she so bluntly requests, managing
to land a three-pointer, not that those
count in practice. “How’s that
for an apology?” I shout back.
But I’m so busy being a smart-ass
that I don’t notice Syrah right in
front of me. I crash into her at
decent speed and we both hit
the floor. Jesus freaking Buddha!
Syrah screeches, using the Spanish
Hey-suess pronunciation. That
makes everyone laugh, including
Syrah and me, despite what
I’m sure will become awesome
bruises on both our rear ends.
Monica Sprints Over
Holds out her hands,
offering to help me
up from the floor.
When they connect
with mine, the subsequent
electric arcs almost make
me pull away. Instead,
I let her tug me to my feet.
That had to hurt,
she says. You should
pay better attention.
I’ve got plans for you later.
Her words are sinking in,
seeking meaning, when
Syrah, who’s still splayed
on the court, complains,
Hey, what about me?
Sorry, I got no plans for you,
jokes Monica, letting go
of my hands so she can pull
Syrah off the hardwood, too.
Coach Booker tells us to hit
the locker room, and as I
limp from the gym, I try
not to think too much about
what Monica’s got in mind.
I Also Do My Damn Best
Not to gawk at her
in the shower, hot
water coursing through
her waist-length dark
hair and down
over her suede skin.
She wouldn’t care,
of course. But, while
most of the girls must
suspect the gravitational
pull between Monica
and me, I’d rather keep
them guessing, at least
until I’ve eliminated
all personal doubt.
The temptation to stare
has become harder and
harder, however, and now
she turns to face me,
a soft soap lather barely
disguising the sinews
of her breasts and
black curls beneath
her belly button, and
I have to close my eyes,
pretending shampoo
is what I’m worried about
getting inside them.
Something Shifts
Inside me,
something elemental,
as if
the earth
has tilted,
barely perceptibly,
on its axis,
bringing it right again.
Don’t know what this
means, but the motion
tips me
slightly
off-kilter.
I inhale boldly,
exhale slowly, then,
just as I regain balance
she brushes by and
the cartwheeling inside
is like
dropping
from a high dive.
Thrilling. Electrifying.
Borderline terrifying.
Not sure
I’ll ever be
vertical again.
The Whole Time
We get dressed, I keep my eyes
turned away from her. I don’t want
to tumble off that cliff again, despite
enjoying the strange, precipitous fall.
Clean panties and bra on, I take
a few seconds to brush through
my tangled hair before buttoning
into an oversize plaid flannel shirt.
I manage to catch a glimpse of Syrah,
sliding into her jeans. “Whoa. Tell me
my butt doesn’t look like that! Yours
looks like grape jelly. The color, that is.”
She snorts. Thanks for clarifying.
Anyway, whose fault is that? She shuts
her locker. I’ll meet you guys outside.
Most of the other girls have gone,
and the couple remaining are not close
by, something Monica notes before coming
over. Turn around. Let me see. When I do,
her hand slithers down my thigh. Feo.
“Hey. Who’re you calling ugly?” I force
my voice light, hoping she doesn’t notice
the way I’m trembling at her touch.
But when I turn to face her, her smile
tells me she’s seen it. Now I’m staring
at her lips, and it’s all I can do not
to kiss them. No. Not here. This is
not the time. This is not the place.
I clear my throat. “Syrah’s waiting.
We’d better go or we’ll lose our ride.”
She nods, but is reluctant to move,
and I dare to whisper, “Later.”
Her eyes widen, and her smile
deepens. Sí, novia. Más tarde.
At the far end of the row, Darla
slams her locker door shut,
a reminder that we’ve almost
completely blown our cover.
Monica goes to put on her shoes
and I finish dressing, too.
I believe I just gave her a promise,
wrapped in a single five-letter
word. I hope it’s not more
than I’m truly willing to deliver.
On Our Way
To the parking lot, we walk
so close to each other
her jeans whisper
against mine, promising
much more to come
más tarde.
The obvious energy
exchange makes me dizzy
with anticipation.
I’m so focused
on imagining what that
might mean I barely notice
the knot of people
standing on the sidewalk.
As we start past them
Garrett steps in front
of us, blocking our path.
Why don’t you girls
give us a little show?
I’ve always wanted
to watch lezzie action
up close and personal.
