it’s relatively clean. Pretty sure
it’s not. And that totally makes
me want to heave again. Except
there’s nothing left but those awful
cramps and I don’t think I can heave
those out. Food poisoning? Flu?
Cold sweat erupts on my forehead.
And, though it’s way warm in here,
I shiver. Tiny spasms assault me,
and with each tremor, fear builds
inside me. No. I must be wrong.
There are lots of reasons to puke
in the morning. But my period
is overdue. At one week, I didn’t
even think about it. At two, I figured
I miscounted. At three, I decided
I’m never really that regular, anyway.
But now, I’m over a month late.
And I’m really very afraid of why.
I Shower Away
The sweat and vomit.
Towel off, still shaking.
Brush my teeth. Mouthwash.
Body spray. Deodorant. Wrap
myself in a robe, scurry
back to my bedroom as
the house begins to warm
with voices. Waking up.
Heading for the kitchen,
where the scent of
pancakes, usually
tempting, but not today,
lifts into the morning.
Can’t do the family
thing. Instead, I dress
quickly, find my keys
and slip out the door,
quietly as I can. I think
maybe Bri sees me, but
that’s okay. Start my car,
point it toward town,
nothing really new about
that except what I suspect
a pregnancy test will confirm.
Brianna
I Suspect
Mom knew about her party
all along. Harley and I tried
our best to keep it secret, but
surprises
are hard to pull off, especially
with so many people involved.
Doesn’t matter. At least I
can
say everyone had fun, even
my stuffy grandparents.
We go over to their house
sometimes
and I feel like I shouldn’t sit
on their fancy furniture.
I didn’t know Grandma could
be
so sociable! She was kind of
like Cinderella, only a lot
older and a little bit more
ugly.
Shane
Ugly
That was my parents’ reaction
when they found out about Alex’s
HIV. Okay, to be fair, at first Mom
thought it was me who was positive
when she came across the prescription
bottle Alex left in my room. It
didn’t have a label, so she researched
the actual pills. Wow. She freaked.
When I came in, she was shaking
so hard I thought she might crack
like overbaked clay. She jerked
me down the hall, into my room
and over to my desk, where
the bottle sat. She picked it up
gingerly. Do you have something
to tell me? About these, maybe?
God, Shane . . . Her eyes filled
with tears, but she held them back.
Tell me you’re not HIV positive!
I think she shrank about an inch.
When I told her they belonged
to Alex, and not to worry because
he’s got the virus under control,
she only relaxed a little. “And
anyway, HIV isn’t an automatic
death sentence anymore. Alex found
out early, and these antiviral drugs
will keep him from getting AIDS
for a very long time. When we’re
together, we’re very careful to
always use condoms. And the main
thing is, I love him, Mom. My life
would be empty without him in
it.” She shrank a little more, but
it’s the truth, and she knows it.
She kind of nodded, then left.
I know this only heaped more
worry on her already sagging
shoulders, and for that I’m sorry.
But it changes nothing at all.
It Might Have Ended There
But Dad happened to make a rare
appearance at home, only to find
Mom researching HIV, the word
flashing loudly on her computer screen.
Like her, at first he thought I
had it. But finding out it was Alex
changed nothing for him. He had
hit the bottle hard that morning.
I thought he was going to kick
my door in. Open up! It took me
a minute to react. Too slow for
Dad. Goddamn it, you little shit.
Open this fucking door! When
I finally unlocked it, he pushed
straight through, grabbed me
by the shirt. Are you plain stupid?
He reeked of booze and his
eyes carouseled, unfocused.
I could have taken him if I let
it get physical. I decided to try
humor instead. “Is there another
kind of stupid? Like, uh, fancy
stupid? Or beautiful stupid?”
Guess he didn’t think it was funny.
He tore at my shirt. The motion
splashed whiskey out of the glass
he was holding. Shut up. What
the hell are you doing? Trying to
die? You can’t mess around
with HIV. AIDS is God’s way of
saying “gay” is a very bad choice.
God again! Plus, the word “choice.”
I kept my voice low. “Do you
know how Alex contracted HIV, Dad?”
I described how Alex’s uncle raped
him. “No choice in that, Dad. None at all.”
