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Show 23 could hear every word. He spoke that loudly, she realized, laughed like that, in an attempt to match his presence with his large bulk. And sensing this in him-this weakness-she liked him for it. Yes, he would do. He would do just fine. His parents' car was a white '59 Chevy Impala, with the horizontal teardrop taillights; although it was over two years old, it looked new in its sharp wax finish, parked at the curb. Cinderella's chariot, she thought, as he opened the door for her. Inside, she scooted across the seat. So that when he came around and slipped in behind the wheel, less than a foot separated them. He glanced at her, pleased, and started the engine. They drove through the neighborhood toward the school, through the soft May evening which still held the indistinct orange sun, dropping through the smog toward the ocean. In the distance Santa Catalina was dimly visible for a moment, its brown elephant back, and then it was gone, they were submerged in the city. The concrete and the houses, the children running on the front lawns, the cars passing-many with young couples together in the front seat, as they were-all was bathed in a soft, almost magical light. She was a part of it, a part of all these people in their human activity. It was exciting, it thrilled her, that she should be a part of all this. Roger flipped on the radio. He enjoyed driving, his large body alert behind the wheel. He was a careful driver. It was, after all, his parents' car. Secretly, she studied him. He was indeed handsome, she decided, with his curly black hair, his rather long sideburns. But she sensed a softness about him. An unformed aspect, which was not |
