in mind, at least not in

  my mind. It’s Monica’s

  birthday. I was just thinking

  cake, ice cream, and a drink

  or two. Big game tomorrow.”

  He smiles. I know. I’ll be

  there, at least if you want

  me to be. And I’ll help

  clear the place out.

  It’s a Grudging Exodus

  But most everyone leaves

  peacefully. Monica and Syrah

  disappear into the kitchen

  and now Gabe comes over.

  He kisses me, but not on the lips.

  Instead, the warmth of his mouth

  caresses my forehead. I’ve got

  something to tell you, but not here.

  Not tonight. Not at your friend’s

  birthday party. Can we talk after

  your game tomorrow? Even in

  the low light, an air of sadness

  is evident in his beautiful eyes.

  “Sure. But is everything okay?”

  His nod is not at all convincing.

  Nothing to worry about.

  In fact, I hope you’ll be happy

  for me, but that’s all I’m saying

  now. He steps back. Better go.

  Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be cheering

  for you. He turns and walks out the door.

  That Sounded Vaguely Ominous

  What can he possibly want

  to tell me that he thinks

  it needs to wait for a more

  private moment? Concern

  manifests itself in a sudden

  need to pee. I wander down

  the hall to the bathroom,

  relieve my body, if not my mind,

  and when I exit, find myself

  face to face with Garrett.

  Feeling better? His grin

  is an actual leer, and he

  bumps into me. Hard.

  “What are you doing here?

  Didn’t you hear the cops

  are on their way?”

  I try to step around him.

  He pushes me backward

  against the wall, pins me

  with his substantial bulk.

  Ain’t no cops gonna bother us

  now everyone else is gone.

  How ’bout we have a little fun?

  The alcohol on his breath

  almost buckles my knees.

  I look him straight in the eye.

  “The last thing I want is

  a little fun with you, Garrett.

  Now please get out of my way.”

  His eyes flash a strange

  combination of anger and

  amusement. Aw, come on.

  You been flirting something

  awful. You a cock tease?

  “Flirting? With you?”

  My brain scrambles to think

  what I might’ve done to give

  him that impression. “Garrett,

  you know that’s not true.

  I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  Maybe, but I saw you with

  that dude, too. And I watch

  the way you check out guys

  at school. You a switch-hitter?

  He actually licks his lips.

  “What I am or am not

  is none of your business.

  Now leave me the hell alone.”

  I hold my ground, fight hard

  not to look scared, but the way

  I’m trembling is obvious.

  Ooh. Tough girl, huh? Tough

  goddamn dyke. Let’s see

  if you’re into guys or girls.

  Bet I could eat you better.

  He pushes me sideways

  and back, into a nearby

  bedroom, and is on me

  so suddenly I can’t react.

  Next thing I know, I’m on

  the bed beneath him, held

  fast by the weight of his body.

  “No, Garrett, no! Stop!”

  But the words are trapped

  by the booze-flavored drool

  inside his mouth. His teeth

  rake my lips and one hand

  snares my hair, snaps my head

  against the mattress.

  Don’t fight, baby. I’ll make

  you feel so good you’ll never

  want a girl again. Here,

  check this thing out.

  His free hand unzips

  his jeans, and just as I start

  to panic, a familiar voice

  interrupts the scene.

  I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  Suddenly, Forcefully

  Garrett is lifted into the air,

  freeing me. I jump up and

  away from the bed. “Gabe!”

  He ignores me completely,

  too busy with Garrett. What

  the hell do you think you’re doing?

  Garrett doesn’t back down.

  What the fuck’s it to you?

  I’m just breaking her in a little.

  And, hey, if you want, you can

  take a turn, too. A good screw

  or two might flip her totally.

  Gabe assesses the front

  of Garrett’s pants. Breaking

  her in? With what you’ve got there?

  Nah, I don’t think so. What

  I witnessed looked like assault.

  You like forcing yourself on girls?

  Garrett shakes his head. Nope.

  Can’t assault the willing.

  Goddamn cock teaser wanted it.

  “That’s a lie! You’re the last

  person on this planet I’d want

  to have sex with. The last!”

  Behind them, backup arrives.

  Monica and Syrah in my corner,

  Keith, of course, in Garrett’s.

  And that makes Garrett a little

  too eager to force an ugly

  confrontation. He forms fists.

  You really don’t want to do

  that, says Gabe, pushing him

  out of the bedroom, into the hall.

  Monica and Syrah hustle out

  of the way. Keith, who’s drunk

  enough to get brave, steps closer.

  Who the hell are you, anyway?

  says Garrett, obviously fortified.

