“In the U.S., the dangerous spiders include the Widows and the Recluse Spiders.”

FROM Spiders and Their Kin,

BY HERBERT W. AND LORNA R. LEVI, A GOLDEN GUIDE FROM ST. MARTIN’S PRESS, 2002

HE WAS MOANING, A GUTTURAL SOUND IN THE BACK of his throat as his fingers tightened their grip in her hair. She curled her lips over her teeth, applying more pressure. His hips surged and he started with the usual stream of nonsense boys liked to murmur during a time like this:

“Sweet Jesus…oh God. Don’t stop. You’re so beautiful. OhmyGod, ohmyGod. You are the best! Oh, Ginny, Ginny, Ginny. Sweet Ginny…”

She wondered if he could hear himself speak, if he had any idea of what he said. That sometimes he compared her to saints. That he told her she was gorgeous, beautiful, a dark Georgian rose. That once, he’d even told her he loved her.

A guy would say anything at a time like this.

The gearshift was digging into her hip, starting to hurt. She moved her right hand to the top of his jeans and worked them lower on his thighs. Another small shift here, the boy now made a gurgling sound as if he were dying.

“Holy mother of God! Jesus, Ginny. Beautiful, beautiful, Ginny. Sweet…mother…pretty…lovely…are killing me! You are killing me! YOU ARE KILLING ME!”

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought, get on with it. A bit more maneuvering, a bit more pressure applied by her mouth, followed by a bit more pressure applied by her hand…

Tommy was a panting, happy boy.

And little Ginny would finally get a treat.

She retreated to the other side of the truck, turning her head slightly so he wouldn’t see her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Bottle of Jim Beam was where they’d left it, rolling on the floor beneath her feet. She picked it up, took a swig, passed it to Tommy.

He still had his pants tangled around his legs and a dazed look on his captain-of-the-varsity-football-team face.

“Shit, Ginny, now you are trying to kill me.”

She laughed, took another swig herself, so big her eyes burned, and she told herself it was the whiskey and nothing else.

Tommy went to work on his clothing. Pulled up tighty-whities first, followed by his jeans, then buckled his belt. He did it matter-of-factly, with none of the awkwardness girls generally felt. It’s why Ginny preferred front-seat blow jobs to backseat sex. Sex took longer and involved more logistics. Blow jobs, on the other hand, kept things simple and, with most boys, quick.

Tommy wanted the sour mash now. She handed him the bottle. Watched his Adam’s apple bob above the collar of his letterman’s jacket as he drank. He dragged his hand over his mouth, then handed the bottle back to her.

“Sex and whiskey. Doesn’t get any better than this!” he said with a grin.

“Not bad for a Tuesday night,” she granted.

He reached over, stealing his hand beneath her shirt, cupping her breast. His fingers found her left nipple, squeezing experimentally.

“You’re sure…?”

She batted his hand away. “Can’t. Gotta get home. Mama said if I broke curfew one more time, she was locking me out.”

“Your mama? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

Ginny let that comment pass. “’Sides, don’t you gotta catch up with your posse? Or maybe swing by Darlene’s? She probably can’t sleep without one last glimpse of Loverboy.”

She started the comment playfully, ended with an edge. Just because you knew your place in the world didn’t mean you had to be happy about it.

Beside her, Tommy had grown quiet. He reached over, stroked her cheek with his thumb. It was a strange gesture coming from him. Almost tender.

“I got something for you,” he said abruptly, withdrawing his hand, going to work in his front denim pocket.

Ginny frowned at him. Of course he had something for her. That’s how these things worked. White-trash girl fucks the brains out of rich, handsome quarterback, and in return he gives her pretty sparkling gifts. Because all boys had needs, but not all boys could get what they needed from their uptight girlfriends.

Tommy was staring at her. Ginny looked down belatedly at his offered hand and realized with genuine shock that he was holding out his class ring.

“What the hell is that?” she blurted out.

Tommy recoiled, but quickly caught himself. “I know you’re surprised…”

“Darlene will carve out your heart with a spoon if she sees me wearing that.”

“Darlene doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Since when?”

“Since Saturday night, when I broke up with her.”

Ginny stared at him. “Why the hell would you do such a stupidass move like that?”

Tommy’s face darkened. He clearly hadn’t anticipated this reaction, but once again he forged ahead. “Ginny darlin’, I don’t think you understand…”

“Oh, I understand just fine. Darlene is beautiful. Darlene has pretty clothes and her daddy’s money and perfect lipstick, which naturally she doesn’t want to smudge going down on her hunky boyfriend.”

“You don’t need to put it that way,” Tommy said tightly.

“Put it what way? That precious little Darlene won’t swallow? So now you’ve convinced yourself you’re in love with Little Miss White Trash?”

“Don’t say that-”

“Say what? The truth? I know who I am. Only one with shit for brains in this truck is you. Now, I wanted a gold necklace and you promised me!”

“So that’s it? It’s all about the necklace?”

“’Course it is.”

He studied her, working his jaw. “You know, Trace tried to warn me about you. He said you had a mean streak, the soul of a snake. I told him he was wrong. You’re not your mother, Ginny. You could be…you are someone special. At least”-he squared his shoulders-“to me.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” She couldn’t stand it anymore. She popped open the door, hopped out of the truck. She heard him scrambling to get out the other side, maybe thinking he’d better stop her before she did something stupid.

They were parked off a logging road in the woods, the area deserted, the ground hard and uneven beneath her feet. For one impulsive moment, she wanted to run. She’d just take off, racing down the long blue tunnel spinning out between the tall Georgia pines.

She was young and strong. Girl like her could run a long time. God knows, she’d had the practice.

“Ginny, talk to me.”

Tommy’s voice from behind her. Still earnest, but giving her space. Heaven help her, the boy had probably taken a poetry class, or started listening to Sarah McLachlan, or some such shit. Everyone wanted everyone to have depth these days. Didn’t they realize that clichés were much easier to manage?

She took a deep breath, tilted her head up, stared at the stars. When life gives you lemons, she thought, make lemonade. The pure absurdity of the thought made her want to laugh, or maybe it was cry. So she did what she did best. She fisted her hands and worked the angles. Despite what people thought, a girl like her couldn’t afford to be cheap.

“Well, Tommy,” she announced, “I gotta be honest: You’ve taken me by surprise.”

“Well, yeah. Took myself by surprise, too. Wasn’t like I meant this to happen.”

“This’ll hurt you, you know. I wear that ring, kids at school, they’ll say some awful things.”

“Let ’em.”

“Four more months, you graduate, you’re done. Come on, Tommy, you don’t need this shit.”

“Ginny-” he started urgently again.

She placed her finger over his lips. “I’ll take your ring, Tommy.”

“You will?” Hopeful now. Earnest. Goddamn Sarah McLachlan.