Identical

  And that’s our destination.

  Mick drives like a maniac,

  which would be all right except

  I really, really want to get high,

  and smoking dope and speeding

  don’t exactly go hand in hand.

  I could be bitchy, and it may come

  to that. But I’ll try sweet talk first.

  “If you slow down a little, I’ll roll

  a nice big joint. And after we smoke

  it, just maybe I’ll mess around

  with your nice big joint too.”

  Okay, so it isn’t eloquent,

  but it works.

  He Slows

  To right around the speed

  limit as I fumble under

  the seat, searching for his stash.

  This slow enough for you?

  Damn, I feel like an old woman.

  “Ha. Sound like one too.”

  Finally, pay dirt. I reach into

  the baggie, extract a big bud.

  Hurry up with that, would ya?

  Hey, I saw you on TV tonight.

  I keep crumbling dope.

  “Really? You watch the news?”

  No frigging way.

  He snorts a half laugh.

  Nah. I was channel surfing.

  Ah, but of course.

  “So how’d I look? Like

  a movie star or what?”

  He reaches for my left boob.

  More like a rock star, baby.

  God, he’s a player. A lousy

  player. “Give me your lighter.”

  Delectable smoke fills the cab.

  Hey, man. You never told

  me your mom was so hot.

  My body stiffens and I shove

  his hand away. “Shut the fuck

  up.” I take a giant hit of pot.

  Jeez. Pushed the wrong button,

  huh? Sorry. But she is.

  “Mom is not hot! She’s fucking

  frigid!” Why is this bugging

  me so effing much?

  Okay, okay. Really sorry.

  Now give me the damn doob.

  Needless to Say

  I don’t feel much like messing

  around with Mick’s “nice big joint,”

  not even after killing off the nice

  big joint wrapped in a rolling paper.

  Maybe after a beer or ten.

  And hey, lucky me, looks

  like the beer’s flowing up

  here on Figueroa Mountain.

  Twenty or so vehicles are parked

  helter-skelter, like misaligned

  zipper teeth. Some I recognize.

  Some I’ve never seen before.

  It’s an older crowd. Several

  people graduated with Mick,

  and a few last year. Not too

  many my age. Fine by me.

  I see enough of those people

  every day at school. Who wants

  to socialize with them? What

  I want is to leave them in my dust.

  Suddenly a familiar whine

  threatens my jocular mood.

  Hey, Mick! I hoped you’d be here,

  even if you had to bring her along.

  You guessed it. My delightful

  friend, Madison. She rubs up

  against Mick like a hungry cat.

  Is she trying to piss me off?

  And here I just got unpissed.

  Two choices. Jump into the ring.

  Or turn away, move on to

  that really cute guy over there.

  I turn to assess Mick’s reaction

  to the fur-free feline at his arm.

  He looks vaguely intrigued,

  and totally unconcerned about me.

  So fine. No use getting into

  a scratchfest. I wander over

  to the keg, top off a twenty-ounce

  cup, and go say hi to Prince Charming.

  Turns Out

  He’s not particularly charming,

  but at the moment, charm is not

  a prerequisite. I’m not looking

  for a life partner, just a good time.

  “What’s up?”

  His eyes, the color of creamed coffee,

  hold mild interest. Not much. You

  a friend of Mick’s? He tips his head

  in the direction of said Mick.

  “Not really.”

  Hmm. Got the idea you were.

  Didn’t you come together? He smiles

  at the loaded question. I mean,

  didn’t you arrive together?

  “Doesn’t make us friends.

  But yeah, we did actually.”

  My turn to smile. “And we’ve

  come together a few times too.”

  He looks me up and down like

  he’s shopping. I see. Any plans

  to come together tonight?

  “Nope.” I part my lips bravely.

  “Not with him, anyway.”

  He nods his head, stands.

  How’s that beer? Need a refill?

  I shrug. “Sure. Don’t suppose

  you happen to have anything

  stronger on you, though?”

  It’s a distinct possibility. Let’s

  get those refills and take a walk.

  It’s stupid even to consider taking

  a walk with this guy. Like I care.

  I glance toward Mick, who is now

  in the truck with Madison, filling

  the cab with smoke. I’m so taking

  a walk. With a complete stranger.

  We Wander into the Woods

  Sit on a big stump, slurping foamy beer.