Cállate, idiota, responds
Monica. Shut up, idiot.
And move the hell out
of our way.
Or what, bitch? He draws
himself tall and wide
and puffs out his chest.
Most of the group shrinks
back against the wall,
but Keith moves into place
at Garrett’s right elbow.
“What’s the problem, Garrett?
We weren’t bothering you.”
I pretend courage
I’m really not feeling.
The problem is I don’t like
gays. It ain’t natural.
Besides . . . He dares to run
his hand down over my left
breast. It’s a waste of pussy.
Monica steps in between
Garrett and me. Don’t you
touch her. And what would
you know about pussy?
I’ve never seen you with
a girl. Only with your friend
there. She points to Keith.
The Other Kids Laugh
At the implication.
Keith hurls an expletive.
Garrett’s face ignites
and he starts to lift
his right hand, but
thinks better of striking
a girl—lesbian or not—
in front of so many people.
Monica stays in place,
as if willing to jump
one-on-one with this
arrogant prick, but
I won’t let it go that far.
“Come on. Syrah’s waiting.
Sorry, Garrett, no show
for you. You’ll have to do
what you always do and
find it on pay-per-view.”
I steer Monica around
Garrett and Keith, off
the sidewalk, and into
the parking lot. “What
were you thinking?
He could have hurt you.”
No estaba pensando.
I wasn’t thinking. I just
wanted to protect you.
I Don’t Care Who’s Looking
I reach for her hand, weave
my fingers into hers as we head
toward Syrah’s car. “That was
dumb. But thank you.”
What’s his problem, anyway?
I shrug. “Maybe you got it
right. They say the biggest
homophobes are often
closet queers.”
Who says that?
“I don’t know. I just read it
somewhere. You take shotgun.”
I let go of her hand, slide into
the backseat where I can think.
While Monica explains to Syrah
what happened with Garrett,
I consider the homophobe theory,
which can’t apply to all of them,
or my dad would be totally gay.
Pretty sure he’s not, but wouldn’t
that be crazy? What if my queer
gene came from his side of the family?
When We Get to My House
There’s a strange car in the driveway.
What’s even weirder, Dad isn’t home,
and I don’t see anyone around. “Do
you guys think there’s someone inside?”
I don’t know, says Monica. You and
your dad lock your doors, don’t you?
“Yeah. Dad’s all paranoid about it,
in fact. Kind of obsessive compulsive.”
Syrah jumps out. One way to know.
Come on. There’s safety in numbers.
We circle the house, looking for any
sign of a break-in, but the windows
are intact, both doors still locked, and
we find no hint of possible covert entry,
so I use my key and one by one, we cross
the threshold to take a look inside. The house
is empty. Let’s check out the car, Monica
suggests. Hope there’s no dead bodies inside.
That’s dumb, says Syrah. Who leaves
corpses in some stranger’s driveway?
We Don’t Find Corpses
But on the front seat
of the candy-red Ford
Focus is an envelope,
and it’s addressed to me.
Inside is a thank-you
card, and a note which
reads:
DEAR ARIEL,
I REALLY CAN’T THANK YOU
ENOUGH FOR WHAT YOU DID
FOR HILLARY. PLEASE ACCEPT
THIS GENTLY USED TOKEN
OF MY THANKS. I’VE TAKEN
THE LIBERTY OF REGISTERING
THE CAR IN YOUR NAME AND
PAID UP THE INSURANCE FOR
SIX MONTHS. ENJOY!
CHARLES GRANTHAM
P.S. I TOLD THEM YOU WERE
MY NIECE, SO PLEASE LET’S KEEP
THAT OUR SECRET. ALSO, TO BE
HONEST, THIS WAS HILLARY’S
CAR. SHE’S GETTING A NEW ONE.
IT WAS HER IDEA TO GIVE THIS
TO YOU.
No Freaking Way!
Hillary Grantham’s given me
her car? This has got to be
some kind of joke. The girls
and I exchange incredulous
looks. “This can’t be real, can it?”
Sure looks real to me,
comments Syrah. And
“gently used” is right.
The odometer only has
38,000 miles. She opens
the glove box and pulls
out the owner’s manual.
It’s a 2012. Hillary must’ve
only driven it to school.
