The Girl Who Slept with God by Val Brelinski

Author:Val Brelinski [Brelinski, Val]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-08-03T23:00:00+00:00

Dave Roddy lived in an old farmhouse somewhere on a deserted stretch of road even farther out in the country than Henry Kleinfelter’s. Without any other cars or streetlights or stars, it was as if they had driven through a dark, winding tunnel to get there, but once inside the house it was achingly, solidly bright and filled with sound. Jory swore that the record player was playing the same song they had been listening to in the car, but she couldn’t be sure because everyone in the house was talking so loud. She recognized no one from school—not anyone that she knew personally, anyway. Rhea’s sister Connie said that this was a senior party, strictly upperclassmen, and that the only reason she had let Rhea come was because she would have had to stay home and babysit her if she hadn’t. She had lit up a cigarette after she said this, and then didn’t say anything else the whole time she was driving them there, except to tell them that if they acted weird or like freaking babies in front of her friends she would never take them anywhere ever again. Ever.

“Here,” said Rhea now, handing Jory a Styrofoam cup. “Drink up.”

“What is it?” Jory tipped the cup back and forth, inspecting its contents.

“I don’t know—it’s called Purple Jesus, so I guess it’s like taking communion or something,” said Rhea. “I already had two.” Rhea was wearing a leather headband that she kept having to readjust. “Did you see the guy over by the stereo? That’s Randy Asumendi.” Rhea took a long drink from her cup. “He’s the football captain, or star or whatever.” She took another drink. “He evidently thinks he’s, like, it.” Rhea snorted. “I told him I liked his shirt.” She laughed loudly. “Look at that shirt!”

The person named Randy, who could evidently see Rhea laughing at him, began sauntering across the room in their direction. His tight-fitting shirt was made of shiny cream-colored polyester with collar points that veered sharply down toward each pectoral muscle. A wildly rearing orange horse featured prominently across the front.

“Oh, brother,” said Rhea, draining the last of her drink.

“Hey,” said the Randy person, smiling at Rhea.

“Hey, yourself,” said Rhea. “I’m getting a refill.” Rhea turned and headed toward the kitchen.

With more than a little effort, Randy redirected his attention to Jory. He gave Jory a sidelong glance. “Are you as big a bitch as your friend over there?”

Jory could think of absolutely nothing to say in response to this. She held her cup up to her lips and took a drink. It tasted like grape cough syrup. Sort of.

“How come I’ve never seen you before?” Randy had leaned one of his hands against the wall, so that his bare arm was now next to Jory’s head. Jory took another, larger sip of her drink.

“I don’t know,” she said finally.

“What are you? Sophomore? Freshman?” His eyes seemed to take a sort of vertical inventory of her. “You’re too young and skinny for a tenth grader.

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