Read Black Dahlia & White Rose: Stories for Free Online

aisle from Keisha—this note that wasn’t paper but a Kleenex—and on the Kleenex a lipstick-kiss—luscious grape-colored lipstick-kiss for J-C from Lisette.
    She’d felt so dreamy blotting her lips on the Kleenex. A brand-new lipstick Deep Purple which her mother knew nothing about for like her girlfriends Lisette wore lipstick only away from home, giggling together they smeared lipstick on their lips and it was startling how different they looked within seconds, how mature and how sexy.
    Out of the corner of her eye she was watching Keisha in the desk beside her and past Keisha’s head there was J-C in the next row—J-C seemingly oblivious of either girl, or indifferent—stretching his long legs in the aisle, silky black hair falling across his forehead and when J-C’s eyes moved onto Lisette—which happened sometimes, like by accident—(but it couldn’t always be just accident)—she felt a sensation in her lower belly like you feel when there’s a lightning flash and deafening thunder a second later—you’re OK, you didn’t get killed, but almost not.
    J-C wasn’t a guy you trifled with. That was a fact. Not J-C or his friends—his “posse.” She’d been told. She’d been warned. These were older guys by a year or maybe two—they’d been kept back in school, or had started school later than their classmates. Except the beer-buzz at the back of Lisette’s head—that made her careless, reckless. Or could be, a few drags from some guy’s joint, or a diet pill, or two—or glue sniffing—(which was what little kids did, younger than eighth grade)—Lisette would blurt out some word she shouldn’t know—or she’d do some weird impulsive thing to make her girlfriends scream with laughter, like waving to get the attention of a stranger driving a car, or actually running out into the street, narrowly missing being hit; lately, it seemed to be happening more frequently—making people laugh, and making them stare.
    From older girls at the high school she’d picked up the trick of pursing her lips tight like for kissing— Kiss-kiss!— poking her pink tongue out—just a peep of her tongue— Look look look at me damn you . But J-C wouldn’t glance at her—no matter how hard she tried.
    I can make you look at me. I can make you love me. Look!
    J-C’s father worked at the Trump Taj Mahal. Where he’d come from, somewhere called Bay-jing, in China, he’d driven a car for some high government official. Or, he’d been a bodyguard. J-C boasted that his father carried a gun, J-C had held in his hand. Man, he’d fired it!
    A girl asked J-C if he’d ever shot anybody and J-C shrugged and laughed.
    Lisette’s mother had moved Lisette and herself from Edison, New Jersey, to Atlantic City when Lisette was nine years old. She’d been separated from Lisette’s father but later, Daddy came to stay with them in Atlantic City when he was on leave from the army.
    Later, they were separated again. Now, they were divorced.
    Lisette liked to name the places her mother had worked, that had such special names: Trump Taj Mahal—Bally’s Atlantic City—Harrah’s—the Tropicana.
    Except it wasn’t certain if Yvette worked at the Tropicana any longer—if she was a blackjack dealer any longer. Could be, Yvette was back to being a cocktail waitress.
    It made Lisette so damn—fucking— angry !—you could ask her mother the most direct question like Exactly where the hell are you working now Momma and her mother would find a way to give an answer that made some kind of sense at the time but afterward you would discover it had melted away like a tissue dipped in water.
    But J-C’s father was a security guard at the Taj. That was a fact. J-C and his friends never approached the Taj or any of the new glittery hotel-casinos where security was tight and there were cameras on you every step of the way but hung out instead at the south end of the Strip where there were cheap motels, fast-food restaurants, pawnshops