Identical

  It’s Bone-Chilling Here

  In this memory. Nothing

  can thaw me. Not quilt. Not

  whiskey. Not even opiate.

  I’m frozen solidly in place,

  just like I was that night,

  the first time Daddy came.

  A night Kaeleigh can’t (or

  won’t) remember. But I do.

  It was a year or so after

  the accident. Kaeleigh

  and I were nine, give

  or take. Mom had gone

  in for another round of

  surgery. She was already

  lost to us. Lost. Long gone.

  I could barely remember

  how her kisses felt. They

  rode away on the bumper

  of that fucking semi. How

  we hungered for them!

  Daddy smelled of Wild

  Turkey. Each night, we knew,

  he drank more and more.

  That night, he had drunk

  just enough. Kaeleigh, girl.

  His voice was a soft hiss.

  Are you awake? Talk to me.

  Daddy ish-is sh-so lonely.

  I’d never heard him sound

  like that. Like a stranger.

  A drunk, slurring stranger.

  Where was my daddy?

  Kaeleigh, all sweetness,

  wanted to comfort Daddy,

  who drew her onto his lap.

  Stroked her hair. Kissed

  her gently on the forehead.

  Cheeks. Eyes. Finally, on

  her lips, but not nasty

  or mean or with tongue

  or anything but misplaced

  love. Love meant for Mom.

  He just held her, kissed

  her. Breathed Wild Turkey

  all over her until they both

  fell asleep, woven together.

  Woven

  Knitted together,

  threaded by pain-

  sharpened needles.

  That one innocent

  joining was only

  the beginning, but

  neither realized it

  that night. And all

  I could do was linger

  in a dark corner,

  sharp jabs of envy

  tearing my eyes.

  The Innocence

  With which Kaeleigh

  accepted that gesture

  was to be corrupted,

  but not immediately.

  Maybe this is the place

  she settles into, when

  forced to escape the

  reality of what came

  later, what continues

  still. See, she doesn’t

  really remember the

  details. It’s a defense

  mechanism, a gift

  from nature around

  post-traumatic stress.

  Remembering the ins

  and outs, so to speak,

  is left up to me. I am

  almost always there,

  or at least close by,

  though I have never

  interfered. Oh, I did

  try to tell Mom once, but she closed up like an

  oyster around that pearl of truth. I guess I could

  have offered descriptions of Daddy’s “privates”

  (his word), the way he wears his scars. But hey,

  if she didn’t care, why the hell should I? Instead,

  I stood by and watched father love turn to U S T.

  What Came Later

  Belies the purity of that first night.

  Time crept by in slow motion,

  and I felt a million miles away.

  I watched

  the two of them dozing, father

  and mother/daughter, until

  weariness weighted my eyes.

  I slipped

  into the river of their breathing,

  floated in the current of Daddy’s

  all-encompassing need.

  I fell

  asleep, thinking about Daddy

  kissing Kaeleigh, craving his kiss,

  understanding its significance.

  We unraveled

  that night, and I don’t think

  things can ever be put right

  again. Sad, that lives can be

  shattered,

  into so many pieces that they

  can never be put back together,

  by the relentless force of love.

  Irreparable.

  Kaeleigh

  Can’t Believe

  I got the lead in Grease, the winter musical.

  I’m a pretty good actress, but my

  dance is rusty and my singing, well…

  I watched

  as Ms. Cavendish posted the cast

  list. Everyone gathered around

  the bulletin board, exhaling loudly.

  I slipped

  in between Ian and Shelby to get

  a better look. Sorry you didn’t make

  it, poked Shelby. Stupid me,

  I fell

  for it, until she and Ian cracked up.

  “You may be sorry I did make it.”

  I broke into an off-key rendition of “Fame.”

  We unraveled

  into a giant fit of laughter. People

  stared, including Madison, who got

  a big part too. The look she gave me

  shattered

  any idea that this play might be fun

  after all. The slim chance rehearsals

  might go smoothly shredded.

  Irreparable.

  Drama Is Last Block

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today, however, being Friday,

  last block is PE. I wish I would’ve opted for modern dance.

  Instead I’m dressed out for volleyball. And lucky me, my

  dear friend Madison is across the net, getting ready to serve.

  Even better, I’m in front, where I can’t miss the vile promise

  in her eyes: I’m gonna ram this ball right down your throat.

