LACEY.

Blood Ties THE BASTARD BURNED IT ALL. In a fucking fire. Like a Nazi.

"Heil fucking Hitler," I told him, which stopped him just long enough to slap me across the face, a nice sharp blow to make my ears sing but which we both knew wouldn't leave a mark. Then Herr Bastard went back to his bonfire, and I spat and screamed and choked on the smell of Kurt melting in the flames. Plastic cases warping with heat, fire eating through Kurt's eyes, Nietzsche and Sartre going up in smoke. It would have been cool-very Seattle, very Kurt-if it hadn't been my whole life disintegrating while the Bastard splashed gasoline. And my mother. Hiding out in the kitchen, probably rustling up some marshmallows and graham crackers so the Bastard could make s'mores over the ruins of the world.

That's why I was late picking you up for the party, Dex. My oh-so-unforgiveable crime. The Bastard found my Satanic Bible and lost his fucking shit. Which looks nothing like what you're imagining, I can assure you. In your G-rated imagination, I'm sure, parents rant and rage and ground you for a week and then everyone has spaghetti for dinner and goes to bed.

Let me paint you a picture, Dex. Life according to Lacey. There's me, bedhead and short shorts, nipples standing at attention, and he wasn't even looking, that's how hypnotized he was by his precious fire. I couldn't stop watching it, either, the fire consuming every song, every page, every piece of me, everything that carried me away from this shit life. Is that how you felt that night, Dex, when your mother found those stupid cans of paint, when she yelled at you, poor baby, and took away your phone privileges? Did you go cold inside, like the night was an ice-covered pond, and you knew if you weren't careful, the surface would crack open and you'd sink into the deep? Were you disgusted by it, by the way your body betrayed you with its goose-bumped shuddering and the sad little croaks and moans you made instead of words? Did you think: I'm better than this? Did you think: Now I am empty? Now I have nothing left?

You didn't. You did have something left. You had me.

The day the music died. It's supposed to be a metaphor. Not a live show in my backyard, the Bastard's bloated face red in reflected light, miniature flames dancing in his eyes, hands stinking of gasoline, the devil in penny loafers and a polyester suit. I thought about those wailing widows in India, the ones who throw themselves onto the funeral pyre, because what's left to live for when the thing you're living for is a column of smoke? Think about that, skin flayed away, bare muscle and pearly bone, flesh fused with plastic, all of us ash together.

"You've got the devil in you," the Bastard said when he shoved me into the corner of my bedroom and made me watch while he tore it apart. "We're going to burn it out of this house, and then we're going to burn it out of you."

WE EACH HAVE OUR JAMES. My fake dad and your real one. Except that fake dad is what you call the kind of guy who bribes you with imitation pearls and Amy Grant CDs, who won't shut up about How was your day? and Who are your favorite teachers? and Won't you just give me a chance to prove I can love you?

The Bastard pretended to be nice to me for precisely as long as it took to get into my mother's pants. Your James, on the other hand. Your Jimmy Dexter. Your dear old dad.

That's a different story, isn't it?

SOMETIMES I KEEP THINGS FROM you to protect you, Dex. But this is truth: I never meant for it to happen. Cliche, but accurate: Kick a football, then ask it whether it meant to fly. All action demands an equal and opposite reaction. You can't blame an object battered by inertial forces; you can't blame me, bouncing through the pinball machine of life.

You buying any of this?

Okay, try this one: My mother and the Bastard are right, I'm the harlot of Battle Creek. I've got the devil in me. I've done terrible things, but this is not one of them.

Here's another cliche for you: Nothing happened. That should count for something.

THE FIRST TIME. EARLY SPRING, one of those perfect mornings that fool you into believing that winter never happened and summer might not suck. The door opened as soon as I took my finger off the bell. Like he'd been waiting for me. "Can Dex come out and play?"

"Dex isn't here right now." That was the first thing I liked about your father, the way he called you Dex. Not like your mother, who was always throwing around Hannah this and Hannah that in that pinched voice, like what she really wanted to say was She's mine and you can't have her. "Her mother took her outlet shopping. Blazing-hot clearance sales, I hear."

"Sounds thrilling," I said.

"I begged them to bring me along."

"Who wouldn't?"

