Books by Laura Chester


BITCHES RIDE ALONEIs it possible to know the first boyfriend. I mean, thirty years later go home again, unfold the first "I love you" note, written on a one-inch piece of paper and made into a tiny bird?

I danced upstairs in my beaverboard bedroom, painted pink. I had the whole third floor to myself. Moved up there to get away from my brother, Mister (alias) Davy Crockett. I wanted to sleep alone, listen to Motown and play with my horse collection, in peace. But now I had this other passion.

We had left the lake for the summer, and were back in town. I'd dragged along a wooden sawhorse to ride in front of National Velvet, leaning forward with reins to leap into the black and white television.

No one bothered me up there on the third floor. My windows were covered with ivy. Its miniscule paws seemed to eat right into the red brick of the house. My pink bedroom throbbed with late summer heat, and I could feel the presence of all those National Geographics, neatly stacked in the attic beside my room, feel the bare breast-tips of jungle women, as I swiveled on the stool before my vanity and thought about my first boyfriend, the bad boy on the lake.