Trailer Trash(40)

His mother?

Maybe. He kept that possibility tucked away in the back of his mind. He only talked to his mother once a week—always on Wednesday evenings, always for exactly twenty minutes. His dad was usually on the other side of the room, trying his best to look like he wasn’t listening. But maybe Nate could ask his dad to leave the room. Maybe he could tell him how he needed to talk to his mom in private.

He hated the idea, but as lame as it was, it was still the best one he had.

Nate spent the rest of Friday morning contemplating lies he could tell Christine to get out of going to her house. I’m sick. I’m grounded. I have too much homework.

But at the end of the day, when Christine stopped by his locker and said, “See you tonight?” Nate choked on the words, his heart pounding. His need to know if Christine could turn him on as much as Cody was suddenly stronger than his conscience.

“Yeah,” he said. “See you tonight.”





Christine lived near Cody, in the trailer park, but in the more respectable portion where tenants had actual lawns with grass, and wind chimes hanging on their front porches. By the time Nate arrived a little after eight, the party was already in full swing. Van Halen blasted from the stereo while at least a dozen teenagers milled about inside the cramped trailer.

Larry Lucero scowled at Nate, but Christine hugged him, and Jimmy handed him a red Solo cup full of beer. Nate drank it gratefully and let Christine take his hand and begin leading him through the party.

His heart pounded as she introduced him to people and told him jokes. Nate did his best to laugh at the right times, but his mind was racing the entire time. She smiled at him, moving closer, an obvious invitation in her eyes, and Nate had to fight the urge to run.

I don’t want this. I don’t want her!

But that was wrong. He was supposed to want girls. He probably did want girls. He just hadn’t been able to prove it yet.

Once I’m alone with her, everything will be fine.

He drank another cup of beer, then remembered he’d have to drive and found a can of soda instead. Christine hadn’t let go of his hand since he’d come in, and he studied her in a way he never had before. She was wearing tight jeans and a low-cut sweater. She kept pressing her breasts against him as she talked. It was distracting. Almost arousing. And when she finally stood on her toes and kissed him, he sighed with relief.

Yes, this was why he’d come here tonight. He needed to know.

Somebody catcalled, and Christine laughed against his lips and pulled away to smile up at him. “You want to go to my room?”

He couldn’t quite speak, torn between curiosity and arousal and gut-wrenching fear. He nodded, and she took his hand again and led him down the hall.

Her bedroom was done all in pink, with stuffed animals on the bed and a collection of porcelain dolls on the shelf, but the walls were covered with Van Halen and Ratt and Mötley Crüe. Christine casually closed the door, stepped close, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him again.

Her lips were warm, and Nate moaned, falling into it, wanting desperately to feel something. He pulled her close and concentrated hard on kissing her, and feeling the way she fit into his arms. The way her lips felt under his tongue, and her breasts pressed against his chest. His heart was pounding, but that was probably normal. It was normal to be nervous, right? Normal to be so afraid of whatever came next that it was easier to simply wait and let her lead the way.

It’s okay, he told himself. This is good. This is what you need. Now you’ll find out you like girls just fine.

She pushed him backward until the backs of his knees came up against her bed, and he sat down. She straddled his lap, still kissing him. She was breathing hard, and there was a bit too much saliva, but Nate embraced it, trying to let himself become aroused as they kissed and her soft little moans filled his ears. It was awkward, like every other kiss he’d ever shared with a girl, but he figured he’d get the hang of it eventually.

He sensed she was impatient—that he was doing something wrong—and he realized that although he was kissing her, he wasn’t doing anything else. His hands were near her waist, not moving, just sitting like fat lumps on her hips.

He slid one up to cup her breast. She let him, sighing against his lips, leaning closer, and he grew bolder. He slid his hand inside her sweater to caress her, feeling the hard bud of her nipple through her bra.

Nothing about it felt right, and when she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, he balked, wanting nothing more than to pull away and put a stop to it.

No! You want this! You’re supposed to want this!

He let his hand slip under the loose bit of elastic, cupping her bare breast in his hand. It made his heart pound, but not in the way he’d hoped.