  He’s cute, really cute. So what if he’s not

  much for words? He reaches into his jeans

  pocket, digging for treasure. Maybe I’ll dig

  in there later myself. Meanwhile, I’ll content

  myself with the giant fatty he lights. The pot

  is the same as (or very similar to) Mick’s.

  “So…” I cough out a big hit. “You and Mick

  share a connection, huh?”

  Something like that. He laughs. Let’s

  just say we move in mutual circles.

  He draws in a long, deep lungful.

  I move a little closer, like I can’t quite

  reach the joint. “Since we’re sharing

  a hooter, can we, like, share names?”

  The name’s Ty. I know who you are.

  I saw you on television tonight.

  If he says my mom is hot, I’ll kill him.

  “Jeez, man. Did everybody just happen

  to watch the fucking news tonight?”

  What? Did I say something wrong?

  Now he scoots closer. Looks into my

  eyes. Should I apologize?

  The Guy Knows How

  To apologize, for sure. He reaches

  across the short distance between us,

  pulls me right into him, kisses me

  with unexpected hunger. In the

  time

  it takes me to react to that, decide

  whether or not to invite more,

  he already has my top button

  unbuttoned. His hands want

  to go

  under the fabric, insist on it,

  in fact. I should say no. Need

  to say no. “W-wait,” I try,

  but no little bit of me wants

  to stop

  and Ty intuits all of that. He

  doesn’t stop, and I don’t try

  to make him. And it isn’t long

  before

  I throw every ounce of caution

  to the nonexistent wind. With only

  a fleeting thought of Mick,

  I give

  in to this insane desire to know

  this not-quite-stranger in the most

  intimate way. And so, I sacrifice

  my inne
r child, give

  myself away.

  Kaeleigh

  My Inner Child

  Is sobbing, crying for her mother

  to please, please come home, stay.

  But she is already leaving, well before

  dawn, as if to spend any more

  time

  here might chip her thin veneer.

  Her footsteps fall subtly in the hallway,

  trailed by Daddy’s heavy tread

  and garbled entreaty not

  to go.

  The front door shuts emphatically.

  I tense, count his paces. Twenty to his

  own bed, twelve to mine. One, two.

  Three, four. Wordlessly, I beg him not

  to stop.

  Five, six. Seven, eight. Please,

  go back to bed. Nine, ten. Eleven,

  twelve. Pause. The knob turns. Quick,

  before

  he can open my door, I scrunch my

  eyes, will my breathing to slow.

  He steps inside, creeps to my bed.

  I give

  a silent prayer that he’ll believe

  I’m asleep, take pity, leave me

  to my feigned dreams, all

  the while preparing to give

  myself away.

  Daddy Strokes My Cheek

  His touch is soft as a dandelion,

  ready to release its spores.

  I feel his eyes trace my silhouette,

  steel myself against what will

  come next. But the quilt doesn’t move.

  His lips brush my forehead.

  You’re so much like her, he whispers.

  Why can’t I just take it all back?

  He crumbles on the carpet beside

  my bed. In the growing light,

  I slit open my eyes, watch his face

  fall into his hands. Tears stream

  through the cracks between

  his fingers. Why can’t I take it back?

  Will you ever be able to forgive me?

  Nobody answers. Not her. Not me.

  Before long, Daddy’s breathing

  evens, and when he starts to snore

  I slide out from under the blankets,

  into chill, Turkey-tainted air; tiptoe

  past his sleeping form. Away.

  Not a Creature Is Stirring

  In the house or out, as I slide open the door,

  step out into the crisp Saturday morning,

  biting back sudden teeth chatter.

  The entire neighborhood seems asleep,

  not a single early-morning mower in sight.

  But smoke trails zigzagging from chimneys

  belie the idea that I’m completely alone.

  Someone’s awake, despite the fact that the sun

  has barely risen. I’ll be early to work.

  Usually I ride my bike the mile or so to

  the Lutheran home. Today I think I’ll walk,

  inhaling the clean of barely dawn.

  Showered, made-up, and blow-dried,

  my body is almost as scrubbed as

  the daybreak. So why do I feel dirty?

  The Old Folks’ Home

  Has a new arrival, one who has

  thrown the place into an uproar.

  Seems William O’Connell

  is something of a ladies’ man.

  He’s tall, or once was, having

  lost a few inches to stoop.

  And, despite his years, he’s

  really quite handsome,

  in an aged, Irish way.

