Read Online The Heart Does Not Grow Back: A Novel by Fred Venturini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fred Venturini
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country field at night. I kept walking, heading toward the dark of the tree line, trying my best to breathe and clear my mind. When I looked behind me, the parking lights of the truck glittered low and yellow in the night. I started to get close to the trees, close to the true dark. I turned back. The truck grumbled, spitting exhaust that gathered like a phantom in the darkness.
He cheered me on as I approached. I got in the truck and he started back for the party. It was really happening—we were going back. I kept looking for that sheet of dread and nervousness to settle into me, but it never came. The adrenaline, the ache of my fist, the aftershock of my anger and emotion had blunted my fear.
Honestly, I didn’t fucking care—I still wanted Regina. I still liked her. I didn’t mind being a third choice. I was ready to grab her by the waist and kiss her. In fact, that’s exactly what I intended to do—I had seen it in the movies, and it always seemed to work well there. Maybe she’d pull away, give me a slap to the face, and then kiss me again, deeper this time. Whatever that meant. Maybe we would walk to my house that night, hand in hand, and with my mother at work, we’d make love in my very own bed, where I’d fantasized about her—about her affection, about the possibility of her, an unsoiled fantasy who would turn real before my eyes.
Mack whipped in behind the first dormant car he saw, flicking off his lights and hopping out as if sharing the inspiration of my moment.
It was a long walk back to the party. I was ready, maybe even changed. I often wonder what life would have been like if that boy had lived—the boy who just defeated the bully, the boy who was blossoming into an athlete, the boy who was rising in such a way as to threaten his overbearing best friend, the boy who had held a note from one of the prettiest girls in school. Where would he be now, I wonder?
With Mack at his side and the world unfurling before him, that boy started a long walk that he would not survive.
SEVEN
At the mouth of the driveway, I stopped at the faint sound of a bell ringing out tones in rapid succession, the sound of a vehicle reminding the owner that the keys were left in the ignition. I heard the squeal of a girl but couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain.
Mack stopped as well. I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the source of the noises—farther down the eastern side of the road, where more parked cars were lined up. In the distance, a dome light highlighted moving shadows in the cab of a truck. We eased closer, covered by the dark. The blacktop was a hot plate, releasing the heat of the day in invisible waves, our footfalls dampened by the sun-softened tar.
We got closer. I saw the shadow of a moving head, heard the sound of a buckle clinking, a man grunting. The moon’s light was useless, blocked by the high treetops flanking the road. Where the trees gave way to open fields, pockets of white fog hovered over the earth, the coolness of the night sucking them out, trapping them until the breeze or morning sun could dissolve them.
I heard flesh rapping against flesh, the rhythm of the blows in unison with the rabbitlike chatter of the bell. More grunting.
“Someone’s fuckin’!” Mack whispered harshly in my ear, urging me along into a trot so we could get a better look. I don’t know what Mack was planning to do. Perhaps some sort of “gotcha” prank, but when we got closer, I recognized Clint’s truck. The door was blocking his midsection—all I could see was his head, eyes closed, bobbing as his midsection thrust.
He was having sex, and I just knew it was with Regina. The realization sucked the breath from me, and I stopped, frozen in the road as Mack trotted ahead. But I needed to see for myself, so I jogged to catch up, taking a wide arc toward the truck so I could see around the door.
Clint’s white ass clenched and released as he pushed forward. A pair of limp legs dangled
He cheered me on as I approached. I got in the truck and he started back for the party. It was really happening—we were going back. I kept looking for that sheet of dread and nervousness to settle into me, but it never came. The adrenaline, the ache of my fist, the aftershock of my anger and emotion had blunted my fear.
Honestly, I didn’t fucking care—I still wanted Regina. I still liked her. I didn’t mind being a third choice. I was ready to grab her by the waist and kiss her. In fact, that’s exactly what I intended to do—I had seen it in the movies, and it always seemed to work well there. Maybe she’d pull away, give me a slap to the face, and then kiss me again, deeper this time. Whatever that meant. Maybe we would walk to my house that night, hand in hand, and with my mother at work, we’d make love in my very own bed, where I’d fantasized about her—about her affection, about the possibility of her, an unsoiled fantasy who would turn real before my eyes.
Mack whipped in behind the first dormant car he saw, flicking off his lights and hopping out as if sharing the inspiration of my moment.
It was a long walk back to the party. I was ready, maybe even changed. I often wonder what life would have been like if that boy had lived—the boy who just defeated the bully, the boy who was blossoming into an athlete, the boy who was rising in such a way as to threaten his overbearing best friend, the boy who had held a note from one of the prettiest girls in school. Where would he be now, I wonder?
With Mack at his side and the world unfurling before him, that boy started a long walk that he would not survive.
SEVEN
At the mouth of the driveway, I stopped at the faint sound of a bell ringing out tones in rapid succession, the sound of a vehicle reminding the owner that the keys were left in the ignition. I heard the squeal of a girl but couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain.
Mack stopped as well. I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the source of the noises—farther down the eastern side of the road, where more parked cars were lined up. In the distance, a dome light highlighted moving shadows in the cab of a truck. We eased closer, covered by the dark. The blacktop was a hot plate, releasing the heat of the day in invisible waves, our footfalls dampened by the sun-softened tar.
We got closer. I saw the shadow of a moving head, heard the sound of a buckle clinking, a man grunting. The moon’s light was useless, blocked by the high treetops flanking the road. Where the trees gave way to open fields, pockets of white fog hovered over the earth, the coolness of the night sucking them out, trapping them until the breeze or morning sun could dissolve them.
I heard flesh rapping against flesh, the rhythm of the blows in unison with the rabbitlike chatter of the bell. More grunting.
“Someone’s fuckin’!” Mack whispered harshly in my ear, urging me along into a trot so we could get a better look. I don’t know what Mack was planning to do. Perhaps some sort of “gotcha” prank, but when we got closer, I recognized Clint’s truck. The door was blocking his midsection—all I could see was his head, eyes closed, bobbing as his midsection thrust.
He was having sex, and I just knew it was with Regina. The realization sucked the breath from me, and I stopped, frozen in the road as Mack trotted ahead. But I needed to see for myself, so I jogged to catch up, taking a wide arc toward the truck so I could see around the door.
Clint’s white ass clenched and released as he pushed forward. A pair of limp legs dangled
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