up the empty bottle and outline my plan.
No one objects, so off we go down
the road to Garrett’s house. By the time
we arrive, there’s no sign of the guys,
though the bass boom of music tells
us they’re inside. Easy peasy. “Think
I should wipe off our fingerprints?”
Without waiting for an answer, I use
my shirttail to do just that, then place
the bottle in the bed of Garrett’s pickup.
Syrah Isn’t Finished
Keep an eye out, she orders.
More quietly than I would’ve
thought possible, she opens
the truck’s passenger door,
sticks her head inside.
She’s making me nervous,
whispers Monica, and I agree.
Monica looks in one direction,
I keep tabs on the other,
while Syrah pokes around
in the glove box in search
of what, exactly, I have no clue.
Surely Garrett wouldn’t leave
valuables in his truck.
Ha! It’s not weed, but . . .
She exits the cab suddenly,
with a box in her hand, shuts
the door almost as noiselessly
as she opened it, nudges Monica.
Hurry up. Let’s go.
We Quick-Time
Away from Garrett’s,
where the music’s still
blasting, obscuring all
the noise we’ve made.
I’ve got no idea what’s
in Syrah’s right hand,
but it must be amazing
because she’s laughing
in a way that means
she’s congratulating
herself. We trot
toward home at an easy
gait, but as we pass
the first neighbor’s house,
his dog starts barking—
huge hoarse hrrufs
that make us pray
his fence is solid,
and send us sprinting
up the middle
of the road, howling
laughter in response.
“Don’t look back!”
I urge, but of course
all of us keep glancing
over our shoulders.
See anything? hisses
Monica, trying not to trip
over obstacles obscured
by night’s shadows.
“Nah. There’s nothing
behind us.” No dog.
No dweebs. No sputtering
truck. Looks like we
escaped in the clear.
Finally, damp-haired
with sweat and winded,
we turn into my driveway,
Syrah still in the lead.
Once we’re on the porch,
I tap her shoulder.
“So, tell us, Sherlock.
What did you find?”
When she turns, the look
on her face is priceless.
Check it out. Why would
Garrett need these?
She lifts a small carton
up under the porch light.
Trojan condoms. Latex.
Ultrathin. Lubricated.
Thirty-six-count value pack.
“You stole Garrett’s
condoms? What if he
actually does get lucky?”
We all look at one another
and totally bust up.
Garrett would never get
that lucky, says Monica
when she finally stops
hiccuping laughter.
That’s for sure. This right
here is a lifetime supply
of rubbers for Garrett,
adds Syrah, and that makes
the three of us dissolve
into a fit of amusement
again. We go inside, still
laughing, retreat to my
room in case Dad comes
home. I put on some music
and for some crazy reason
that no doubt has everything
to do with vodka and weed,
Syrah decides to play with
the foil packets. She opens
one, extracts the condom,
stretches it full length.
Jeez, the guy thinks a lot
of himself. I kind of thought
he was dickless. Hey, think
fast! She tosses
a couple at Monica, who
catches them on the fly.
What am I supposed to do
with these? she complains.
Syrah shrugs. Use ’em for
water balloons? Give ’em to
your big brother? I just know
I don’t need all of them.
I haven’t gotten lucky
myself lately. Okay, ever.
Now she opens the drawer
in my nightstand, practices
sinking shots from across
the room before finally
growing bored with the game.
All right, everyone’s stocked
up on latex. Everyone except
Garrett, that is. And . . .
We’re laughing again. Hot
damn, is it great to have friends.
Maya
Funerals stink. Especially your daddy’s funeral. Especially, especially when you have to sneak out to go because your crazy mother would totally flip if she had a clue that was your plan. And, hey, why not toss in the fact that your lunatic mom was most of the reason your dad drank himself to death to start with?
Mom chased Dad out of the house and all the way to San Antonio four years ago. Maybe it’s just eighty miles from Austin, Texas, but it might as well have been eight hundred. I’ve only seen him a half dozen times since he left, and the only way I even know he died was because I happened to answer the phone when Uncle Wade called. Mom wouldn’t have said a word. I didn’t bother to tell her, either.
Instead, I bummed a ride with Tati, who only griped a little about spending her Saturday taking me to the funeral of a dude she’s never even met. “What are best friends for?” I asked, when she hesitated to say she’d drive.
“Sex?” she answered, and all I could do was laugh.
I’ve been in love with Tatiana Holdridge since seventh grade, but that’s not something I can say out loud, and it’s got nothing to do with sex. Tati is the one person who knows me inside out, and sticks around anyway.
“Are you sad?” she whispered as we slipped into seats near the front of the mostly empty funeral parlor.
