The You I've Never Known

  “No. Let it drop. We should open

  some windows. It stinks in here.”

  It does. It smells like sweat and weed

  and old booze with a float of tobacco.

  We finish the cleanup, windows

  open, Syrah flirting obnoxiously

  with Gabe all the while, and

  the strange thing about that is

  I don’t seem to care. To his credit,

  Gabe doesn’t bite, but if it’s only

  to impress me, I almost want

  him to know it’s okay if he does.

  Almost. Shouldn’t I feel more

  possessive? Is it just because

  I discovered something about

  him tonight I never expected?

  I’d say something completely

  foreign, but it’s not. It’s something

  I’m intimately aware of, having lived

  with it all my life. Dad hides it well

  most of the time, and obviously

  Gabe does, too. In fact, he disguises

  it better, or maybe it only seems

  that way because I’ve known him

  for such a short while. But beneath

  his gentle exterior, way down

  in the depths of those lizard eyes,

  roils a red-hot mantle of rage.

  Maya

  For Casey

  Oh my God! What’s happening? We’re a long way from New York City, but if it could happen there, maybe it could happen right here. It seems like the whole world’s gone crazy. NYC. North Carolina. There. Here. Everywhere. Crazy. Who would do such a despicable thing? Who? And why?

  It’s September 11. Your birthday. I got up early to see your daddy off to work and bake a cake for your party. It’s Tuesday, so I didn’t plan anything big, just a few of your playgroup buddies and their moms, who I can more rightly call acquaintances than friends.

  Daddy said we should’ve waited until Saturday, but I think a girl should celebrate the actual day she was born, rather than hold off to accommodate other people’s schedules. But now your party is on indefinite hold.

  Not too long after your daddy left, he called me. “Turn on the TV.”

  “Why? What channel?”

  “All of them. Just do it.”

  Every channel showed the same thing. The twin towers of the World Trade Center, the biggest buildings in this whole country, were in flames. Smoking. Falling apart. Someone flew planes into them. On purpose. Big planes. Jetliners.

  They showed it in slow motion.

  I couldn’t stop watching. Still can’t turn it off, even though I know people are dead. They keep repeating footage of them screaming. Falling. Jumping. Jumping from so high up in the air they could never survive, but they preferred that to burning to death.

  One of the towers crumbled. Crashed to the ground, nothing left but rubble, dust, and smoke. And bodies. In pieces. So much carnage. How do you escape when you’re seventy stories up in the air, only stairs to get you down, not knowing what’s below, or if what’s above you will crush you?

  Then the second tower broke apart, too. There were—are—people trapped inside. Some are first responders—cops, firefighters. Trying to save the others. You don’t know, baby girl, you don’t know.

  It’s like a scene from a movie. Some awful disaster flick. Only it’s real life. Real death. So many must have perished. Men. Women. Little kids. Babies. What if you and I were there in that building or on the ground, when it all came tumbling down?

  Now they’re saying another plane crashed into the Pentagon, and yet another in a field somewhere. Hijacked, all of them. Passengers and crew, minding their own business, traveling to or away from home.

  “Collateral damage.” That’s what the military spokesman called them. Not wives or parents or brothers. Cold as a mortuary slab. “Collateral damage.”

  A pretty newswoman, coaxed not to smile as she usually would, says, “These are concerted acts of terrorism.”

  Well, yeah. What else could they be? We don’t know who these terrorists were, or what motivated them to commit this kind of atrocity, and we won’t for a while. But our country is under attack. That means we—you and I—are under attack. This isn’t supposed to happen on American soil.

  I’ve never considered myself patriotic. Definitely not a fan of the military. I married a soldier so I could divorce my mother, not because of his uniform or because I believed in some noble cause. But since this morning, love for my country has skyrocketed.

  I don’t know a single soul in New York City, but as I sit glued to the television, watching them run for their lives or stand there, staring in shock, I’m crying for all of them, and for every American. We’re afraid. So very afraid.

  The base is scrambling, all personnel on high alert, and I’m sure every active installation in the country is the same way. The threat feels foreign, and what might happen next, not to mention when, is anyone’s guess.

  Four different people managed to fly four domestic jet aircraft into four separate targets. Well, the one that went down in Pennsylvania probably missed whatever it was aiming for. Even so, how is this possible?

  “Don’t worry,” your daddy tells me. “Everything will be fine. You’re safe. I’ll see to it, no matter what.”

  I wish I could believe him, but anxiety surrounds me like a prickly aura, vaguely electric. I work very hard to keep you from sensing it. You’ve played and napped through the whole thing, happily unaware.