  I don’t answer to pansy-ass jerk-offs.

  Gabe draws himself up, maximizing

  both height and menace. I’m Ariel’s

  friend. Friends don’t let friends get raped.

  Garrett glances at Keith, who

  nods. What’re you gonna do?

  asks Garrett. Take both of us on?

  Yeah, dickwad, agrees Keith,

  moving into position on the opposite

  side of Gabe. You don’t want to do that.

  Gabe Sizes Up the Situation

  There are two of them,

  yes. But they’re wasted,

  and I think he senses

  that neither is a true threat,

  at least not on his own.

  Still, there are two of them.

  Look, I really don’t want to

  hurt you, no matter how much

  you deserve it. Why don’t you

  tuck your teensy pecker back

  into your pants and get the hell

  out of here? He takes a step toward

  Garrett, who’s too dense to

  understand what that means,

  though he does make sure his pants

  are zipped. Ooh. I’m so scared.

  Come and get me, asshole.

  Gabe doesn’t hesitate. He swings

  a fist straight into Keith’s gut,

  doubling him over. That enrages

  Garrett, who wades into Gabe.

  That proves to be a huge mistake.

  Up Close

  Isn’t how you want to observe

  a fistfight. Garrett manages to land
>
  a punch or two, but this is no contest.

  I’m not two feet away from Gabe.

  and I can see his eyes glaze over, as

  if he’s vacating this dimension.

  He steps into Garrett and as I watch,

  I swear he morphs into something

  just this side of human, a boxing

  machine, like those kids’ robots, only

  full size. Bam, bam, bam! Three straight

  to the face, and the sound of knuckles

  connecting to flesh and the bone

  beneath makes me wobble. I’ve heard

  it before, only last time it was Dad’s

  fist, and the person he was pounding

  was a woman. Like she did then,

  Garrett now lowers his hands, defeated.

  And like Dad then, Gabe isn’t finished,

  throwing a flurry of impressive blows

  that drop Garrett all the way to the floor,

  blood and snot pouring from his nose.

  The coppery smell gags me, but I manage

  to choke back the impending vomit.

  Meanwhile, Keith has found breath

  and regained some strength. Stupidly,

  he ducks his head and charges Gabe,

  who dances to one side. Keith loses

  his balance, slips, and bashes his skull

  against the wall, and Gabe advances.

  “Stop!” I yell. “Enough! God, do you

  want to kill them? Please, just leave

  them alone. They’re finished, can’t you

  see that?” I’m shriveling. Shrinking.

  Folding up into myself, stumbling

  backward. I’m a sniveling ten-year-old

  again, pleading with someone I thought

  I knew to dig down for his humanity,

  find mercy, and end the carnage.

  It doesn’t matter that he’s doing

  this to defend me. It’s savage.

  I actually feel sorry for Garrett.

  Gabe stops, straightens, but when

  he turns and looks at me, I find

  something terrible in his eyes—

  satisfaction.

  He Bends Over

  Careful

  to avoid the bodily

  fluids on the floor,

  lifts Garrett to his feet

  by the back of his shirt.

  Never assume a stranger

  is a pansy-ass jerk-off.

  How about I call you a taxi?

  You’re in no condition to drive.

  Fuck you, shithead.

  Garrett does his best

  to shake it off. He points

  at me. You good

  with this, bitch?

  Gabe leans closer.

  That’s no way to talk

  to a lady. I suggest you

  apologize. You too,

  he says to Keith,

  who’s struggling

  to get up on his feet.

  The guys must’ve read

  the pleasure factor

  in Gabe’s eyes,

  because both mutter

  halfhearted apologies

  before limping away.

  Still, they refuse

  to accept complete

  defeat, extending middle

  fingers before vanishing

  into the dark of night.

  Monica rushes to my side.

  ¿Estás bien? ¿Que pasó?

  I reach for her, and

  discover how badly

  I’m shaking. “I’m okay,”

  I lie, falling into her arms.

  “Garrett thought I should prove

  whether I’m into guys or girls.”

  What? For real? Did he . . .?

  “No, thanks to Gabe.

  But he would have.

  At least, I think so.”

  Do you want to call the cops?

  asks Gabe. You probably should.

  “And tell them what?

  Nothing happened?

  And even if it had,

  they’d write it off as drunk

  kids getting carried away.”

  What I Hold Very Close

  Unable to share, even

  with these, my best and only

  friends, is that I don’t dare

  call the cops.

  Ever.

  My dad’s programmed

  that into me for as long

  as I can remember.

  Why?

  I have no clue.

