Z whirled on me, her face endearingly red with effort and strain. She'd never liked looking for things. When we used to sleep at her house or dorm, everything was always in its exact perfect place—to the point where if I moved a toothbrush in the bathroom, I could well be flirting with a freak-out.

“I can't handle your hippie shit, Landon. Not today.”

“Who said anything about hippie shit?”

“I know you don't believe in the deb ball! You've made your thoughts on the matter perfectly clear!”

“No, I just think it's kind of a lame tradition, and if your sister doesn't want to have one then I don't get why you and your parents should spend all that money and time.” I bit my lip, but a moment too late. The shitstorm was nigh. I almost flinched in the following silence, so sure was I that she was gonna pound me. She even started slow, like a tornado.

“Umm, I didn't actually ask for your opinion. So.”

“Come on, Z. I was just talking. Just words. Come back to bed.”

“But for the fucking record, it's maybe not the best idea to go off on your girlfriend of FIVE YEARS –”

“Oh, is it five years? Are you counting the nine months where you cheated on me with that shitstain Larry Durgess?”

“Don't even go there, Landon. I thought we were past that.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Anyways, yes, no, you don't tell your girlfriend—GIRLFRIEND OF FIVE YEARS!—That you don't care about traditions where women wear white ball gowns and dance with their fathers.” By that point, Z was clutching the quilt between two opposing fists, like she could rip it in two. You could practically see the steam blowing out of her slightly pointed ears. I ducked my head below the sheets, inhaled the sweet smell of what had passed for love-making the previous night, and returned, reluctantly, with her thong in my hand—an olive branch.

“Have fun at training camp,” she said, plucking her panties from my palm. “Be good.” Then her face transformed into that of a brave politician's wife, preparing to face the nation after tragedy. She kissed me chastely on the cheek before turning toward the bathroom. A second later, I heard the shower stutter on.

I leaned back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted despite the more or less full night's sleep. I let my eyes flutter open and closed, surveying the walls of my childhood bedroom. It felt strange to be home for the summer, even if it was going to be my last rodeo. Pop had kept the place fully intact after I went off to college, like some kind of altar to the kid I used to be. The Peyton and Eli posters held the places of honor, flanking the door. And above my ancient Apple E-Mac, covered by a fine layer of dust, was my main guiding light: John Elway.

At UT, I tried to keep my hero affiliations something of a secret. Coach tended to “make an example” of any Longhorn who couldn't recite on cue various factoids about the Cowboys, let alone indicate any competing allegiance. And it's not like I could explain it—I'd never lived in Colorado. We'd once gone on a family trip to Denver when my Mom was still alive, and it had been a perfectly fine hang—but I didn't want to ascribe my enduring love of the Broncos to something sentimental like that. Lately, I'd been thinking it just had to do with my need to get out of Texas. Away from the deb balls, and the crazy patriotism, and even the allegedly “funky” Austin. If I had to be a football player, I wanted to see the whole damned country.

Or something.

“Whatchoo doin, boy? Praying?” I jumped at the sound—and then the face—of my father appearing in my bedroom doorway. Cantankerous old Pastor Sterling, in all his Saturday morning glory—frayed blue robe, flannel pants, rigid Astros cap. Pop held a pristine white mug in one hand, and the stub of a cigarillo in another. I was surprised. If memory served, he needed to be at his storefront congregation in time for a two p.m. service.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Daydreaming?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, good. You should be up and at 'em, boy. Get you a good breakfast before the bus to Galveston ships out.”

In the shower, Zora began to hum something high and sweet and loud. It sounded like a hymn. Boy, was she a shapeshifter. My father smiled lecherously in the direction of the closed door, before turning to wiggle his eyebrows at me.

“Now that's what I like to see, son. That little lady is a fine specimen. Nice birthing hips. And a man of God takes what's his.”

“Jesus, Dad...”

“What'd I tell you about that?” His eyes grew black, in that sudden, shark-y way I'd come to despise throughout my childhood. You could just never tell if Pop was in the mood to “teach a lesson.” I swallowed some air, and tried to hold myself perfectly still.

Pop seemed to consider a violent course for a moment, but then he turned to take in the whole of my bedroom. I watched him find Zora's stiletto heels, positioned neatly under the desk. Then he looked at all my old jerseys pinned to the walls. The shelf of flaking trophies, with their fake-ass gold-leaf. He seemed to find peace somewhere among the junk, so when his eyes at last returned to mine it appeared his anger had flown the coop. He took a creaky step forward and put a palm on my clammy forehead. The cigarillo end, pinched between his crusty thumb and pointer finger, danced dangerously close to my ear.

“God bless you, my son,” he murmured, then repeated Zora's little proclamation in an improbably sing-song voice. “And you have fun at training camp. Give 'em hell.”

I listened to the water trickling to an end in Z's shower, the abrupt halt of her hymn. My father's heavy boots echoed down the hall. I figured this left me eight to ten blissful minutes of alone time, during which Zora would begin her elaborate daily ritual of prodding and plucking and primping the skin of her face. Staring up at the ceiling, which was still awash with glow in the dark stars from my nine year old decorator, I narrowed my eyes and thought of Doll. How the lights of Austin had swallowed her face, yet not managed to quench the strange inner light that seemed to peel off her pale skin in strips. She was like the moon. With a pang I remembered what I'd said to her on the roof, and it struck me as the speech of some other person entirely. Something Denny might say to a study-abroad from Copenhagen: “I will make you liquid with wanting me. I will suck you dry and fuck you senseless.” Had I really said that? What had she done to me, that little troublemaker?

Seemingly of its own accord, my hand had wandered to the blossoming erection in my boxers. I encircled myself slow, but started to stroke out a fast, desperate rhythm. I couldn't wait. It was like it had been in bed the night before, when I'd fucked Zora with all the lights off. In my secret, shameful mind's eye, it had been Doll's juice on my fingers. Her tongue on my shaft. Her nipples, grazing mine. I'd come harder last night than I had in any recent memory, and all the while I'd been dreaming of forbidden fruit.

Chapter Four

Ash

Carson, with her nose like a bloodhound, picked up a long pink caftan and held it up to the dusty thrift shop light. The fabric looked to me like something a piano teacher in Santa Fe might find “fetching,” but in another moment, my sister had draped the thing around her like a scarf. “Picture this decked out with like, little glass baubles on the ends,” she said. I dutifully imagined. “It'd beat all.”

I rolled my eyes, and pushed a hand through my sweaty hair. Everywhere was so sweaty in Austin. This city had nothing on Denver.

“I didn't notice the red,” Carson said, dropping her muumuu to pick up a limp lock of my hair. “Very Riot grrrl.”