Read Online Audition by Stasia Ward Kehoe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stasia Ward Kehoe
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palm
Cupping the back of my neck
Erases my fleeting urge
To remind him of my plans.
“Still wanna see a movie?”
He surprises me.
I nod, grateful.
Pull my phone from my pocket.
Bonnie has texted
A time and title.
“We’ll have to hurry.”
“Why?”
Rem swirls his denim jacket
Around his shoulders,
Pushes his arms through both sleeves
In one gesture.
“The movie starts in ten minutes.”
I hold up the phone.
“Not at the mall.” He laughs.
“Let’s stay here, okay?
So we can talk.”
His fingers walk
Down the knobs of my spine.
I follow him.
To a giant porch sprawled across the back of the house.
Along one side, a yellow sheet hangs—
A makeshift movie screen.
People loll on wicker chaises
Wrapped in blankets.
The laughter gets loud.
Rem draws me down
To an oversized wooden chair
A little bit behind the group,
Which does not stop someone
From passing back a joint
Nor Rem from inhaling deep,
Right arm across my shoulders,
Hand dangling over my breast.
He offers it to me
But I shake my head,
Watching
For the inevitable policeman
To catch us all,
To change me from good girl to bad.
I have no idea what is playing on the screen.
“R U coming?”
Bonnie texts.
“Can’t get there in time,”
I send back.
Put the phone on vibrate,
In my pocket,
Away.
Even without smoking,
My head grows cloudy
From the waves of sweet-smelling smoke all around.
Rem gives me a silly grin,
Rolls his head back.
His straight brown hair
Makes half a halo over his eyes.
Grabs my thighs with big, hot paws.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles.
Now I hear the music
Scratching through dusty speakers
Beside the back door.
I was never very tuneful,
Don’t have Lisette’s lyrical ear.
I choke down dry mouthfuls
Of salty, yellow popcorn.
Rem’s words sink slowly
Into my addled brain.
Beautiful?
Wish for Paul and Don
With their tender domesticity
To take me home,
Because here there is chaos
Inside and outside my mind.
On the screen a vampire
In black and white,
A screaming girl
In stiff satin.
I dive into Rem’s hungry arms,
Let his sliding fingers
Bury all my fears.
When the credits roll
I am drunk with touch and kisses.
“Take me home,”
I whisper.
Rem steers me quickly past clumps of people,
Cluttered furniture,
Out the door.
On the motorcycle behind him,
Arms wrapped around his muscled waist,
I am not certain to what home Rem thought
I had asked to be delivered.
Rem’s apartment is three flights up,
The paint in the hallway
Chipped and grim.
He bounds up the stairs,
Holding my hand.
My other hand fingers
The cell phone in my pocket.
Should I call Señor Medrano?
And what would I say
If he answered the phone?
“What is it, Sara?”
He is all quiet concern
As I hesitate in his doorway.
I look round at the art museum posters
Thumbtacked to the walls,
The couch draped with a tie-dyed blanket,
Two wooden armchairs with orange seats.
All so much more inviting
Than slippery poppies
And damp-smelling rug.
“Why were you so cold to me
Before class today?”
Maybe the lingering pot
Has made me brave.
He grimaces, then grins.
“Do you think Señor would approve?
I’m older than you
And you’re one of Yevgeny’s precious scholarship girls.”
I do not stay in the doorway long enough
To ask myself
Or Remington whether
Señor’s or Yevgeny’s disapproval
Is worth a second’s thought.
All I hear is precious.
The buttons on my shirt
Are easy to undo.
“Beautiful,”
He breathes.
But I know he has stolen this sight
Before—
Backstage on tour
In the poorly curtained dressing room.
He peels off his sweater,
Leads me to the couch,
Where the tie-dyed blanket
Turns out to have a dusty smell
Of its own.
His body presses me down
Into the unresisting cushion.
His hand
Cupping the back of my neck
Erases my fleeting urge
To remind him of my plans.
“Still wanna see a movie?”
He surprises me.
I nod, grateful.
Pull my phone from my pocket.
Bonnie has texted
A time and title.
“We’ll have to hurry.”
“Why?”
Rem swirls his denim jacket
Around his shoulders,
Pushes his arms through both sleeves
In one gesture.
“The movie starts in ten minutes.”
I hold up the phone.
“Not at the mall.” He laughs.
“Let’s stay here, okay?
So we can talk.”
His fingers walk
Down the knobs of my spine.
I follow him.
To a giant porch sprawled across the back of the house.
Along one side, a yellow sheet hangs—
A makeshift movie screen.
People loll on wicker chaises
Wrapped in blankets.
The laughter gets loud.
Rem draws me down
To an oversized wooden chair
A little bit behind the group,
Which does not stop someone
From passing back a joint
Nor Rem from inhaling deep,
Right arm across my shoulders,
Hand dangling over my breast.
He offers it to me
But I shake my head,
Watching
For the inevitable policeman
To catch us all,
To change me from good girl to bad.
I have no idea what is playing on the screen.
“R U coming?”
Bonnie texts.
“Can’t get there in time,”
I send back.
Put the phone on vibrate,
In my pocket,
Away.
Even without smoking,
My head grows cloudy
From the waves of sweet-smelling smoke all around.
Rem gives me a silly grin,
Rolls his head back.
His straight brown hair
Makes half a halo over his eyes.
Grabs my thighs with big, hot paws.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles.
Now I hear the music
Scratching through dusty speakers
Beside the back door.
I was never very tuneful,
Don’t have Lisette’s lyrical ear.
I choke down dry mouthfuls
Of salty, yellow popcorn.
Rem’s words sink slowly
Into my addled brain.
Beautiful?
Wish for Paul and Don
With their tender domesticity
To take me home,
Because here there is chaos
Inside and outside my mind.
On the screen a vampire
In black and white,
A screaming girl
In stiff satin.
I dive into Rem’s hungry arms,
Let his sliding fingers
Bury all my fears.
When the credits roll
I am drunk with touch and kisses.
“Take me home,”
I whisper.
Rem steers me quickly past clumps of people,
Cluttered furniture,
Out the door.
On the motorcycle behind him,
Arms wrapped around his muscled waist,
I am not certain to what home Rem thought
I had asked to be delivered.
Rem’s apartment is three flights up,
The paint in the hallway
Chipped and grim.
He bounds up the stairs,
Holding my hand.
My other hand fingers
The cell phone in my pocket.
Should I call Señor Medrano?
And what would I say
If he answered the phone?
“What is it, Sara?”
He is all quiet concern
As I hesitate in his doorway.
I look round at the art museum posters
Thumbtacked to the walls,
The couch draped with a tie-dyed blanket,
Two wooden armchairs with orange seats.
All so much more inviting
Than slippery poppies
And damp-smelling rug.
“Why were you so cold to me
Before class today?”
Maybe the lingering pot
Has made me brave.
He grimaces, then grins.
“Do you think Señor would approve?
I’m older than you
And you’re one of Yevgeny’s precious scholarship girls.”
I do not stay in the doorway long enough
To ask myself
Or Remington whether
Señor’s or Yevgeny’s disapproval
Is worth a second’s thought.
All I hear is precious.
The buttons on my shirt
Are easy to undo.
“Beautiful,”
He breathes.
But I know he has stolen this sight
Before—
Backstage on tour
In the poorly curtained dressing room.
He peels off his sweater,
Leads me to the couch,
Where the tie-dyed blanket
Turns out to have a dusty smell
Of its own.
His body presses me down
Into the unresisting cushion.
His hand
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