  All I know is it’s near

  the top of his rules

  list, just below

  “Don’t question me.”

  Ever.

  Once, when he left me

  with Ma-maw and Pops,

  he drilled into me

  that should flashing red

  and blue lights ever appear

  on the horizon,

  I was to dash out into

  the alfalfa fields.

  Hide.

  I never had to do that.

  Never had to deal

  with law enforcement

  one way or another.

  Somehow, Dad’s managed

  to avoid any kind

  of run-in, too.

  How?

  Sheer luck,

  I suppose. I know

  he’s done things in the past

  that should’ve

  resulted in some kind

  of punitive measures.

  Rhonda’s emerald ring,

  for instance.

  Pawned.

  If tonight

  had resulted in actual

  penetration—rape—

  would I feel differently

  and report it?

  Excellent

  question.

  Monica Holds Me Close

  Until I finally stop quivering.

  Then, heedless of spectators,

  she reaches up and kisses me

  so sweetly I momentarily forget

  the ugliness I’m mere minutes

  beyond. She wraps me in love,

  and it’s almost enough to smother

  the residual fear and outrage.

  Gabe looks vaguely uncomfortable

  at our emotional exchange.

  Syrah is her usual underwhelmed

  self. She ignores us, rushes over to Gabe.

  Wow! You were amazing! The words

  escape in a rush of breath. I’ve never

  seen anything like that. Hey, wanna

  be my bodyguard? Then, totally as

  an afterthought, Oh, and are you

  okay? Giddy, that’s how she sounds.

  Gabe blushes crimson. Other than

  sore knuckles, I’m fine. At least one

  of them has granite-strength bones.

  He looks down. Sorry about your floor.

  Hey, no problem, gushes Syrah.

  That’s why they invented paper

  towels and cleanser. It’s gross, though.

  She goes to find the necessary items.

  I push away from Monica, swallow

  my disgust at the bodily fluids

  pooled on the tile. What I really

  want to do is crawl into a corner

  and sleep so I won’t think about

  the images solidifying in my mind,

  resurrected by visions of Garrett’s

  and Keith’s faces. Blood gushing.

  Snot dripping. Bruises resembling

  thunderheads rearing up. A woman,

  dropped down on her knees, sobbing

  apologies for “inviting” my dad’s abuse.

  I can see her broken face clearly.

  But I don’t remember her name.

  Funny How the Brain

  Manages damage control,

  conveniently curtaining

  windows that overlook

  certain footpaths into the past.

  I try to keep the shades drawn.

&
nbsp; Monica notices, however.

  She moves closer again,

  a drift of solace, claims

  her place at my side.

  Estás bien, novia? No te ves

  tan bien. You look a little sick.

  “I’m queasy,” I admit.

  “I’m not real good with blood,

  and watching someone get

  pummeled is more than

  I can take. I mean, I’ve seen

  random guys involved

  in altercations, but never

  that close. I didn’t realize

  how brutal it is.”

  I’m s-sorry, sputters Gabe.

  I couldn’t see another way out.

  “No. It’s okay. Not your fault,

  and not like they didn’t deserve it,

  especially Garrett. But where did

  you learn to fight like that?

  That wasn’t, like, amateur night.”

  Where I grew up you either

  decided to be a tough guy

  or you let the tough guys

  take you down. I chose to be

  strong, and Dad encouraged

  me to learn to box. He put in

  extra hours to pay for gym

  time and a trainer, even.

  Golden Gloves could’ve been

  my ticket out. I worked all

  the way up to state, and would’ve

  been a finalist except

  Dad’s accident made that

  impossible. My dream died

  along with him, but hey,

  at least I’m still here.

  “You could go back to it,

  couldn’t you?” I ask, even

  though the idea of regularly

  beating people up makes me

  even more nauseous than

  the mess on Syrah’s floor.

  Don’t think so. I have to get

  real about life some time,

  and with Mom coming home

  at some point soon, now

  is probably the right time.

  Sounds Way Too Adult

  As does cleaning up the mess

  on the floor, and when Syrah

  returns with the supplies,

  Gabe volunteers for the job.

  I don’t offer to help, don’t dare

  get too close or I’ll only add

  to the ugly puddle on the tile.

  At least they managed to miss

  the carpet. There’s that, I guess.

  Instead, I start tidying tables

  and countertops, tossing cups

  and cans, some with cigarette

  butts floating inside. Monica

  joins in the effort. “Why are people

  so gross?” I ask, only to make

  conversation. No answer really

  required, Monica shrugs in reply.

  Parties bring out the bad in some

  and the worst in others. You sure

  you don’t want to report Garrett?