Free Pink Smog by Francesca Lia Block Page B

through the tangled, green canyons and along the shore pulsing with blue ocean light he would look over, smile, and put his hand on my thigh in its jeans.
    â€œI’ll take care of you,” he would say.
    That didn’t happen. The touching part or the thing he said. But Winter did take me for a drive in his VW one day.
    It was Saturday and there was a knock on the door. I answered without thinking. I was wearing cutoffs and my pajama shirt and my hair was a nest for rats.
    Winter was standing with his skateboard tipped up by one foot. He shook his hair out of his eyes but it fell back immediately.
    â€œHey.”
    â€œHey,” I gulped. I could feel my face turning the color of my pink flannel pajama shirt.
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œUh. Not much. Just waking up.” I looked down at my outfit.
    â€œSorry. I was just wondering if you wanted to go for a drive or something. Where we could talk.” He peered behind me, toward the living room, and I knew he was thinking about my mom, wanting to avoid her.
    â€œUh. Sure. Yeah. Hang on.”
    â€œI’ll meet you downstairs,” he said, grabbed his skateboard, and disappeared so fast that it made me wonder if I had imagined the whole thing.
    I washed and dressed quickly, to the rhythm of my pounding heart, praying it was real and that if it were he wouldn’t leave. Shower. Secret. Jeans. T-shirt. Lip gloss. Bye, Mom. Gone.
    He was waiting for me, leaning against the Bug like a boy in a movie. At that moment it was as if nothing sad had ever happened to me. It is so strange the way the chemicals in our brain can work like that—erasing all the sorrow with one rush of joy, even if it isn’t really real.
    We drove east, not talking, just listening to the cassette he played, a woman’s raspy voice singing over raucous chords. She was whispering something about horses again and again. I’d never heard anything like it.
    Finally, I asked who she was.
    â€œPatti Smith. Isn’t she cool?” He handed me the cassette. It had a picture of a gaunt, androgynous person in a white shirt, a string of black tie hanging loose around her neck. I wondered if I should try wearing one of Charlie’s ties.
    â€œYour dad likes her,” he said.
    My dad? A little drumbeat of jealousy shook me from inside. Why was my dad talking about music with this boy? He had never even mentioned Patti Smith to me. I scratched at the denim encasing my thigh. How stupid was I for getting excited about going out with Winter? He’d never be interested in me. This was all arranged by my father.
    Winter turned north up Beachwood. The houses spilled down the hillsides with their gardens of avocados, plum and lemon trees that you could live off of if you had to, their high walls and windows overlooking the city beneath the Hollywood sign.
    The sign used to read Hollywoodland my dad had told me. Hollywoodland. Holly Woodlawn, the famous transsexual who was part of Andy Warhol’s Factory. Holly Golightly, Truman Capote’s character from Breakfast at Tiffany’s , played by Audrey Hepburn in the movie, standing in the rain kissing George Peppard and squishing Cat between their wet trench coats. Holly and Ivy, plants and names of two of my dolls who had burned in the cottage fire. Hollyberries for which the land was named. I let the words run through my head so I wouldn’t have to think about what was happening. Why was Winter taking me out with him on a Saturday? If this beautiful boy wasn’t interested in me, what did he plan to do? In a beat, the music sounded ominous, even sinister. I imagined the headline: Teen Girl’s Body Found at Base of Hollywood Sign: Skateboard Killer At Large. I thought about Peggy Entwistle, the blonde actress who had jumped to her death from the sign in 1932. She had died of multiple fractures to her pelvis. I wondered how long it took her to die and if the coyotes got to her. The day she’d died