He grinned. Like we were friends. "Story of my life, always left out in the cold."

"It's a cruel world."

"Cutthroat." He was wearing a Cosby sweater and dad jeans, and his hair was a black scruff of weeds, like he'd just woken up, even though it was noon. Stubble inching down his chin, a little crud in the corner of one eye. I was wearing cutoffs over black leggings, the ones you said gave me buns of steel, and a tank that cut my boobs about a centimeter above the nipple. He could have gotten some show, if he'd bothered to look. But he wasn't that kind of dad.

"Guess I should go," I said.

"Don't get into trouble out there." He reconsidered. "Not too much, at least."

"The thing is . . . ," I said, and maybe I took a deep breath and held it, because I kind of wanted him to look.

The thing was, I couldn't go home.

The thing was, the Bastard had found my condoms.

That's why I came looking for you, Dex. So we could go to the lake, and I could sink into the icy water until it hurt enough to make me forget. It's not my fault you weren't there when I needed you.

"The thing is?" your father said when I didn't.

"The thing is . . ." I wasn't crying or anything. I was just doing me, leaning against the doorway, one hand slipped into the back pocket of my cutoffs, cupping my ass, eyes on his dad shoes. Ugly blue sneakers, both unlaced. That was the thing that got me, the laces. Like he had no one to save him from falling. "Your shoes are untied."

He shrugged. "I like 'em that way." He stepped out of the doorway, opening a space for me. "Want to come in? Have something to drink?"

We had hot chocolate. No whiskey in it, not that time.

The mugs steamed. We watched each other. He smiled. Dad smile.

"So, what's the verdict, Blondie?"

If you'd ever heard him call me that, you would have looked cluelessly at me, at my black hair, and I would have had to explain about Debbie Harry at the microphone and "Heart of Glass" and how I was really more of a Runaways girl, but what kind of nickname is Joan, and anyway, that didn't matter as much as the fact that he could see the kind of girl I was, the kind who should have a mic to tongue and a guitar to smash and a stage to light on fire, that he looked at me and understood. But I didn't have to explain, because we both knew, without saying, that this wasn't for you.

The nickname: That was our first secret, and another thing we had in common. We liked to give things their secret names. We knew there was power in that.

"How are you liking our little town?"

"It sucks," I said.

"Ha." It wasn't a laugh, more like an acknowledgment that a laugh might be called for.

"I like Dex, though," I said.

"Smart girl. Beauty and brains. I approve."

If he'd been someone else, just a guy rather than a dad, or even if he'd been most dads, I would have taken that as my cue, offered up my serpent smile, sipped my drink, and wiped away the chocolate mustache with one slow lick.

"Thanks, Mr. Dexter," I said.

"You should know you've broken my heart." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Dex finally discovers music, thanks to you, and-"

"And you're welcome."

"And, thanks to you, she's developing some seriously shitty taste."

"Better watch out, old man, you're starting to sound your age."

He jerked to his feet, the chair screeched, and I thought that was it. Too far. Especially when he stalked out of the room and left me there alone to wonder whether I was supposed to see myself out, thinking at least he trusted me to do so without stealing the silver.

Then he came back, record in hand. He'd also changed his shirt. "I don't do tapes," he said. "No tonal fidelity." He handed me the album. "Call me old again and you're out on your ass." He looked so proud of himself for cursing, like a toddler showing off a turd.

"The Dead Kennedys?"

"You know them?"

I shrugged. I learned that much from Shay. Never admit you don't know.

"Take it home. Listen to it-at least twice. That's an order."

"Really?" I know music guys and their record collections, Dex. They don't hand their precious goods off to just anyone.

"Really," he said. "Bring me one of yours next time. We'll pretend it's an even trade."

Next time.

That's how it went, Dex, and it kept going. We talked about music. We talked about him.

Did you know that when he was sixteen, he ditched the guitar for a year and taught himself to play the drums? He wanted to be Ringo Starr. Not because he thought Ringo was the best Beatle or anything, but because you couldn't wish or will yourself into being a genius-Lennons and McCartneys are born. Ringos, according to your dad, are made, by luck and circumstance and practice in their parents' garage. I thought that was sweet, that he'd dream of being fourth best.