The simple question was hard to answer. Dad was in my life daily till I turned twelve, but even when he was home he was mostly absent. Kind of like how I am in chemistry class—there, but not. Still, he was gentle, funny, and offered himself up when Mom aimed her anger my way. The few times I’ve seen him since, he always did nice things—took me clothes shopping or to a movie, something Mom considers frivolous. That’s her word for anything fun. “Frivolous.” Things that qualify: movies, arcades, amusement parks. Even television.
Dad’s funeral wasn’t frivolous. It was spare. The only people there were his girlfriend Claire, his brother Wade, a few of the guys he worked with, and a couple of kids from the middle school where he was a janitor. That was sweet. They told me he didn’t put up with the bullies who harassed them, and they wanted to pay their respects. I’m glad Dad was a hero to someone.
Throw pride into my jumble of feelings. Sadness was in there, of course. I also felt pity for Claire, who looked swallowed up by grief. She never said a word to me, or anyone else that I could see. But then, if I barely knew my dad, I didn’t know her at all.
I felt grateful for Uncle Wade, who took care of all the details. His eyes watered as the minister recited his canned eulogy, and that made me remember the last funeral I went to. He
was there, too, and Dad, when Grandma and Grandpa McCabe were killed in a car wreck. That must’ve been five years back.
Today, after the minister talked, everyone offered a favorite memory. Claire talked about the day she met Dad, working at a car wash fund-raiser for the school. Uncle Wade told about going fishing when they were kids, and how Dad insisted on using stink bait so he wouldn’t have to thread worms. One of the kids shared about the bullies.
And me? “Mostly what I remember about Dad is watching games on TV on weekends. He taught me baseball and football and basketball. Tried to get me to watch hockey, too, but it’s not my thing. My best-ever memory was going to an Astros game and they creamed the Dodgers. My dad was so happy he sang all the way home. He could really sing.”
That choked me up. When we were called forward and I bent to kiss Dad’s white wax cheek, it was like the air got sucked from my lungs. It hurt to breathe. You always think you’ll have more time, you’ll get another chance to make things right with someone you should be closer to. Sometimes that doesn’t happen. But why did it have to be Dad, and why so soon?
Tati escorted me to the open casket. I could tell she didn’t want to, but in the moment I crumbled, she reached for me, propping me up with a subtle merge of fingers. “I’m here for you,” she whispered. Well, of course she was, though as soon as we turned to leave, she let go of my hand. Considering where we were, that was necessary. But painful.
Outside, Uncle Wade stood sweating in the sweltering late August shade. “Would you like to follow the hearse to the cemetery and witness the lowering?”
Watch the earth swallow my dad, bait for my nightmares? I shook my head. “I have to get back to Austin or Mom will throw a fit.”
He handed me a manila envelope. “Your father wanted you to have this. He loved you very much, you know. He was sorry he didn’t have more to give you.”
All I could do was nod and look inside. I’d thought every photo of my father was gone—trashed in one of Mom’s rages. But Dad had kept a handful of the two of us, and now they’ll be my hidden treasure. I have to hide them from Mom, along with Dad’s handwritten apology for leaving me, and $1200 cash.
“He saved every penny he could,” Uncle Wade said. “He hoped it might help you go to college, so try not to spend it all in one place.” He winked, as if to say he knew college isn’t in my plans. I’ll be lucky to graduate high school. Not because I’m not smart enough to do the work, but as my counselor says, I lack motivation.
What I am motivated to do is find a way out from under my mother’s heavy-handed rule. Case in point: when Tati dropped me off at home (she never comes inside, not that I blame her), I stashed my treasured envelope behind a bush outside my bedroom window, knowing it was sure to draw Mom’s attention, and it would’ve. The second I walked in the door, she pounced. “Where have you been?” Spit pooled in the corners of her mouth.
I could’ve lied. But in that moment it seemed disrespectful. Not to her. To my father. “I went to Dad’s funeral.”
“That’s the best you can do? You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care if you do or you don’t. He’s dead. And by now he’s buried. I didn’t hang out to watch.”
She didn’t say she was sorry. Didn’t ask how I found out he’d died. What she said was, “I’m surprised he lasted this long. He got more time than he deserved. Regardless, I’m extremely unhappy with you. How dare you leave this house without telling me where you’re going, and who you’d be with?”
That’s her Cardinal Rule, and I used to comply. Not so much anymore, though. Now I break it every chance I get, and if she happens to catch me, I come up with a good story. But I didn’t think I needed an excuse to go to Dad’s funeral. “I figured you’d say no.”
