Bleeder: A Memoir

My Lolita

131 my lolita June . Coming upon the Deluxe Café—a favorite coffeehouse of mine—I order a regular and I read of young Werther’s sorrows. They are not mine, for coffee is making me happy again. Today, I feel the precious balm of solitude; the youthful summer warms my heart and stays off the sadness of my lonesomeness. When I step to the counter for a refill, I notice the young girl sitting there. Her brown hair is drawn into a bun pierced by sticks that make an X behind her head; her blue eyes sparkle from the reflected light of a mirror hung behind the coffee bar; and when she smiles—a seductive spreading of her red lips that reveals white, unstained teeth—and reaches for the sugar, she nonchalantly brushes her hand against mine, sending a quiver of excitement through me. At this point, she shamelessly stares at me and appears uninterested in the young boy with broad shoulders and a marine haircut who talks to her. I catch her eyes on me again, and it electrifies me. I hopscotch her eyes as the bartender refills my cup. “I’m Charlotte,” the girl says abruptly, breaking her conversation with the boy and being obvious and forward as she extends her hand. “Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, a light pumping up and down. “I’m Shelby.” “Shelby.” She looks up to the ceiling. “That’s such a great name.” Shelby Smoak 132 “I’m quite fond of it myself.” “What’s your last name?” she asks, bending her head low to light a cigarette between her lips. “Smoak,” I say, smiling with silent humor. Charlotte looks up before lighting. “Shelby Smoak. That’s my name.” “Oh.” She chuffs at my joke, takes a drag, exhales over her head, away from me. “A writer’s name,” she declares. “Do you write?” “Not really. I have a few poems and I keep a journal.” “That’s a start. What do you do?” She is assertive and guides our conversation as she edges her chair nearer. “You look like a teacher.” “Well, actually, I am.” She exhales like an actress and shuffles even closer. “Have you seen me before?” Her face is less than a foot away, and I needle my eyes around her faint freckles for recognition. “I don’t think so. But it’s likely we’ve crossed paths somewhere.” “Probably. Wilmington might think it’s a big town, but really, it’s not. It’s a small town with the big town appeal . . . but here,” she adds, smiling, blowing smoke over her shoulder, “our paths have definitely crossed.” “So they have.” When her friend begins rousing for the exit, Charlotte grabs the bartender ’s attention and asks for a pen and paper upon which she scribbles her number. “Call me,” she says, extending the paper to me. And when our fingers touch, a thrill shoots through me. “Any time after next week is fine.” She stands, extinguishes her smoke, shoves hands in her pockets to straighten their folds, and is gone, winking one last time at the door. I fold the paper neatly in my wallet, as I secretly reach out to her. The following day during lunch as I pass through the high school courtyard with a few students, us just returned from a morning walk, I hear my name called. I turn and there Charlotte squats in the grass, catching my eye. I tremble. She is a student here. “Now you recognize me?” she asks, giving me that coquettish smile I recall from the night before. Bleeder 133 Life has turned on me yet again. My immediate response is to slink away as my gut reels with the monstrosity of teacher-and-student liaisons. But I cannot leave. Somehow I’m already smitten with the charge of impropriety. “Ah,” I say casually as she shields her eyes from the brilliant sun. “So you go here?” “For two more days, I do,” she counters. “That’s why I said call me next week.” “Clever. Very clever.” She lays herself out on the grass while I stand over her in an awkward stance that highlights my towering height above her. I cannot help but wonder how she is sizing me up. “So will you call?” she asks. “I was sincere.” “If I do call you, you should call me by my real name, Humbert Humbert.” “Haha,” she says. “You can’t be much older than...