His Face Flushed Beet Purple
And he let go of my shirt. And, though
he didn’t say a word, something inside
him shifted. I could see it in his eyes.
He made an about-face, exited my room.
Not long after, he left the house and I fell
into a big pit of black depression.
That happens sometimes, when too much
shit gets flung at me at once. It’s like
all the external pressure sucks into me,
then tries to escape again. But it can’t.
So it builds. Throbs. Makes me feel
like my skin is anxious to split. I think
that feeling is why some people cut—
little slices so they don’t shred completely.
I’m too much of a coward to cut.
That day, I closed my blinds. Turned off
the lights. Crawled into bed and turned
myself off, too. So I didn’t rip apart.
Later, Something Happened
I don’t know what, but it must
have been bad, because voices
cut through the artificial night
in my head. At first, just one.
Mom.
Talking to herself.
Asking questions.
Then, silence. A second voice.
Aunt Andrea.
Whispering.
Consoling?
It was weird. More like a dream
than real. And, even though Aunt
Andrea never comes over, I told
myself nothing could be that wrong.
Finally, the third, slurred voice.
Dad.
/> Denying.
Crying?
I wasn’t about to get involved,
so I convinced myself it wasn’t real.
But after, Mom had changed.
She Is Distracted
Even more distant than usual.
She mutters. Throws her hands
into the air. Talks to the sky.
Sometimes she shouts obscenities,
mostly directed toward Dad. Like now.
From the kitchen: No! You fucking
son-of-a-whore. How could you
do this to me? It’s probably useless,
but I so want to help her, hurry
to try. I find her, hair messed up
and red-rimmed eyes. “What happened?
What did he do?” Will it ever end?
She shrugs. Nothing. I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean for you to hear
anything. We had a fight is all.
“A fight about me.” They always fight
about me, but Mom says this
time it was about Shelby and
a new SMA treatment she saw.
Your dad doesn’t think it would
be worth a try. But I do. That’s not
it. But she isn’t going to tell me
what it really is. She did, however,
give me the opportunity to get
something off my chest. “Mom, you
probably don’t want to hear this,
but I agree with Dad. I think you
should let the disease run its course.
Shelby deserves a dignified death.
More treatment won’t stop her from
dying. But it will take away her dignity.
I don’t want to watch that, and neither does
Dad. And I don’t think you should, either.”
There. Feelings shared. God, does it
piss her off. I can’t believe you said
that! Where did you get such ideas?
The Answer Is So Obvious
It sinks its fangs immediately.
Is that how you feel about Alex,
should he develop AIDS? That
he deserves a dignified death?
I tell her that’s exactly how
I feel. Once there is no choice,
I pray his death is dignified.
“I hope I’ll be there to help him
through it, but that will probably
be many years from now.” She
gives me a strange look. Kind of
like, really? “I know the odds
of us staying together that long
aren’t good. I mean, we’re both
young and stupid.” It’s enough
to saw through the tension.
We are both sort of half smiling
when Dad barrels through the door,
carrying—groceries? When was
the last time he went shopping?
Not only that, but it is late afternoon
and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been
drinking. It’s like whatever broke
Mom down tried to fix Dad up.
Success in That Endeavor
Is highly unlikely. Dad’s eyes scroll
back and forth between Mom and me.
Questioning. His mouth opens. Closes.
Mom says, We’re talking about death.
His face creases, so she adds, Dignified
death, actually. For people we love.
I . . . , he tries, uh . . . oh. He starts
unpacking the grocery bags. I got steaks.
Thought we could barbecue. He turns
back to me. I bought an extra one, in case
you wanted to invite Alex to join us. What
the hell? I’m sorry we fought yesterday.
Wait just one damn minute. Was that
an apology? Not to mention acceptance
of Alex and me? “Alex and I will still both be gay.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. That’s what
I hear. Guess I’ll have to get over
it. You’re still my son, Shane. I love you.
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Yeah, that’s it. Has to be. Alternately,
what does this stranger want from me?
Must find out. “Actions speak louder
than words, Dad. But steak is a good start.”
He actually smiles at me. Creeping
me out. And rib-eye, too. Thought
your mom was looking a little anemic.