She froze for a second, and in that moment her face morphed into something animal. Feral. When she spoke, it was a snarl. “Soon enough saying no won’t be an option. We’re moving to Sea Org in Los Angeles this spring. You’ll live on campus, in youth housing. They won’t put up with your shenanigans.”
All I know about Sea Org is what I’ve overheard. It’s where high-level Scientologists go to become even higher-level Scientologists. I guess I should’ve paid more attention, asked a few more questions. I should have pretended to care. But one thing’s certain. “I’m not going anywhere. You might be sucked into that bullshit, but you can’t make me.”
“Bet me.”
I didn’t see the backhand coming. The prongs of her ring bit into my cheek, leaving four little red cuts to go with the ugly bruise meant to put me in my place. All it did was make me more determined than ever to leave this house behind as soon as I can figure out a way to go without her having me arrested.
I’m considering my next move now.
Ariel
October 9, Six A.M.
I rouse to a volley
of flimsy snores.
My friends are both
asleep on the floor,
Monica on the right
side of my bed; Syrah
on the left. She wanted
to drive herself home
last night. I said no way.
Friends don’t let friends
drive loaded to the max.
Speaking of that, my head
feels like someone poured
cement inside it—thick
and churning. Hope it
doesn’t set up. My skull’s
already hammering.
Why do I drink again?
Why does anyone
drink to excess?
Not the best way
to start my seventeenth
year celebration. Hopefully
the day will improve quickly.
I Slide Out of Bed
Quietly, no more than a slight
creak of the aging wooden frame.
Tiptoe down the hall to the bathroom,
noticing the snoring on the far side
of my dad’s bedroom door is much
louder than the tremulous snuffling
on the floor of my own room. He and
Zelda stumbled in really late last night.
Neither of them should have driven
home, but one of them must have.
Dad’s LeSabre is parked just off the road,
not quite straight on the dirt shoulder,
as if trying to maneuver it into the driveway
was just too damn much to manage.
If they consumed that much alcohol,
they should’ve stayed over at Zelda’s
in town. Dad probably figured I’d be
having a party, something he needed
to supervise. I’m glad the actual partying
part was well behind us when they arrived.
My girls and I were still awake when
we heard them come in bickering.
We quieted for a minute, trying to figure
out what, exactly, their problem was, but
Dad shushed Zelda long enough to move
their dispute to a more private location.
So we went back to yakking about our
upcoming varsity girls’ basketball season.
All three of us are pretty great at the sport,
though Syrah has to work a lot harder.
Prior to starting Sonora High, I had no
clue I had any athletic ability to speak of.
But when we played in our regular PE
class last year, I found out I could shoot
with a high degree of accuracy, and I’m
quick on the court, too. Somehow word
got around and Coach Booker asked me
to try out for the team. When I argued
that I’d never participated in organized
sports before, she silenced me. “Talent
trumps experience, I’ve found. Show me
what you’ve got.” So I did, and now, here
I am—starting center. I had to convince
/>
Dad to let me join the team. He works
long days, and we live a fair distance
from town, so extracurricular activities
are difficult to accommodate. As for
basketball, transportation would
definitely be an issue except I stay after
school to practice and Syrah chauffeurs
me home, often with a stop for a burger
on the way, so there’s less cooking to do.
I hope Dad will make time to come
to home games. He claims he’s proud
of me, but I never see the truth of that
reflected in his eyes. Words are easy.
Maybe if he witnesses my ability
on the court, he’ll recognize how hard
I’ve worked to rise above mediocrity,
and reward me with honest respect.
That Being the Case
I’d prefer he not realize the reason
I’m in the bathroom not long past
daybreak is because I need pain
relief for the residual effects of too
much vodka consumed rather quickly.
I swallow a couple of aspirin, chase
them with a whole lot of water, pee
out what I can, and return to my bed.
This time when I crawl over the foot
and across the mattress, the groan
of the frame wakes Monica. Hey,
she whispers softly. Can I get in bed
with you? Sleeping on the floor sucks.
I pull back the covers, invite her
beneath them. It’s a double bed,
so there’s plenty of room. Still,
our feet touch. Who knew toe
connection could create sparks?
It scares me, but I don’t move, and
neither does Monica. Happy birthday,
novia. Do you feel different this morning?
We both keep our voices low, so we
don’t disturb Syrah. “If you mean do
I feel older, not really. If you mean do I
feel hungover, damn straight. How
about you? Do you need some aspirin?”
I Expect Her
To admit she needs exactly
that. Instead, she shakes her head.
No. Te necesito. I need you.
She traces the line of my jaw
with one gentle finger. Now
I’m terrified. But I stay very still
and she presses no further.