American Star

by Jackie Collins

Yanking open the door of the van he thrust a dirty blanket at Nick.

  "You'll sleep out here," he said gruffly. "No room inside."

  The woman pressed forward, trying to get a look at him.

  Nick noticed she was dark-skinned, very dark-skinned. With a sudden

  jolt he realized she was black.

  In the morning the rain had stopped. Asleep across the two front seats

  Nick was awakened by a faint scratching sound. For a moment he

  couldn't figure out where he was. He sat up, banging his head on the

  dash. His gut ached with hunger, and he felt an urgent need to pee.

  Staring at him through the side window were two small black boys.

  One of them was scraping his fingernails against the window. As soon

  as they saw he was awake they ran away.

  In the light of day he took in his surroundings. The van was parked in

  the middle of a sparsely populated trailer park. A few skinny dogs

  loped around a cluster of dilapidated-looking trailers, while all

  around was mud, weeds, and, over to one side, a massive garbage dump.

  This place made Aunt Franny's rundown house in Evanston seem like a

  palace.

  He got out of the van. Crouching on the ground a few feet away lurked

  the two black kids, still staring at him.

  "Hey," he said. "What's up?"

  They didn't respond.

  "Gotta take a piss."

  One of the boys pointed to a ramshackle hut next to the garbage pile.

  He made it to the hut and wished he hadn't-the stench was unbearable.

  After doing what he had to do he hurried back to the van, his stomach

  rumbling uncontrollably. In his pocket he had exactly thirty-five

  cents. Not enough to do anything.

  Leaning against the van, he thought about his future and decided that

  things certainly couldn't get any worse. He was stuck in a strange

  town, waiting around in some crummy trailer park while his father

  reacquainted himself with the woman he'd been married to for seventeen

  years and never told anyone.

  One of the boys edged toward him, a handsome kid with bright eyes and

  dark chocolate skin. "What's your name, mister?" the boy asked

  curiously.

  "Nick. What's yours?"

  "Harlan. I'se ten. How old's you?"

  "Sixteen."

  "What you doin' here?"

  He shrugged. "Beats me."

  After a while Primo emerged from the trailer clad only in his grubby

  underwear, scratching his bulging belly, a rare smile lighting up his

  unshaven face. Nick knew the look. It was his father's I just got

  laid, aren't I a fine stud look.

  "Howdja sleep?" Primo asked, as if they'd spent the night in a fancy

  hotel.

  "I didn't. I was too hungry," he muttered, angry with his father, and

  yet not sure how to express himself. What he'd really like to do was

  beat his stupid lying brains out.

  "Don'tcha worry bout that," Primo said jovially, as if nothing was

  amiss. "Aretha Mae's one fine little cook." He clapped his hand on

  his son's shoulder. "C'mon, I wantcha t'meet her."

  Reluctantly he followed Primo into the trailer, while the two boys

  hovered close behind.

  Inside it was a crowded mess, with clutter everywhere-clothes,

  magazines, old newspapers and junk piled high on every surface. In one

  corner was an unmade bed and, on the floor, two moldy sleeping bags.

  Aretha Mae busied herself at a kerosene stove, frying ham and potatoes

  in greasy bacon fat. She was a sinewy black woman with frizzy dyed red

  hair and a wary look in her eyes.

  "Sit yourself down, boy," she said to Nick over her shoulder. "You

  must be real hungry."

  He squeezed onto a torn plastic-covered bench next to a rickety table

  stacked with dirty dishes.

  Aretha Mae dumped a plate of food in front of him, sweeping the used

  dishes to one side. "Eat," she commanded.

  Primo chuckled; he saw a home in his future. "I knew you two would get

  along."

  "Shut your mouth," Aretha Mae said. "We be talkin' bout who gets along

  later. Don't go thinkin' you're movin'" Nick was impressed by her

  nerve, although he half expected his father to smack her across the

  mouth.

  Primo didn't. Primo laughed, a big-bellied laugh. "Still a feisty

  bitch," he said. "I like that in a woman. You haven't changed."

  Aretha Mae threw him a stern look. "Don't use no bad language in front

  of my kids," she said, indicating the two silent boys by the door.

  "Listen who's talkin'," Primo said, scratching his stomach. "I can

  remember when that's all you used."

  "Things was different then," Aretha Mae said primly. "Those was

  different times."

  Primo continued to laugh and grabbed her ass. "They sure was.

  She slapped his hand away and turned to Nick, busy wolfing down the

  greasy but delicious meal. "What your old man tell you bout me?" she

  demanded. "He tell you we was married? He tell you he ran out on me

  when I got pregnant? He tell you bout your half sister he ain't never

  seen-let alone supported?"