“I don’t think I can keep
it. It’s way too extravagant.
Besides, I didn’t do anything
to earn it. Not really.” Even
if I did, what’ll Dad say?
What? You saved Hillary’s
life. Do you want to hurt
her feelings? Anyway, you
gotta keep it. He put it in
your name and everything,
so it’s already yours.
Every Argument
I can think of gets shot down:
“I still don’t have my license.”
So get one. All you have
to do is pass the driving
test. You know how.
“Dad’ll have to sign for it.
(Which means he’ll have to
approve this whole thing.)”
Talk him into it. How can
he say no? He won’t have
to take you places.
“Even with the insurance
paid, I’ll have to come up
with money for gas.”
Do what everyone does.
Go out and find a job.
“Dad doesn’t want me
to work. He insists he’s
responsible for my needs.”
Point out if you’re earning
your spending cash, he’ll
have more of his own money
to spend on booze. Or maybe
say Zelda instead. No need
to underline the obvious.
Excellent Point
Not that I’m sure it—any of it—
will work. But, hey, what have
I got to lose, and I already know
where I can apply for a job I’d like.
Syrah hatches a more imminent
plan. Let’s take her for a spin.
The keys are in the ignition.
You might as well get used to her.
“You think we should? What if
we get caught?” We most definitely
shouldn’t, of course. But I really,
really want to. I still can’t believe it.
No cops out here, insists Monica.
Anyway, don’t drive like an ass.
They can’t tell if you got a license
just by looking at you, can they?
Another excellent point.
“Okay. Let’s go.” The girls argue
over shotgun, and eventually
reach a compromise. Syrah
will claim it first, then switch,
with Monica on the inbound.
It takes a few minutes to orient
to the strange vehicle, figure out
important stuff like how to turn
on the heater, not to mention
the radio. I let Syrah take charge
of choosing the station. It’s late
afternoon, and the November
light has faded into an auburn
sky, so we’ll be doing this with
headlights on. Luckily, they work
fine. In fact, everything seems
to be working fine. The engine
turns over easily, hums like
a beehive, and while the Focus
isn’t exactly a performance car,
it’s got plenty of pep when I hit
the gas pedal. Speaking of gas,
“Check it out. The tank is full.”
Which leads to bickering. Syrah take
s
the lead. We could go all the way to Sac.
Don’t be stupid. Two hours each way?
That’s too far. Her dad will be home.
He never gets home before midnight
on Friday. In fact, that’s early for him.
How do you know? You’re not there every
Friday. Him and Zelda could get in a fight.
The Suggestion
Makes me pull over onto
the shoulder. “Okay. Change
seats. Let’s go back. I feel like
a criminal. Besides, I’m getting
hungry, aren’t you?”
You crack me up, says Syrah,
exiting the front. You underage
drink, you smoke weed and inhale,
but driving without a license
makes you a criminal? Whatever.
Monica settles in and as we
turn toward home, she says,
Hey. How come you got the car?
What about your boyfriend?
Did he get one, too?
“Will you please stop
calling Gabe my boyfriend?
I have no idea why I got the car,
or if he got one, too. Are you
in a different time zone?
We found out about this
together, remember?”
Her fingers tiptoe across the seat,
to my knee and up my leg, then
come to rest on the inner thigh
curve. I’m glad he’s not your
boyfriend. He’s so not your type.
I Won’t Argue That
Not with our current connection.
I don’t want to quarrel, don’t want
to feel confused, and at this moment
I’m totally sure that Monica is my type,
so I’m relieved to see the only vehicle
parked in our driveway belongs to Syrah.
Monica was right. When Dad and Zelda
do fight, his early return can upset
our plans. I’m glad tonight doesn’t
seem to be one of those times. Of course,
it’s early. “You coming in, Syrah? Afraid
we’re stuck with frozen pizza rolls.”
Yech. No thanks. Anyway, I promised
Dad I’d babysit the twins so he and
Marla can go out for their anniversary.
That both relieves me and makes
me a little queasy with anticipation
about alone time with Monica.
We grab our stuff out of Syrah’s car,
start toward the house. Did you bring
your keys? asks Monica. It would suck
if your car got stolen the first day.
True, and to be safe, I lock the doors
of my 2012 candy-red Ford Focus.