  While you were sleeping, Tati called, and we talked for a long, long time. One of her cousins is a New York City policeman. She doesn’t know if he’s all right. “Air travel will probably be tough for a while,” she said. “But when it eases up, I want to come visit. Think that would be okay?”

  It was the best thing I heard all day, other than you trying out new words that you happened to overhear. “Pre-zi-den?”

  “Close. President.”

  I wouldn’t want to be President Bush right now. Or anyone in charge of anything. I just want to shut the blinds and hide.

  Daddy won’t be home, so I fix your favorite dinner—mini corn dogs and Fritos. After you finish, I go ahead and light the three candles on your cake, and as I watch you licking chocolate frosting off your fingers, I wonder about your future in a world gone totally insane.

  What will you face tomorrow? In a year, or five, or a decade? How can I possibly keep you safe when I don’t know what might fall from the sky? Will I spend the rest of my life looking up, or scanning the horizon for incoming planes?

  Before today, I was only really afraid of two people. My mother. And your daddy. Sometimes he stares at me and I think he wants to take me apart, and I don’t know why except there’s a piece of him that only appears when roused by anger. So I try very hard not to make him mad. Now, with everything going on, he’ll be ridiculously on edge. As long as he doesn’t take it out on you, I’ll make it all right.

  Happy birthday, my angel. I’m sorry this day will always be linked to this awful event, but with time the fear will fade and I’ll do everything I can to make our celebrations happy ones. For now, I’ll share a piece of cake with you. Then we’ll watch Dora the Explorer until you’re ready for bed, and after I tuck you in tonight, I’ll worry about tomorrow.

  Ariel

  Last Night

  Post Gabe-and-Garrett nightmare

  I immersed myself in the dream

  that is Monica. Once Syrah’s house

  emptied we smoked a little weed,

  and then it was past time for bed.

  You two take my mom’s bed, urged Syrah.

  “You’re sure she and her boyfriend are

  out of town? I’d hate to surprise them.”

  I’m sure. She and the nimrod don’t have

  sex here. I think she’s afraid I’ll learn

  something a girl shouldn’t by listening

  in on her mom. So when they’re in the mood

  they get a room. And, l
ucky you, that

  also means the sheets are mostly clean.

  Where’s your sister tonight? asks

  Monica. One of us could take her bed.

  She spent the night with a friend, and if

  you’d rather sleep separately, okay by me.

  No Judgment

  Either way. I love that about

  Syrah. She went off to her own

  bed to dream about Gabe

  or whatever. I was so happy

  when he finished the cleanup,

  then begged off for the night.

  Not sure if he intuited my

  negative reaction or if the act

  of beating people to a bloody

  pulp tired him out, but he left

  right away, reminding me

  we’d talk after my game.

  Once Syrah shut her door,

  I asked, “You want to be alone

  tonight? It’s okay if you do.”

  It would’ve hurt my feelings

  terribly, but I wasn’t about

  to say so. “Feliz cumpleaños,

  mi bella amiga.” Happy birthday,

  my beautiful friend, and that’s

  exactly how she looked there

  in the low lamplight. Beautiful—

  wild and dark and unpredictable,

  like some creature of the forest.

  She held out her hand.

  Quiero pasar la noche contigo.

  We spent the night together.

  Monica’s Beauty

  Was blanketed by darkness,

  but every unique inch of her

  is pressed into my memory.

  All the recent ugliness melted

  beneath the luscious mocha

  of her skin, a whisper against

  mine, promising tomorrows

  saturated with love. Love. I hardly

  know how to accept the possibility

  that it’s real, and available to me.

  We had no need to hurry, and

  in the tarrying, I found something

  unexpected—an exchange of energy

  so intense I think we could have

  come without even touching.

  But touch we did, with mouths

  and tongues and, oh, you can hardly

  imagine the incredible sensuousness

  of the lowly fingertip when bringing

  pleasure to a partner is your entire

  realm of being for an hour or more.

  More. Much more, until, completely

  spent, we fell asleep, safe in each other’s

  arms. Oh, that was sex as it should be.

  What I Can Say

  In retrospect

  is I still like sex.

  But I think it’s better

  with trust involved.

  I didn’t have to worry

  about doing anything

  right

  or

  wrong.

  I just had to trust

  we’d take care of each

  other, there in bed,

  but also after,

  when maybe cake

  becomes the determining factor,

  or tamales or a horror flick.

  Anything except

  orgasm

  which is not

  necessarily dependent

  on someone wanting

  to spend the night with you.

  What I Can’t Say

  With certainty is how

  I feel about Gabe

  this morning.

  Maybe I overreacted

  on a purely emotional level.

