How the Hula Girl Sings (24 page)

“Really?”

“Really.”

And he nods and sits up and begins to fold his green sleeping bag.

And then they are walking back into the snow, Odile unlocking her bicycle, pushing it beside them, advancing step by step through the ever-increasing drifts, her brother, six years younger, though already taller than her by several inches, shuffling alongside her, their frames, the shape of their shoulders identical, their hair color exactly the same, their mannerisms mostly different, though in their expressions there is a similar aloof candor, the same sense of amusement at most things. And it’s snowing around them and all of a sudden Odile remembers what it was like to be a kid, and to have played in the snow with her little brother, and for no other reason she turns and shoves Ike into a pile of it. And then she hops onto her bike and tries to pedal off. And so begins the now-famous chase sequence that ends only at the turnstiles of the Blue Line station on Damen Avenue.

AT THE GREYHOUND BUS STATION.

And on together riding the Blue Line subway to the Greyhound station downtown, and then afterward, Odile sits beside her younger brother in the hard vinyl chairs, ruffling his shaggy, dark hair. She looks at him and is surprised again at how skinny his face is. She kicks her legs back and forth, glancing up at the institutional-looking clock every so often.

“How long is the bus ride again?” she asks.

“About ten hours.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I don’t care. I have a book,” he says.

“What’s the book?”

“It’s some fantasy series I’m rereading.”

“So have you thought about what you’re going to tell Mom and Dad?”

“No, I’ll just say what you said.”

“What was that?”

“That I had a freak-out. And that high school isn’t the way they remember it. And I didn’t want to take that Spanish test.”

“That’s good,” she says, smiling. “You know, if you ever get into any real kind of trouble, you can always count on me.”

“I know. That’s why I came.”

“But you’re not in any real trouble.”

“I know,” he says. “But I missed you.”

And then Odile smiles, the dimple appearing on her left cheek.

“I was hoping maybe you’d come back with me,” he continues. “It’s not as fun there anymore. I don’t have anyone but Mom and Dad.”

“I have a life here, kiddo,” she says. “This is where I live.”

“I know, but what’s so great about this place? It’s pretty dingy-looking.”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it the buildings?” he asks.

“No.”

“Is it the people?”

“No.”

“Are you in love with someone here?”

And she shakes her head and knows her cheeks are glowing red. “How about this?” she asks. “You can come visit any time you like. As long as you call me beforehand.”

“Okay. Okay. Sorry about getting you in trouble with Mom and Dad. I’ll call next time and tell you I’m coming.”

“Great,” she says, and then the static-filled announcement blares over the wires and Odile stands, helping her brother with his backpack and sleeping bag. And he hugs her and begins walking away, his gait slow but more confident than you might guess.

“You’re gonna be all right!” she shouts, folding her hands together like a megaphone. “Better than all right. I see big things for you, kid. Big things!” and he shakes his head and gets a little red too, and he waves to her and walks away. And then she begins to think maybe he is right. What’s so great about this city? What’s so great about Chicago? On the ride home, her bicycle rattling beneath her, she thinks,
Nothing
. And if she had climbed on that bus with her brother, would anyone have noticed? Probably not. Because Jeannie called from New York only yesterday and told her she had a place where Odile could crash, at least for a few months. And because Odile’s lease is up at the end of February, she’s thinking maybe she should go.

Because if not now, when? And as she rides she hums a song from the band Half Japanese, considering all these different possibilities. And so.

MEN WHO HAVE ACUMULATED AROUND HER.

1. Reginald, her former English teacher, who chaperoned the Literature Club when Odile was in high school, and who was responsible for her
Franny and Zooey
phase. Even five years later, few days pass that Reginald doesn’t stare at the blossom-faced female students in his English class, wishing they were more like Odile, punishing them with surprise quiz after surprise quiz because they are not.

2. A boy who she held hands with at the mall just outside Minneapolis when she was seventeen. This young man, Max, still walks by the video arcade every few weeks, and sighs, thinking of the afternoon they spent playing game after game of Miss Pac-Man.

3. Brandon, the first adult relationship she ever had, during her freshman year in art school, and who was the first boy she ever cheated on. A red flame of sadness still crosses his face whenever he thinks of her.

4. Will, an art student pursuing photography, who once talked Odile into doing some racy Polaroids. There are seven of them. These seven Polaroids are still kept at the top of Will’s sock drawer. He will sometimes flip through them to masturbate, but also, sometimes, simply to see the daring look of abandon, the recklessness glowing pink there on her face.

5. Paul, who is not an ex or even a boyfriend, but who is someone she is afraid she has fallen in love with.

End of Excerpt

JOE MENO
is a fiction writer and playwright who lives in Chicago. He is a winner of the Nelson Algren Literary Award, a Pushcart Prize, the Great Lakes Book Award, and was a finalist for the Story Prize. He is the author of multiple novels and short story collections including
Hairstyles of the Damned, The Great Perhaps, How the Hula Girl Sings, The Boy Detective Fails, Tender as Hellfire, Demons in the Spring,
and
Office Girl.
His short fiction has been published in
One Story, McSweeney’s, Swink, LIT, TriQuarterly, Other Voices, Gulf Coast,
and broadcast on NPR. His nonfiction has appeared in the
New York Times
and
Chicago Magazine
. He is an associate professor in the Fiction Writing Department at Columbia College Chicago.