Flaca finished the book in a day.
When she returned it, he gave her another one, then another. She was irritated at first – not because of the reading, but because she hated being told what to do. It turned out that Ian knew her better than she knew herself. Every book he recommended was dark and intense, the kind of work that kept Flaca's eyes glued to the page. But as much as she was dying to talk about the beautiful sadness of Gregor Samsa's struggle or the true meaning of Heart of Darkness, she put on a mean mug and silently flung each book across his desk, just to let him know what was up.
And that's how it was, until the day that Flaca got stranded. Waiting in the school parking lot, silently cursing her uncle for failing to show up or answer his phone. This was a common occurrence, but it never got any easier. Her family's heavy involvement with the Kings meant that sometimes, shit just happened. And shit could be cops, shootings, or worse. For Flaca, an unanswered phone call sent a thousand possible scenarios racing through her head.
She sat on the curb picturing her uncle dead on a concrete slab, a pool of blood forming around his lifeless body, when Ian pulled up on his vespa.
"You need a ride?"
Flaca looked like death warmed over, slumped on the curb in a black tule skirt that was tattered from dragging on the ground. She raised her head.
"No."
"Come on," he said, nodding his head towards the back. "Get on."
The wind caressed Flaca's hair and sent a chill up her skirt. Puttering through the city clinging tight to Ian, close enough to every now and then get a whiff of his shampoo and sweat and traces of the thai he'd had for lunch, Flaca forgot herself. For now, she was someone different. Like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, on an adventure.
They ended up at the park.
"You know I don't usually do this, right?"
Flaca watched Ian's face turn aglow as he lit up a joint and handed it to her. He had to be the mellowest guy she'd ever met and she often wondered how he'd ended up teaching, but couldn't bring herself to ask.
Flaca nearly choked with one puff. The high came quickly and took over her entire body, like lying in a vat of warm chocolate pudding with five sets of hands massaging her. Everything was buzzing.
At some point there was music? Yes, she was listening to Ian's CD player, hearing the most amazing, gentle voice of a man, or was it a woman? Floating on the night air singing Flaca's every thought.
Take me out tonight
Take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't want to go home
Because I haven't got one
"You must have been on Morrissey's mind," Ian told her.
"Never heard of him."
"Where've you been, kid? This is an '80s anthem."
Ian was old and corny, and somewhere rattling around in the back of Flaca's mind was the fear that somebody would see them together. But the higher she got, the less it mattered.
"This is that ooh wee," she coughed. "Where'd you even get this?"
"I got my ways," he smiled.
That's how it started.