarged, “bee-stung” lips “stung” again.
Delilah had lost track of the number of surgical procedures her mother had had over the years. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she made a game of trying to count them—her own, more modern version of counting sheep. Aside from the regular injections of Botox and Restylane, she remembered the nose job, the brow lift, the tummy tuck, the liposuction on her thighs, the several eye jobs, the two breast augmentations—the first time they weren’t big enough—and the face-lift. The face-lift was the worst because her mother had come home from the clinic looking as if she’d been run over by a Mack truck. Bruises blackened her eyes and covered virtually every inch of her swollen face, although within a few weeks the swelling had gone down, and the bruises had faded, and Kerri was pretty much back to normal. Whatever normal was, the words
normal
and
Kerri Franklin
in the same
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