  I mean, he was protecting me,

  and had he not stepped up,

  who knows what might

  have happened?

  Still, pulling back

  from the situation and

  dissecting his response,

  I come away

  not only disappointed

  but also a little scared.

  Not so much scared

  that Gabe would hurt me.

  I’ve never felt threatened

  by him before. But then

  again, how would I know

  exactly what might

  set him off?

  And that’s what

  really scares me—

  that I never noticed

  even hints of warning

  signs before.

  Or Maybe

  It was just a fluke

  and I’m way overthinking it,

  when right now

  what I should be thinking

  about is the game.

  I take my car.

  Syrah follows with Monica

  in hers. I’m sure sooner

  or later I’ll try to cheat

  the system and allow

  someone under twenty-five

  to ride with me

  before my provisional license

  becomes unrestricted

  in a year. But for now

  I’ll play by the rules.

  The high school isn’t far,

  and when we pull into

  the parking lot, I’m gratified

  to see it’s already filling

  with spectator vehicles.

  A quick scan

  doesn’t reveal Dad’s car,

  but it’s still an hour

  to game time,

  so maybe he’ll show.

  The GTO, now sporting

  a fresh coat of racing green

  paint, is noticeable, however.

  I park close to the locker

  room, go in to suit up

  in my shiny blue uniform,

  nerves tingling.

  This will be my first

  actual game

  and as starting center

  the pressure to perform

  well is building.

  Coach Booker gives

  a short pep talk

  that does little to alleviate

  the tension bloating the space

  between the locker rows.

  At least it’s not just me

  who’s nervous.

  We’re all pacing

  or bouncing up and down

  on our toes.

  It’s a relief

  when Coach calls us

  to go warm up.

  At least until we file

  into the gym,

  where the bleachers

  seem to sag beneath

  the weight of so many people.

  But hey, it’s cool.

  No reason to think we’ll blow it.

  From Tip-Off to Halftime

  It’s a fairly even match,

  the scoring shifting back

  and forth between teams.

  Syrah misses a couple

  of rebounds; I miss a shot

  or two, and so does Monica.

  But on the upside, I sink

  four two-pointers and one

  from outside the key that

  nets us three. Monica scores

  a half-dozen times,

  including the free throw

  that puts us ahead

  going into the locker

  room at the half.

  As we start in that direction,

  I scan the bleachers.

  No sign of Dad. Big surprise.

  I do catch sight of Hillary,

  who’s sitting between Peg

  and Gabe. They’re laughing.

  One other person stands out,

  mostly because she holds

  herself painfully straight, which

  puts her a good six inches

  taller than the man beside her,

  and if I’m not mistaken,

  she’s staring at me.

  When she sees me notice

  her, she smiles warmly,

  as if we know each other,

  which we definitely don’t.

  If she wasn’t so pretty,

  I might think she was

&
nbsp; some creepy stalker.

  Maybe she just likes

  watching stellar girls’

  basketball play.

  In the locker room,

  Syrah comes puffing up,

  water bottle in hand.

  Did you see Gabe, all over

  Hillary? What’s up with that?

  Why do you care? asks

  Monica. Not like he’s yours.

  But maybe he could be.

  I mean, as long as you’re finished

  with him. Addressed to me.

  “Listen, if you can snag him,

  go for it.” Seems doubtful.

  “Anyway, I don’t think

  he and Hillary are together

  together. Just sitting together.”

  Coach Rallies Us

  For the third quarter,

  figuratively slapping us

  on the back and promising:

  You girls got this.

  Now get on out there

  and take ’em down!

  We don’t exactly drop

  them to their knees,

  but two quarters of hard

  play put us ahead by four

  at the end of the game,

  and I can personally take

  credit for nineteen points,

  second only to Monica.

  Syrah even scored six,

  so we’re all happy

  when that final buzzer

  rings. As we slap hands

  with the other team, the crowd

  begins to desert the stands

  and I notice Zelda’s with

  Gabe now, no Hillary, Peg,

  or Dad in view.

  Thanks, Dad. Glad I mean

  so much to you.

  But as I Shower

  It occurs to me that Dad

  might have come with Zelda.

  He could have been in

  the bathroom taking a piss.

  He could have been outside

  polluting his lungs.

  He could have been at

  the snack bar buying popcorn.

  Nah. The snack shack

  would have been closed.

  But the other two options

  are still valid, so I’ll go in search

  of my father, hoping, if not

  believing, he’ll be here somewhere.

  A phrase that materializes

  from the ether: glutton for

  punishment. And right behind

  that: none so blind as those

  who will not see. Wonder if

  the idioms will prove wrong.