she went on, if nobody loved them when they were kids. Unloved
children grow up to become serial murderers or alcoholics. Mom looked
pointedly at Dad and then back at me. She told me I should try to be
nicer to Billy. "He doesn't have all the advantages you kids do," she said.
The next time I saw Billy, I told him I'd be his friend—but not his
girlfriend—if he promised not to make fun of anyone's dad. Billy
promised. But he kept trying to be my boyfriend. He told me that if I'd
be his girlfriend, he would always protect me and make sure nothing bad
ever happened to me and buy me expensive presents. If I wouldn't be his
girlfriend, he said, I'd be sorry. I told him if he didn't want to be just
friends, fine with me, I wasn't scared of him.
After about a week, I was hanging out with some other kids from the
Tracks, watching garbage burn in a big rusty trash can. They were all
throwing in pieces of brush to keep the fire going, plus chunks of tire
treads, and we cheered at the thick black rubber smoke that made our
noses sting as it rolled past us into the air.
Billy came up to me and pulled my arm, motioning me away from the
other kids. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a turquoise and silver
ring. "It's for you," he said.
I took it and turned it over in my hand. Mom had a collection of
turquoise and silver Indian jewelry that she kept at Grandma's house so
Dad wouldn't pawn it. Most of it was antique and very valuable—some
man from a museum in Phoenix kept trying to buy pieces from her—and
when we visited Grandma, Mom would let me and Lori put on the heavy
necklaces and bracelets and concha belts. Billy's ring looked like one of
Mom's. I ran it across my teeth and tongue like Mom had taught me to. I
could tell by the slightly bitter taste that it was real silver.
"Where'd you get this?" I asked.
"It used to be my mom's," Billy said.