  Fortunately, her anger sends the ball clear out of bounds. We

  rotate, and it’s my turn to serve. Madison moves left one slot.

  I swear, even from here, I can see the steam rising off her.

  Whoo-ee, is she hot! I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does.

  I serve into the net. Side-out! yells Madison, and my teammates

  groan. “Sorry,” I try. “It slipped.” Okay, lame excuse.

  Here comes the ball again. Long volley. On the far side

  of the net, Serena sets up. Madison spikes. Damn! The sucker

  slams right into my chest, bounces undeniably out of bounds.

  Madison smiles. Too bad you don’t have much padding there.

  Everyone laughs. My face flashes, hot. But for once the perfect

  retort comes to mind immediately. Love when that happens.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you’re right. I don’t have much padding,

  but at least what I’ve got is all mine, not Victoria’s.”

  Victoria? Madison stops. Thinks. Gets a “duh” look on her

  face. Shakes her head and I’ve got her. Who’s Victoria?

  “I don’t know. But she’s got a secret. And you’re wearing it.

  Oh, wait. Let me look again. Never mind. Can’t be Victoria’s

  Secret. Anything that lumpy must have come from Wal-Mart.

  Wait, wait. Not even Wal-Mart. More like Salvation Army.”

  Wha…? Hmph! You shut the fuck up, bitch! Madison storms

  off, intensely pissed. A chorus of howls follows her.

  Not Sure Why

  I felt the need to provoke her.

  She and her inner circle carry

  a lot of weight around here.

  I’m just sick of that pissy look,

  the off-the-wall snipes. I had

  nothing to do with her problems

  with Mick. What wasn’t her

/>   being a bitch was him, being

  a creep. All I am is fallout.

  The bell rings. Okay, girls! yells

  Ms. Petrie. Hit the showers!

  Showers. Oh, goody. Can’t wait.

  Yeah, I’m dripping sweat. It’s

  not what you might call fragrant.

  Not good fragrant, anyway.

  But public showering is

  my least favorite thing about

  PE, and considering I hate PE,

  that says a lot. Ugh! Stripping

  down to skin and hair, showing

  everything to everyone else.

  That includes Ms. Petrie, our

  elderly PE teacher, who seems

  more interested in our hygiene

  than in our physical fitness.

  The one job she takes seriously

  is making sure we shower.

  It’s kind of creepy, although

  I suppose some people might

  never de-sweat without a Ms. Petrie

  to check up on them. Anyway,

  today I want to make sure Madison

  is scrubbed and dressed before

  I even look at the shower. I help

  Ms. Petrie bring in the balls and nets.

  By the time I shed my shorts

  and lather up, the locker room

  is mostly empty. The final bell

  rings and I’m still under water.

  When I exit, hair dripping, out

  the double doors, I’m mortified

  to find the bus has already gone.

  I Need to Get My License

  I’ve been old enough for months.

  Problem is, you need a parent to sign

  off for you. And I do not have

  the luxury of parents who are able

  or willing to do that for me.

  Mom is always traveling. She only

  drops by long enough to pick up

  a change of clothes and maybe,

  if we’re very, very lucky, share

  a meal. She has completely

  forgotten what being a mother means.

  Kitchen duty and housework fall

  mostly on Manuela, who comes in

  three times a week to do laundry, dust

  and vacuum, cook and freeze meals.

  As for Daddy, well, he pretty much

  works from early morning until

  the sun creeps toward the western

  horizon. The closest DMV is in Lompoc,

  a half hour from here. Closed Saturdays.

  Not that Daddy is likely to let me

  have my license anyway. A car means

  escape. And I’m pretty sure he plans

  to keep me his prisoner forever.

  The More Immediate Problem

  Is I need a ride home and the parking lot

  is deserted. Everyone bails as soon as

  the last bell rings. Walking home

  isn’t impossible, but it’s five miles away.

  Who can I call? Ian, of course. But his cell

  rings four times, goes to voice mail.

  I try Shelby. Katrina. Lisa. Danette. No luck.

  Everyone’s busy, grounded, unavailable,

  or simply not picking up.

  Just as I think I’ll have to walk after all,

  a black Charger draws even, window lowering.

  Something wrong? It’s Mr. Lawler.

  “Kind of. I missed the bus. I’ve called everyone

  I know but can’t seem to find a ride home.”

  Hop in. I’ll take you. I’m going that way.

  Does he know where I live? I give the parking

  lot another scan. He smiles at my hesitation.

