David was supposed to pick me up for prom, but when his Ford Ranchero pulled into the driveway, there was a girl behind the wheel. She smoked and watched me as I stomped across the lawn, one big ball of ironic satin. “Where’s David?” I asked.
The girl pushed thick-framed glasses up her nose. She had messy, dyed auburn hair. Skinny shoulders hunched forward inside a heavy wool sweater, and safety pins dangled from her ears. “David can’t go to prom,” she said. “He’s taking care of Mona.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Francine. His sister.” She breathed out a minty cloud and flicked her Kool onto the driveway. “Or his alter ego, depending on who you ask.”
Francine leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Come to our house. We’ll take our own prom pictures. But first we have to go to the store. Mona needs a peach.”
I slid into the vinyl cab and watched Francine drive from the corner of my eye. Her hands were laden with silver rings, but even so, she seemed boyish. Paint stained her sneakers and tools bulged from her pockets: pliers, screwdriver, wrench.