This Girl: A Novel

clear my throat. “Okay, would you rather spend the rest of your life with no arms; or would you rather spend the rest of your life with arms you couldn’t control?”
    I remember when Caulder and I tried to get Vaughn to play this game on our way to Detroit once; she rolled her eyes and told us to grow up. I watch Lake, hoping for a different reaction, and she just stares at me straight-faced like she’s actually contemplating an answer.
    “Well,” she says. “I guess I would rather spend the rest of my life with arms I couldn’t control?”
    “What? Seriously?” I laugh, glancing over at her. “But you wouldn’t be controlling them! They could be flailing around and you’d be constantly punching yourself in the face! Or worse, you might grab a knife and stab yourself!”
    She laughs. Damn, I love that laugh.
    “I didn’t realize there were right and wrong answers,” she says.
    “You suck at this. Your turn.”
    She smiles at me, then furrows her brows, facing forward and leaning back into her seat. “Okay, let me think.”
    “You have to have one ready!”
    “Jeez, Will! I barely heard of this game for the first time thirty seconds ago. Give me a second to think of one.”
    I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I’m teasing.”
    It wasn’t my intention to keep holding on to her hand, but for some reason it feels right, so I don’t let go. It’s so natural, like we didn’t even contemplate the move. I’m still staring at our interlocked fingers when she continues with her turn, unfazed. I like how much she seems to be enjoying the game. I like how she seemed to prefer the grilled cheese sandwiches to a restaurant. I like girls who don’t mind the simple things every now and then. I like that we’re holding hands.
    We play a few more rounds and the bizarre things she comes up with could give Caulder a run for his money. The half-hour drive to the club seems like it takes five minutes. I decide to ask one final question as we’re pulling into the parking lot. I pull into a space and reach over with my left hand to kill the engine so that I don’t have to move my right hand from hers. I glance over at her. “Last one,” I say. “Would you rather be back in Texas right now? Or here?”
    She looks down at our fingers that are interlocked and grazes her thumb across my hand. Her reaction to my question isn’t a negative one. In fact, it almost seems just the opposite when her lips crack a smile and she looks back up. Just when she opens her mouth to respond, her attention is pulled to the sign on the building behind me and her smile fades.
    “Uh, Will?” she says hesitantly. “I don’t dance.” She pulls her hand from mine and begins to open her door, so I do the same.
    “Uh, neither do I.”
    We both exit the vehicle, but the fact that she didn’t answer that last question isn’t lost on me. I grab her hand when we meet at the front of the car and I lead her inside. When we walk through the doors I make a quick scan of the room. I know a lot of the regulars here and I’m hoping I can at least find a secluded area in order for us to have some privacy. I spot an empty booth in the back of the room and lead her in that direction. I want her to be able to get the full experience without the constant interruption of conversation from other people.
    “It’s quieter back here,” I say. She’s looking around with curiosity in her eyes. She asks about the younger audience when she notices pretty quickly that this isn’t a regular club-going crowd. She’s observant.
    “Well, tonight it’s not a club,” I say. She scoots into the booth first and I slide in right next to her. “It’s slam night. Every Thursday they shut the club down and people come here to compete in the slam.”
    She breaks her gaze from the table of kids and looks at me, the curiosity still present in her eyes. “And what’s a slam?”
    I pause for a second and smile at her. “It’s poetry,” I say. “It’s what I’m all about.” I wait for the laughter, but it doesn’t come. She looks directly at me, almost like she didn’t understand what I said.
    I start to repeat myself when she interrupts. “Poetry, huh?” She continues to smile at me, but in a very endearing way. Almost like she’s impressed. “Do people write their own or do they get it from other authors?”
    I lean back in my seat and look at the stage. “People get up there and pour their hearts out just using their words and the