Read Online Southern Hearts by Katie P. Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie P. Moore
Tags: Gay & Lesbian
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yourself.”
“Maybe I could have saved him,” I said, looking at her.
“He didn’t want to be saved, Kari. I didn’t want to die, and deep down I wanted to get caught. That’s why I left the door unlocked. I knew my mother got up and went to the bathroom several times during the night. I wanted her to catch me in the act and stop me.”
The weight of my head became difficult for me to hold. I rested it on Lani’s chest, and she parted the strands of my uncombed hair, flattening them into place.
We sat without talking, the only sound the foliage as it rustled in the summer breeze. We had both said a lot that afternoon, shared more then we had probably wanted to, and told stories that were more painful, once the words were out in the open air. Lani and I were barely acquaintances, not quite friends and yet now no longer strangers.
As we silently gathered our things together and walked toward the car, I thought of my cousin, I thought of my mother, and I thought of Lani. My emotions seemed jumbled and smeared together, like the swirl of oil paint on a canvas. It was hard for me separate them, to put each in its rightful place and then analyze them from their respective categories. I kept a steady pace several yards in front of Lani, talking to myself and listening to the sound of hiking boots along the crunchy sand behind me.
Chapter Six
I spent the morning relaxing and reading, allowing the Jude Deveraux novel to pull my mind effortlessly from fact to fiction, submerging my thought to her words as the light of morning began to rise over the skirt of the Teche. The spears of grass along the shore began to sway with the light wind that channeled crosswise over the bayou. The water was dreary from the slush and mire, and on mornings like this, where the remnants of dampness still clung to the branches coated with peat moss, it smelled ripe with mildew.
I sipped grapefruit juice from a beaker crammed with crushed ice as thoughts of yesterday echoed in my mind. I thought of Lani and how embarrassed I now felt for allowing myself to become an emotional wreck and telling such intimate and private details.
Then my thoughts turned to Regee. It had been over two weeks since the afternoon on the boat, and I hadn’t heard from her. Maybe I had been only a flash in her pants, literally. Whatever the case, as the day wound on I still hoped I would see her.
“Good morning, chèr.”
“Morning.” I looked up as my mother sat down next to me. She added a dash of cream to her tea. As she stirred it from brown to tan, I remembered our trip to Boston over Easter break of 1992, and how, even then, I had felt uncomfortable about myself. My mother had insisted that we have afternoon tea in the dining room of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Everyone was dressed and primped to the hilt. I was in my worn dungarees and polo shirt, my mullet-cut hair short along the sides and lengthy in the back. Every eye was on me when I walked into the room. I felt freakish that day. I had fidgeted with my hair as if I were on a narcotic, pressing hard on the ends, knowing that my nervousness had only added to my unnaturalness. I was undeniably different. I was fourteen and I didn’t know how to handle the gawks and scowls of disapproval. I could still see that day in my mind as if it were yesterday.
My mother took a Lillian Vernon catalog from the burlap magazine holder at her feet and began to flip through it. Thus far, she had dodged the issue of her collapse. I had tried to bring it up, asking how she was, and she had vehemently dismissed from the topic. I didn’t want to add to her troubles by having her hear about my secret from anyone but me. The party was still several weeks away, and keeping the issue of my sexuality from my mother was becoming increasingly stressful. The memories of my rendezvous with Regee and my candor with Lani constantly pounded inside of me,
“Maybe I could have saved him,” I said, looking at her.
“He didn’t want to be saved, Kari. I didn’t want to die, and deep down I wanted to get caught. That’s why I left the door unlocked. I knew my mother got up and went to the bathroom several times during the night. I wanted her to catch me in the act and stop me.”
The weight of my head became difficult for me to hold. I rested it on Lani’s chest, and she parted the strands of my uncombed hair, flattening them into place.
We sat without talking, the only sound the foliage as it rustled in the summer breeze. We had both said a lot that afternoon, shared more then we had probably wanted to, and told stories that were more painful, once the words were out in the open air. Lani and I were barely acquaintances, not quite friends and yet now no longer strangers.
As we silently gathered our things together and walked toward the car, I thought of my cousin, I thought of my mother, and I thought of Lani. My emotions seemed jumbled and smeared together, like the swirl of oil paint on a canvas. It was hard for me separate them, to put each in its rightful place and then analyze them from their respective categories. I kept a steady pace several yards in front of Lani, talking to myself and listening to the sound of hiking boots along the crunchy sand behind me.
Chapter Six
I spent the morning relaxing and reading, allowing the Jude Deveraux novel to pull my mind effortlessly from fact to fiction, submerging my thought to her words as the light of morning began to rise over the skirt of the Teche. The spears of grass along the shore began to sway with the light wind that channeled crosswise over the bayou. The water was dreary from the slush and mire, and on mornings like this, where the remnants of dampness still clung to the branches coated with peat moss, it smelled ripe with mildew.
I sipped grapefruit juice from a beaker crammed with crushed ice as thoughts of yesterday echoed in my mind. I thought of Lani and how embarrassed I now felt for allowing myself to become an emotional wreck and telling such intimate and private details.
Then my thoughts turned to Regee. It had been over two weeks since the afternoon on the boat, and I hadn’t heard from her. Maybe I had been only a flash in her pants, literally. Whatever the case, as the day wound on I still hoped I would see her.
“Good morning, chèr.”
“Morning.” I looked up as my mother sat down next to me. She added a dash of cream to her tea. As she stirred it from brown to tan, I remembered our trip to Boston over Easter break of 1992, and how, even then, I had felt uncomfortable about myself. My mother had insisted that we have afternoon tea in the dining room of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Everyone was dressed and primped to the hilt. I was in my worn dungarees and polo shirt, my mullet-cut hair short along the sides and lengthy in the back. Every eye was on me when I walked into the room. I felt freakish that day. I had fidgeted with my hair as if I were on a narcotic, pressing hard on the ends, knowing that my nervousness had only added to my unnaturalness. I was undeniably different. I was fourteen and I didn’t know how to handle the gawks and scowls of disapproval. I could still see that day in my mind as if it were yesterday.
My mother took a Lillian Vernon catalog from the burlap magazine holder at her feet and began to flip through it. Thus far, she had dodged the issue of her collapse. I had tried to bring it up, asking how she was, and she had vehemently dismissed from the topic. I didn’t want to add to her troubles by having her hear about my secret from anyone but me. The party was still several weeks away, and keeping the issue of my sexuality from my mother was becoming increasingly stressful. The memories of my rendezvous with Regee and my candor with Lani constantly pounded inside of me,
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