Read Online Western Swing by Tim Sandlin - Free Book Online Page A

narrow chin up and to the right. Every serious talk I ever had with her took place in the bathroom. It’s like the woman can’t express herself more than three feet from a douche bag.
    â€œIf only you hadn’t run off with that musician.”
    â€œThe spells were as bad before I left as they are now.”
    â€œThat’s not true, Lannie. Your father has never been happy since that first night you didn’t come home.”
    â€œMy father’s never been happy since the day I was born. I can’t vouch for earlier.”
    Mom’s lip quivered and she blinked quickly. “Don’t say that. We were happy when we were young. I remember.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mama.”
    She opened the cabinet and reached in for another blue Valium. “You must be careful, Lannie. Your father loves you more than anything on earth. I hate to think what he might do to himself if you ever pulled another stunt like that.”
    Translation: Disappoint Daddy and he’ll kill himself and it will be your fault.
    â€¢ • •
    Daddy was a gynecologist in Houston, which means we never had to do without. He chose Houston because of the humidity. A gynecologist’s dreamland, he called it. We lived in Bellaire, which is a reasonably upper-middle part of the city—mostly white people, mostly with money. I was typical to the point of nausea. Skirts to the knees, socks to the knees, hair usually straight, though flipped up during a Doris Day stage and page-boyed when Patty Duke pageboyed hers.
    I had a boyfriend, Ron, who played basketball and ate pizza. He drove a huge ’55 Oldsmobile with bad springs that rode like a ship in heavy weather. We went out four times before he kissed me, seven times before he felt my left breast, thirteen before he felt my right.
    Most of our “dates” were spent sprawled on the floor in the family room, reading DC comics and drinking 7-Ups. Sometimes we played Ping-Pong in the garage with another couple. Passion didn’t come up too often.
    I don’t remember school. I don’t think it was important. I never stopped to think about myself or whether everyone was like me, or I was like anyone. I do remember the summers. We circled from the A&W to the Sonic endlessly, singing along with the Rhondelles, beating out Ventures drum solos on the dashboard.
    Ron and I French-kissed a couple of times at the drive-in (Son of Flubber), I giggled about how weird it felt later with the girls at a slumber party where we each smoked a Lark cigarette and I threw up in the kitchen sink because someone else was throwing up in the bathroom.
    Most of the summer of ’62 was spent in a one-piece bathing suit at the country club, though I don’t remember swimming that much, mostly just lying around the pool, watching the boys show off. I had a good tan by August. I remember that tan. Happiness was not an issue. Who thinks, Am I happy? when they’re fifteen? Loren probably did, but he’s peculiar.
    School started. I was a junior. Football season, Thanksgiving, basketball season, Christmas. The high point came on my birthday in October when I got a driver’s license. Because I was going with the captain of the basketball team, I had a fairly good shot at Queen in February. I didn’t worry about it much. I was more worried about keeping my weight down and my teeth straight—braces terrified me. I also stood in front of the mirror most nights, searching for boobs that never came. Other girls had boobs. I knew all the kids thought I was a squirrel for not having any.
    I asked Daddy for a car for Christmas, but he gave me a watch instead. What did I need a watch for? What I needed was wheels of my own. With wheels I could be popular without knockers.
    â€¢ • •
    All this life based on growing up in the American dream ended on New Year’s Eve. It was my cousin Roxanne’s fault. Roxy is my favorite hell-raising relative.