Read Western Swing for Free Online Page B

communication. And love. “Shit,” I said. “Next time I bring whiskey.”

Part Two

5
    You only have to talk to Loren Paul for two minutes to realize that his socks don’t match. I met him when I was seventeen and nauseatingly normal. Loren was fifteen, but he’s never passed for normal in his life. I was walking alone that day, which I know is rare for a girl of seventeen, but twenty minutes before Loren threw his first pass, I sat in a doctor’s office full of artsy mood posters being told I was pregnant.
    I held hands with myself and stared at a poster showing two beautiful people on the beach, arms around each other, gazing at the waves. The people, the sand, the sunset, all looked very fine and pure. The caption read, LOVE IS…BEAUTIFUL.
    Young Dr. Betts smiled and pulled his chair close to mine and touched my knee. He had the teeth of a television preacher, lots of turquoise jewelry around his neck, and hair as long as anyone in Houston in 1964.
    â€œYour tests are positive,” he smiled, putting pressure on my knee.
    â€œYou mean I’m knocked up?”
    â€œYes, Lana Sue, you are knocked up.”
    â€œOh, fuck.”
    Walking down Bissonnet Road, I crossed the tracks and dazed my way up fast-food row. Pizza, burgers, roast beef slices, and ice cream, the franchise system was off and running in southwest Houston.
    The father’s name was Ron and the problem was that I liked him. He was kind of sexy, and he treated me nice. He always paid for everything we did. I just didn’t know if I wanted to have a baby by or with him. I wanted to be a country-western singer, and a kid would slow me down. They weren’t even allowed in places where country singers sing.
    My plan was to move fast. Patsy Cline died the March before, and no new supersexy superstar had stepped forward to take her place. Everyone was talking about the funny-dressing longhairs from England—Dave Clark Five and the Beatles—but I knew they wouldn’t last. Girls just liked the accents. No one could hit it big in music without fiddles.
    The music scene was ripe for a new champion—me. Only I couldn’t tour pregnant.
    At that time, women in Texas did not go in much for early termination. It was illegal, expensive, somewhat dangerous, and hard to pull off. Hell, I didn’t know anyone who had ever had one.
    Six years later, I didn’t know many who hadn’t, but at seventeen I was no trendsetter. I lived with my parents and wore cotton panties.
    This skinny, short kid stepped up beside me and said, “You look dejected.”
    â€œI am dejected.” I’d seen him before. He was several grades behind me in school, which made a lot of difference. Normally, I’d have run across the street before someone saw me talking to a little boy and told Ron, but I suppose impregnation mixed me up. I didn’t tell him to get lost.
    â€œYou’re Lana Sue Goodwin,” he said.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œI’m Loren Paul.”
    I kept walking.
    â€œI’m a Leo with my Venus in Scorpio,” he added.
    â€œWhat the fuck’s that mean?” Dr. Betts was the first adult I’d ever said “fuck” to. The power made me reckless.
    â€œIt’s astrology. It means I’m sexy.”
    â€œYou’re five feet two and your voice squeaks. That’s not sexy. I wouldn’t even talk to you if I wasn’t dejected.”
    He stuck both hands in his pockets and walked looking at the ground. I could tell he might cry at any moment.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just upset right now. I would rather be alone.”
    â€œLana Sue,” he said, not looking at me, “I think you have the nicest ass in Bellaire High School.”
    He was on my outside when we reached the corner and I did it on purpose. The twerp asked for it, playing the wounded little boy and not watching where he walked. I passed just to the left of