FIFTEENConnie hooked one arm around Mike’s shoulders. If it had been anyone else, he would have had to object, but Connie was the sort to brook no objection. Her mohawk was gelled upright for the occasion, stained red and saturated with glitter to complement her sparkling nose ring, brow rings, and two dozen earrings. Her blue leather jacket creaked and crackled against the black leather sofa. Her fingernails were the same red as her hair, and they tapped out a pattern on Mike’s shoulder.
Mike put up with it. He had ironed his pants and his shirt and polished his shoes, but that was about it. His pasty face and blond hair showed up in the low, yellow light, but the rest of him vanished into the couch. He edged an inch or two away from Connie, partly because San Antonio was not big enough
