Her life would probably never be perfect.
With only her bikini on, Joselleâs ball-point-pen tattoos were visible on her thigh. They had worn off a bit, so she took out her pen and wrote over them again, carefully tracing each letter. REENA. FIRE! YOUâRE ON FIRE. And then she added a new one: ORPHAN. And she wasnât entirely certain if she was referring to Blaze Werla or to herself.
The distance between Joselleâs house and the Pacific Ocean seemed endless. After the fashion show, Joselle discovered a road atlas on Floyâs bookshelf, and her finger followed the red and blue lines that indicated highways, weaving across the country until they ended at Route 101 on the coast. The number of miles that separated Wisconsin and the ocean was so staggering, her finger quivered. On the map, the crisscrossed network of roads looked like a mazeâmuch too disorienting for Vicki to negotiate. Joselle hoped that Rick was doing most of the driving.
At least Rick was a good driver. In Joselleâs opinion, Rickâs only other talent was turning his eyelids inside out. It was one of the most disgusting things Joselle had ever seen, but he was very good at it. Another disgusting thing about Rick was his hair. The hair on the top of his head was okayâshort, brown, straight, thick. But the hair on the rest of him wasnât okay. It sprouted from the backs of his hands and from under his shirt collars like twisty forests. The sight of it made Joselle want to throw up. Rick was rangy and languid. He hunched his shoulders frequently, and a perfect pimple flourished on the bridge of his nose. Vicki said that Rick was good at his job; he was an electrician. But Joselle thought that he was too absentminded and too interested in ESP to be working with things as dangerous as power sources and currents. She hoped that he would never rewire their house.
Sadly, Joselle envisioned Rick and Vicki lost and confused in Nebraska or stranded on some dirt road in Wyoming. And yet, ironically, part of her wished that the car would overheat, that they would run out of gas, and that they would get flat tires. A minute later, she wished them a speedy, safe trip, and she longed for Vicki so intensely that her eyes turned misty.
Joselle had never been out of southern Wisconsin, and she realized how small an area this was compared to the rest of the country, not to mention the world. She and Vicki lived in a small brick ranch house in Kenosha. Floy lived in the country outside of Madison. They were only a few hours apart by car, and yet they only saw each other two or three times a year. And it was nearly always Floy who did the visiting. If I ever make it out of the Midwest Iâll probably faint, Joselle thought. Her father, who she had only seen once, supposedly lived in Texas. She never heard from him, and Vicki cringed whenever his name was mentioned, so Joselle didnât bother thinking about him very often. And she never asked Vicki to talk about himâthat was hitting below the belt and she knew it. She could be awful, but not that awful. Joselle owned one photograph of him that she kept in the bottom of her sock drawer. The photograph was dog-eared and slightly out of focus, but Joselle could make out a man who she thought looked devastatingly handsome or evil as a snake, depending on her mood. His name was Jerry Hefko, and in the photo he was posing on a motorcycle wearing sunglasses and a red bandanna on his head. Dense black curls hung to his shoulders. Although neither Joselle nor Vicki had ever used Hefko as a last name, Joselle had secretly carved JOSELLE HEFKO on one leg of the kitchen table with a paring knife when she was seven and furious at her mother for something or other.
âWhy do people live in certain places?â she asked Gary, staring at Texas.
Gary tipped his head and knitted his brow.
âI mean, why wasnât I born in New York or Miami? Someplace glamorous?â
âPlanning
With only her bikini on, Joselleâs ball-point-pen tattoos were visible on her thigh. They had worn off a bit, so she took out her pen and wrote over them again, carefully tracing each letter. REENA. FIRE! YOUâRE ON FIRE. And then she added a new one: ORPHAN. And she wasnât entirely certain if she was referring to Blaze Werla or to herself.
The distance between Joselleâs house and the Pacific Ocean seemed endless. After the fashion show, Joselle discovered a road atlas on Floyâs bookshelf, and her finger followed the red and blue lines that indicated highways, weaving across the country until they ended at Route 101 on the coast. The number of miles that separated Wisconsin and the ocean was so staggering, her finger quivered. On the map, the crisscrossed network of roads looked like a mazeâmuch too disorienting for Vicki to negotiate. Joselle hoped that Rick was doing most of the driving.
At least Rick was a good driver. In Joselleâs opinion, Rickâs only other talent was turning his eyelids inside out. It was one of the most disgusting things Joselle had ever seen, but he was very good at it. Another disgusting thing about Rick was his hair. The hair on the top of his head was okayâshort, brown, straight, thick. But the hair on the rest of him wasnât okay. It sprouted from the backs of his hands and from under his shirt collars like twisty forests. The sight of it made Joselle want to throw up. Rick was rangy and languid. He hunched his shoulders frequently, and a perfect pimple flourished on the bridge of his nose. Vicki said that Rick was good at his job; he was an electrician. But Joselle thought that he was too absentminded and too interested in ESP to be working with things as dangerous as power sources and currents. She hoped that he would never rewire their house.
Sadly, Joselle envisioned Rick and Vicki lost and confused in Nebraska or stranded on some dirt road in Wyoming. And yet, ironically, part of her wished that the car would overheat, that they would run out of gas, and that they would get flat tires. A minute later, she wished them a speedy, safe trip, and she longed for Vicki so intensely that her eyes turned misty.
Joselle had never been out of southern Wisconsin, and she realized how small an area this was compared to the rest of the country, not to mention the world. She and Vicki lived in a small brick ranch house in Kenosha. Floy lived in the country outside of Madison. They were only a few hours apart by car, and yet they only saw each other two or three times a year. And it was nearly always Floy who did the visiting. If I ever make it out of the Midwest Iâll probably faint, Joselle thought. Her father, who she had only seen once, supposedly lived in Texas. She never heard from him, and Vicki cringed whenever his name was mentioned, so Joselle didnât bother thinking about him very often. And she never asked Vicki to talk about himâthat was hitting below the belt and she knew it. She could be awful, but not that awful. Joselle owned one photograph of him that she kept in the bottom of her sock drawer. The photograph was dog-eared and slightly out of focus, but Joselle could make out a man who she thought looked devastatingly handsome or evil as a snake, depending on her mood. His name was Jerry Hefko, and in the photo he was posing on a motorcycle wearing sunglasses and a red bandanna on his head. Dense black curls hung to his shoulders. Although neither Joselle nor Vicki had ever used Hefko as a last name, Joselle had secretly carved JOSELLE HEFKO on one leg of the kitchen table with a paring knife when she was seven and furious at her mother for something or other.
âWhy do people live in certain places?â she asked Gary, staring at Texas.
Gary tipped his head and knitted his brow.
âI mean, why wasnât I born in New York or Miami? Someplace glamorous?â
âPlanning
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