I stayed until there was nothing left in my mug but cold milk and soggy chunks of Swiss Miss, then shook his hand. "Thanks for the hot chocolate, Mr. Dexter."

"Just keep doing what you're doing for our Dex." Our Dex, like you were a secret we shared. He walked me to the door. "And you better listen to that album, young lady. I'm waiting on your report."

I saluted. "Yes, sir, Mr. Dexter."

"My friends call me Jimmy." Not Jim but Jimmy, which he probably thought lent him boyish charm but actually made him sound like he needed to live under adult supervision.

"Are we friends now?"

"Any friend of Dex's," he said. "You know the rest."

IT WAS JUST TALK. THERE'S nothing wrong with that.

Sometimes I cut school without you. Your dad was home a lot during the day. More than he should have been, you and your mom would probably say. Even the first time, he didn't ask what I was doing there. Neither of us bothered to pretend I was looking for you.

"Hot chocolate?" he said.

"How about a smoke?" I tossed him a pack of Winston Lights.

We took them into the backyard. I liked puffing the smoke into the cold, watching it fog the air. It was like breathing, only better.

I'd spotted the stains on his fingers, the way he kept tapping his spoon against his mouth. The tiny hole at his knee where the denim had burned away. Secret smokers recognize each other. There's a whiff of unfulfilled need about us, of unspoken desire. You want my opinion, I don't even think he likes smoking. I think he just does it because he's not allowed to.

"God," he sighed, blowing it out. "God, that's good."

The first draw is always the best.

He taught me to puff a smoke ring. I reminded him-later, when we knew each other better-how to roll a joint.

That day, though, we smoked our cigarettes standing up, leaning against the back wall. The shitty patio furniture seemed like your mother's territory, all those vinyl flowers and pastel pillows.

"Can I ask you something, Blondie?" He liked to play with the cigarette, carving up the air with its glowing tip. I liked to watch. He has man hands, your dad. Big enough to curl his fingertips over mine when we pressed palm to palm, crooked like they're still trying to curl around an invisible guitar. "It's probably inappropriate."

"I think we're past that, Mr. Dexter."

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy." I liked to make him tell me again.

"Does Dex have . . . I mean, she's never brought a boy home, but that doesn't mean . . . I was wondering-"

"Why, Jimmy, are you asking me if your daughter has a boyfriend?" I said.

"Well . . ."

"Or if she's a dyke?"

"That's not what I-"

"Or are you just concerned with the state of her cherry, whatever drink it's in?"

"You're, uh, mixing your metaphors there, Blondie." It was cute the way he tried to play it cool, pretend like his skin wasn't crawling off his bones.

"Don't ask me about Dex."

This was the week after that night at Beast, when you went a little nuts with the tequila and decided you should put on your own personal bartop strip show. You didn't even remember it in the morning. What you did or what you wanted, or how you cursed at me for dragging you out of there, so you can't appreciate that I took you back to my place, tucked you up tight under my covers, rather than dumping you off on your parents' porch, a drunk, drooling, half-naked and half-catatonic mess for them to clean up. Sometimes I lie to protect you, Dex, so you can keep lying to yourself. You didn't want to know how you went wild in Beast, just like you didn't want to know how, in that field with those idiot farm boys, you were jonesing to get your hands on the axe. You don't want to know that you swung it high and hard and laughed at the blood.

I kept your secrets for you-from you. I wasn't about to spill any to him.

"You don't want to know whether I have a boyfriend?" I said. "Or whether I've been in love, any of that crap?"

"That crap's none of my business, Blondie."

"They're all idiots. Guys my age."

"Not just your age," he said.

"So now you're suggesting I should look into the lesbian thing?"

We weren't looking at each other. We usually didn't. He preferred leaning against the house, hiding behind his sunglasses and watching the back lawn like he was scanning for movement, that caveman stare, this land is mine and I will protect it. Wild boars, deer, errant mailmen-he was prepared. I focused on the same middle distance and snuck glances at him when I could. Sometimes we caught each other out. I liked it when he blushed.

"The thing to know about men is that they're pigs," he said. "Especially when a pretty girl comes along."

"Are you calling me pretty, Jimmy?"

"Shoe fits, Blondie."