Where did he find a sense of humor?
I don’t even know how to feel
right now, because I’m pretty sure
everything will be back to “usual”
without warning. Maybe someone
prescribed him new meds? I think
about not inviting Alex. But I’m
dying to see him, and to make him
feel something like normal while
in the company of my family. Surreal.
When was the last time I felt that way?
I am not far toward my room when I hear
Dad say, You didn’t tell him, did you?
Shelby
I Hear
Nobody thinks so. But I do.
Sometimes people whisper.
Sometimes they yell.
Sometimes they say mean things.
I see
more than the TV. It’s my friend.
I don’t have any others, like the kids
on Barney do. Why are people afraid
of me? I don’t want to hurt them.
I taste
only the sweet air, whooshed
through tubes to help me breathe.
If I’m lucky a bit of flavor comes
with the wind or skin or clothes
I smell.
I wish my mouth would let
me tell Mama I love her.
Let me tell Daddy I miss him.
Let me tell Shane how good
I feel
when I see him happy with Alex.
I like when I swim because when
I float, I am free. I like when I sleep
because I dance when
I dream.
Harley
Dancing
That’s where Dad and Cassie
are going later. Which means
Chad and I will be home alone.
And I’ve got a plan. Formulated
from watching many episodes of
Jersey Shore, The Bachelor and
Desperate Housewives. Mom
would throw a regular fit if she
knew those shows have become
my sources of inspiration. It’s
called the direct approach. So not
me. But what do I have to lose?
Meanwhile, I’m going school
shopping. With Cassie. I think
Mom was a little hurt that I didn’t
want to go with her—the low
fashion queen. I love her. But style
is not her thing. Cassie knows
the kind of look I’m after, and
she knows where to find crazy
cool clothes that aren’t too pricey.
I squish into a pair of stretchy
jeans. Tight, with back-pocket
detailing that draws attention
to my size-five butt. Size five!
It was worth walking every mile.
Next I try on a really short skirt.
Hmm. “Cassie,” I call to the far
side of the dressing room door.
“I need your opinion on something.”
Mom would freak immediately,
but Cassie takes the time to really
check it out. Turn around. She kind
of whistles. It looks great, but
you definitely better not bend over
in it. At least, not without panties.
Cassie Rocks
She’s funny. Pretty. Smart,
at least
about some things. And she always
makes time for me. Acts like she cares
about me. She even talked Dad into
contributing to this shopping excursion.
One thing Mom gripes about is how he has
never paid child support. She has a pretty
good job, but back-to-school always pinches.
This year, at least, he’s kicking in a little.
Stepping up to the plate, or at least as far
as the backstop, all because of Cassie.
All stocked up on jeans, skirts and blouses,
we look for shoes. It’s my lucky day.
Payless is having a two-for-one sale.
Which means I get four pairs—two athletic,
two heels. And once those are paid for,
Cassie says, What about that hair?
Want to do something bold? My treat.
We Are Cruising the Mall
Discussing bolder hair and sipping
iced coffees (despite the caffeine,
which will stunt my growth, according
to my mom). We duck into Sephora,
check out the testers. There’s one flowery
one I really love—rose, violet and a hint
of vanilla. Pricey stuff, so for now,
the lingering reminder will have to do.
You have a birthday coming up soon, right?
“Three weeks,” I agree, and I love
that she remembers, not to mention
the fact that I now have hope of smelling
this way when I start school. As we
leave the store, Cassie tenses suddenly.
Shit. Shit. Shit. She half pushes me out
the door, steers me into a sharp right turn,
picks up her pace till I practically have
to run to keep up, shopping bags swinging.
Quick veer down a perpendicular
aisle, then she allows herself to
glance over her shoulder. Apparently
whatever she saw to get her all worked
up isn’t there anymore, because she slows
and I can finally breathe. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing. But she keeps walking
purposefully toward the exit. I mean,
not nothing, exactly. I just need to get
out of here right now, okay? It takes
until we’re in the car, out of the parking
lot and around the block twice, I’m
guessing so she knows “not nothing”
isn’t following us, until she thinks
about explaining. Even then, I can see