  Come over here, m’darlin’,

  he invites, to no one woman

  in particular. I’m thinking

  you’re in need of a bit of male

  companionship. His offer is met

  with a chorus of giggles.

  Ah yes, it’s a breakfast

  to go down in the history

  of the Lutheran home, one

  to be retold in whispered tales,

  passed around by these good

  (if lonely) ladies. Only Greta

  seems unimpressed.

  Who does the man believe

  he is? Sean Connery? Now

  there’s an Irishman worthy

  of consideration, she jokes.

  Unlike some of the home’s guests,

  William is completely ambulatory.

  In fact, he gets around so well,

  I have to wonder why he’s here,

  flitting from woman to woman

  like a horny hummingbird.

  I watch, amused, until it’s time

  to clear the dishes. And that’s

  when he finally catches sight of me.

  Ah, such a sweet young rose.

  Who might I be addressing,

  my lovely little flower?

  For no discernible reason,

  my arms sprout goose bumps

  and my forehead leaks sweat.

  I start to say “Kaeleigh,” but my

  mouth clamps tight around my answer,

  squeezes shut around my name.

  Memory Strikes Suddenly

  Chokes me. Strangles me.

  It was dark in my room.

  Very dark.

  Someone had closed the curtain.

  I was small. Maybe nine.

  Mommy wasn’t home.

  But Daddy was.

  He lurched through my door.

  That scared me. But why?

  He’d never hurt me before.

  Only touched me lovingly.

  Like any Daddy.

  So why did I tremble?

  Why did I catch my breath,

  hold it, as if

  I might never breathe again?

  Why did my heart feel

  like a race-car engine?

  Daddy must have heard it.

  Don’t be afraid, little flower.

  It’s only me.

  And almost instantly, Daddy

  made everything seem just fine.

  Even when it wasn’t.

  I Didn’t Panic Then

  But here in the dining room,

  terror inflates inside me

  like a flame in a breeze.

  Especially when William

  echoes, Won’t you tell me

  your name, little flower?

  Blood rushes from my face

  to who-knows-where, and I feel

  weightless, helpless, a cloud

  in a cold, trembling sky.

  Just as I think I’ll turn and run,

  or worse, keel completely over,

  dearest Greta takes hold of me,

  props me up with the force of her.

  Kaeleigh seems to have taken

  ill, William. You and she can

  chat later. She guides me away.

  Will you come to my room for a while?

  It’s a question, not a directive,

  and for that I am grateful.

  Unlike Everyone Else

  In my life, Greta knows when

  to stay silent. She sits me down

  in a chair by the window,

  settles into a rocker, opposite me.

  Then all she does is rock.

  I stare out over the fog-shrouded

  valley. The gray gulps me into

  it, infiltrates my brain. Sad.

  Will I ever find a way beyond

  this sad? Tears puddle my eyes.

  I let them fall, like how they

  feel, then come to my senses.

  “S-sorry,” I sniffle, not sure

  why, except it’s lame to cry,

  like it’s ever done any good.

  Sorry? What for? Greta asks. You’ve

  got some powerful demons, girl,

  but I’ve got a few of my own.

  Already told you I’m a good listener.

  Talk to me when you’re ready.

  I Want to Talk

  But I’m not really sure

  what I can ta
lk about. Daddy?

  Not ever. Mom? Definitely not now.

  The campaign is much too close to call.

  Raeanne? How I miss her, miss how

  close we once were? Miss

  the sisters we used to

  be, before…

  Nope. Can’t crack open

  that particular history book.

  Other family members, inexplicably

  unable or unwilling to be a part of my

  life? Ian? Uh-huh. OMG! Greta is

  undeniably right. Some very

  intense demons have so

  got hold of me.

  I Go Over to Her

  Wrap my arms around her

  neck. “Thank you. But I’m

  okay.” Of course she knows

  it’s a lie.

  Greta, who patiently

  waits for my confession,

  can see demons hip-hopping

  in my eyes.

  She deserves a better answer.

  “Maybe someday we can

  trade stories, okay? But

  I’m on foot today.

  Better go.”

  Be safe, is her reply, and again

  I realize I only feel secure here.

  Passing William in the hall,

  I give his shoulder an easy

  poke.

  “Name’s Kaeleigh. Gotta go.

  Be good.” He offers the usual

  Always, then turns his attention

  to a couple of older ladies. Better

  them

  than me, and their giggles

  mean they agree. I step

  out

  the door, into lengthening

  afternoon, carry my demons