  Nick stopped eating. Sister? What kind of crap was coming his way

  now?

  "I didn't know Primo whined. "You threw me out. I didn't know you was

  pregnant."

  "Liar!" she snapped. "The baby in my belly was why you ran." She

  glared at him balefully. "An' then whaddaya do? Fix another woman so

  you's trapped anyhow. Dumb chickenshit!"

  Primo wrapped his arms around her from behind, caressing her bony

  body.

  "C'mon, lion, I'm back," he crooned. "You always knew I'd be back,

  didn't ya?"

  Aretha Mae made an angry sound in the back of her throat. Not that

  angry. In fact it was becoming quite obvious she didn't mind having

  Primo's clumsy arms around her one little bit.

  Nick thought of his hardworking mother lying in her grave and the

  greasy food turned in his stomach. He hated his father. He hated the

  whole stinking set-up.

  Abruptly he stood up. "What sister?"

  "She be away right now," Aretha Mae said quickly. "She be visiting

  relatives in Kansas City."

  "I got me a daughter," Primo marveled. "I always wanted a girl."

  "You got one, all right," Aretha Mae said. "Oh, yessir me, you really

  got one.

  Several days later they moved in, after spending a few nights in

  Bosewell's only motel. Since there wasn't room for all of them in

  Aretha Mae's trailer, Primo made a deal with the couple next door to

  take over their rat-infested storage dump-a trailer with no wheels and

  cardboard covering the window spaces. "It'll do for the kids to sleep

  in," he told Aretha Mae. "Should clean up nice."

  Nick spent three days hauling out junk, dodging rats, cockroaches and

  spiders. Harlan and his younger brother, Luke, helped out. They were

  jumpy little kids, petrified of their mother, who ruled them with an

  acid tongue.

  The two boys attended school every day, leaving the trailer park at six

  in the morning. Aretha Mae left shortly after that to go to her job as

  a maid to a rich family in Bosewell. This gave Primo plenty of time to

  himself, and although he promised Aretha Mae he'd start looking
for a

  job he had no intention of doing so. The moment she left he settled in

  front of her small black-and-white portable television, with a six-pack

  nearby. Nothing had changed for Primo. He knew his priorities and he

  stuck to them.

  Nick hung around, he had nowhere to go.

  After a couple of days Primo said, "Gotta get you back in school."

  "I'd sooner get a job," he said, feeling restless and trapped.

  "Maybe-" "I promised your ma," Primo interrupted, staring at the

  television.

  "Thought I told ya that."

  "So what?"

  Whack! Right across the mouth. It caught him by surprise, cutting his

  lip. He tasted blood and was filled with fury. There was no Mary to

  protect him now. School was in his future and there was nothing he

  could do about it, at least for now. As soon as he could he'd find a

  job, save his money and get out.

  Nick Angelo planned to run, and nobody was going to stop him.

  ow exciting!" screamed Meg.

  "Darling, I couldn't be more pleased for you," said her mother.

  "This is great news," announced her father, as proudly as though she'd

  just concluded a complicated insurance deal.

  Idiot! She should have kept her mouth shut. All she'd done was tell

  them Stock had mentioned they should get engaged, and the next thing it

  was the town gossip. Now she was more trapped than ever in a

  relationship that totally confused her.

  She was sixteen. She was too young. Oh, sure, her mother had gotten

  married at seventeen-but that was a love match between two people who

  were crazy about each other; they'd told her the story enough times.

  Her situation was different-she hardly even knew Stock, and what she

  did know she didn't much like.

  "I'm not getting engaged," she informed her parents, panic-stricken at

  the thought.

  Jane Roberts smiled and patted her daughter like she was an excitable

  puppy that needed calming. "Nerves, darling," she said. "Marriage is

  a big step. You'll have a long engagement, get to know each other.

  Stock's a nice boy from a fine family. Your father and I are very

  happy." they were happy. What about her? Wasn't she the one be

  grinning uncontrollably and walking ten feet above Oh, good, supposed

  to the ground?

  Love. From everything she'd seen and read it was a magical feeling,

  and all she felt was sick.

  In third grade she'd had a crush on Sammy Pilsner. She'd been eight

  years old and ecstatic. He'd made her shiver and shake whenever she

  saw him.

  At twelve she'd fallen in love with her cousin Brad, a bony-looking boy

  three years older than her. He and his family only visited at

  Christmas, so she'd soon grown out of that.

  At thirteen she'd had her first date. Disaster.

  At fourteen her first kiss. Even worse.