  What? Don’t tell me you don’t trust me?

  Not at All

  You can’t trust a man,

  any man,

  any more than you can

  put your

  faith in a rabid dog, not

  even your

  own dog, one who would

  never hurt

  you, except he’s rabid.

  Not sure why I believe that.

  But I solidly

  do. I’ve seen guys act

  like they

  are just so in love with

  their girl-

  of-the-moment, only

  to turn

  around and dump her cold.

  And as for adult men, men

  who should

  not look twice at someone

  half their

  age, well that rarely turns out

  to be their MO.

  No, their method of operation

  is to hang

  out their tongues and pant.

  To Be Fair

  I haven’t seen Mr. Lawler

  actually pant. And the only

  time I’ve seen his tongue

  is when I’ve bothered to look.

  So I say, “Of course I trust

  you. Thanks for offering.”

  And, mostly against my better

  judgment, I open the door, slip

  into the shelter of his car.

  Promise not to tell, okay?

  I could get into all kinds

  of trouble, you know.

  My turn to smile.

  “What? For rescuing

  a damsel in distress?”

  For others’ perceptions.

  But I promise to be the

  perfect gentleman.

  He turns toward town,

  drives cautiously, completely

  the perfect gentleman.

  Some Girls I Know

  Talk about Mr. Lawler like he’s

  on their “available” list or some-

  thing. He’s not married, at least

  I don’t think

  so. I guess he could be closet

  married, but why bother?

  Teachers and students?

  Absolutely taboo! If

  I could ever

  get past my private taboo,

  I’d have to call Mr. Lawler

  “cute.” But how could I

  get beyond

  the fact that he’s almost

  as old as Daddy? And yet,

  as we drive along, I find myself

  moving closer to him,

  pretending

  I can’t quite hear what he’s

  saying with his frothy, smooth

  cappuccino voice. One time

  in class a couple of weeks ago,

  he was

  lecturing about immigration.

  I was lost in reverie about the night

  before, and when Mr. Lawler called

  on me, I almost answered, “Yes,

  Daddy?”

  Raeanne

  Kind of Funny

  Watching Lawler and Kaeleigh

  pull up at the house together.

  I don’t think

  I’ve ever seen her alone

  with a grown man (well, except

  for Daddy and he doesn’t count).

  Maybe I need to miss the bus. If

  I could ever

  find a good excuse to get Lawler

  alone, he would discover a different

  Gardella girl, one who could easily

  get beyond

  not only his age, but also any

  stupid notion of impropriety.

  I would never act like Kaeleigh,

  craving his proximity, his touch, yet

  pretending

  not to notice the cut of his silk

  trousers, the way his biceps fill

  his tailored shirtsleeves. Even

  from a distance, I could tell

  he was

  interested in more than just giving

  her a ride home. She should

  consider it. After all, there happen

  to be better men out there than

  Daddy.

  Other Men, Anyway

  A whole big, giant world,
>
  full of men. Men with blue eyes.

  Brown eyes. Green eyes. And indescribable

  shades in between. Tall men. Short men. Skinny men.

  Built men. And all combinations thereof. Nice men (so I’ve

  heard, but never really seen). Mean men. Decent men, indecent.

  And who knows which is the best kind to have, to hold, to love?

  I’d say, with so many men in the world, it would pay to sample

  a few. Scratch that. More than a few. Lots and lots. And then

  a few more. And maybe, after years and years of research,

  taste testing, and trying ’em on for size, just maybe,

  you might find one worth not throwing back.

  But hey, the fun is in the fishing.

  Kaeleigh’s Not into Fishing

  Too much effort, too few rewards.

  Watching her work Daddy now,

  you’d think she reeled in the big one.

  Selective amnesia?

  Putting on a show?

  She is a good little actress.

  Daddy is already home but

  hasn’t yet waded into his bottle.

  “You’re home early today,”

  she soothes. “Special occasion?”

  He’s jonesing for a swig. Can’t.

  Your mother will be here soon.

  Press conference on the lawn.

  “Oh, right. I forgot. Do you want

  me to iron a shirt for you?”

  Daddy shakes his head.

  A jacket will do. You should

  put on something pretty, though.

  She nods and we go to change,

  knowing where his eyes are.

  No Doubt

  He’ll be watching the sway

  of Kaeleigh’s hips, craving her.

  And a drink. Not sure which one