  And at fifteen she went steady for a satisfying six months with Sammy

  Pilsner.

  Sammy didn't make her shiver and shake as much as he had when she was

  eight, but he was a good kisser and they got into many long lustful

  nights of heavy petting, although she never let him go all the way-she

  was too frightened of getting pregnant-even though he drove over fifty

  miles to a neighboring town to buy rubbers, and tried to convince her

  they should do it.

  Eventually Sammy's father got promoted at his job and they moved to

  Chicago. She was a little bit heartbroken. She and Sammy corresponded

  for a few months, then his letters tapered off, and she realized she

  was free to see whoever she wanted. She dated several boys.

  They all wanted one thing. If she hadn't given it to Sammy, why would

  she surrender it to a casual date?

  One thing about Stock, he hadn't jumped her. Yet.

  "I don't want to get engaged," she confided to Meg.

  "Everyone's so jealous!" Meg squealed. "Has he given you a ring?

  When are you going to do it? You'll have to do it now that you're

  engaged."

  "But I'm not," Lauren protested.

  Meg squinted at her. "Not what? Not engaged? Or not going to do

  it?"

  "Not engaged, asshole."

  "Nice talk from a virgin!"

  "Asshole," Lauren repeated.

  If her father ever heard her say that he'd kill her. Neither of her

  parents swore, at least not in front of her, although she'd once heard

  her father loudly groaning, "Christ! Christ!" when she was eleven and

  listening outside their bedroom door.

  At least she knew what men said when they had sex. Although Sammy

  didn't. In the throes of passion, when she was doing something to him

  nice girls weren't supposed to do, Sammy Pilsner used to yell out,

  "Cowboys and Indians! This is an attack! Go for it! Go for it!"

  Thinking of Sammy made her grin. His was the first and only penis

  she'd ever seen-she didn't count the time she'd walked in on her father

  getting out of the shower. He'd gone red in the face and screamed at

  her to get out. She was ten at the time. Shortly after, her mother

  had taken her to one side and told her to please knock before entering

  their bathroom.

  Knock knock.

  Who's there?

  Daddy's penis.

  I promise I won't look.

  Sammy Pilsner was very proud of his penis, he wanted her to look all

  the time. In fact he wanted her to do a lot more than look.

  She'd obliged, because at the time she thought she loved him, and at

  least you couldn't get pregnant that way.

  She knew all about oral sex, having read about it in Playboy. Her

  father kept copies of the magazine locked in a storage closet in the

  basement. She'd discovered his stash one day and over the course of

  the next few weeks had read them all. Each magazine was full of naked

  women, sexist cartoons and articles about all kinds of sexual

  activities. She didn't enjoy looking at it, but it certainly taught

  her a lot. - Sammy Pilsner couldn't believe his luck!

  But that was the past-now she had Stock to deal with.

  A few days later he sidled up to her during lunch break and informed

  her that his parents had decided to throw a big engagement party for

  them.

  She wanted to say, "But I never said we'd get engaged." Instead she

  found herself nodding and listlessly agreeing.

  Maybe that's what Stock liked about her-her total lack of enthusiasm.

  As the football hero and son of the town's richest man, he'd had girls

  fawning all over him since sixth grade. Perhaps he found her cool

  attitude a refreshing change.

  "Saturday night," he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders.

  "My mother's talking to yours.

  Oh, great! She should put a stop to this now. But somehow it just

  seemed easier to go along with it. Like that girl in The Graduate, she

  could take it all the way to the church, and then some handsome hero

  would rush in to save her and she'd run off with him, leaving Stock

  with his mouth open-probably patting his crotch to make sure she hadn't

  taken it with her!

  One question. Who would the rescuing hero be? Sammy Pilsner?

  She didn't think so. Sammy was probably getting his penis
licked by a

  cute little Chicago girl with long legs and a big mouth.

  Idly she wondered if her mother ever did that to her father. The very

  thought made her shudder. No way. He probably didn't even let her

  look at it.

  "I've got a big surprise for you," Stock said, surreptitiously checking

  out her bra strap through her sweater.

  "What?" she asked impatiently.

  "Never you mind, you see."

  Asshole.

  On the way home from school she stopped by her father's office.

  Once more he'd closed up early. She rattled the handle just to make

  sure. Nobody home.

  Downstairs she popped into the Blakely Brothers hardware store.

  The Blakely brothers were identical twins, both fat and fifty with

  jovial smiles and drooping bushy eyebrows. She had no idea how to tell

  them apart.

  "Hiya, Mr. Blakely," she said cheerily. "How's your wife?"