If He’s Here

  He’s here, so I’m not in a hurry,

  and I wait for Monica to slide into

  her deliciously tight jeans.

  I wish I could straight-up go over

  and kiss her, but this is small-town

  girls’ basketball in a small-town

  high school in small-town Sonora,

  California, so the most I’ll do

  is lick my lips seductively (like I

  know anything about seduction

  beyond what Monica herself

  has managed to teach me) and

  invite, “Come with me? I know

  it’s stupid but I’m not-quite-

  hoping my dad is out there,

  pretending to have watched

  the game. If he is, you can help

  me celebrate. If he isn’t, we can

  go find something to do to make

  me feel better. Unless you’ve got

  plans for an after-game party?”

  She laughs. Last night taught me

  I’m not the party type. Except

  maybe private parties with you.

  We Cut Back

  Through the gym,

  where several people

  are still milling around,

  including Monica’s family.

  All of them.

  Mom. Dad.

  Two big brothers.

  One little sister.

  Carolina comes jogging

  up now. Hey! You guys

  were awesome.

  She holds up two hands

  for high fives—one from

  her sister and one from me.

  Now the rest of the Torres

  family surrounds us,

  chattering half in English,

  half in Spanish, happily

  congratulating us. Glad

  somebody’s kin cares.

  Now Monica’s mom says,

  Esta noche vamos a celebrar

  el cumpleaños de Mónica.

  Por favor, venga a cenar.

  I’ve Just Been Invited

  To a birthday dinner celebration

  for Monica. How can I turn that down?

  Maybe there will even be tamales.

  “Muchas gracias. Me encantaría ir.”

  Tu español es bueno, says Mrs. Torres.

  Muy bueno. We will see you tonight.

  We follow the family out to the parking

  lot, where Syrah is leaning against her car,

  flirting with Gabe, which reminds me

  he and I are supposed to talk.

  I think maybe you lost your boyfriend,

  comments Monica, grinning broadly.

  “I think that’s okay by me.” And I’m not

  sure it’s all about what I saw last night.

  “Who needs a boyfriend when I’ve got

  you?” Did I just offer a confession? Two?

  I thought you’d never figure that out.

  Pero mejor tarde que nunca, ¿no?

  But better late than never, yes.

  Now do I have to confess to Gabe, too?

  I’m Thinking That Over

  When someone taps me on

  the shoulder. I turn to face

  the tall redhead who smiled

  at me from the bleachers,

  and when I do, she sways

  as if momentarily dizzy.

  The spiky-haired woman

  beside her extends a hand

  to steady her. Take it easy.

  Everything’s going to be fine.

  “Are you okay?”

  She pulls herself together.

  Oh, yes. Sorry. Are you . . .

  She holds out a newspaper

  clipping. It’s the story about

  Gabe and me finding Hillary.

  Are you Ariel Pearson?

  “That would be me.”

  And this . . . She points to

  Dad, who’s standing behind

  us in the picture. This is your

  father? It says Mark Pearson.

  “That’s my dad, yes.”

  Mark Pearson, she repeats,

  sounding totally confused.

  What does this woman

  want? She’s studying me

  like a scientist getting

  ready to dissect a frog.

  I’m Maya McCabe. Does

  the name sound familiar?

  Her voice is a bit too eager.

  “Not really, no. Should it?”

  But before she can answer,

  Dad and Zelda come strolling

  up behind her. Guess he made

  it to the game after all.

  “Hey, Dad. Didn’t think you were here.”

  At my greeting, Maya McCabe

  spins to face Dad. Jason.

  Dad’s face drains every hint

  of color and his eyes narrow

  into serpent-like slits. Fuck no.

  “What is it, Dad? Who’s Jason?”

  But it’s Maya who answers,

  Jason is your father. Jason Baxter.

  And I’m your mother, Casey.

  Casey. The wrong-number name.

  Denial

  No.

  “I’m Ariel Pearson.”

  No.

  “He’s Mark Pearson.”

  No.

  “You can’t be my mother.”

  Except.

  There was Dad’s reaction.

  Except.

  This woman has no reason to lie.

  Except.

  There’s something about her voice.

  Except.

  She looks like me.

  And now it’s my turn to sway.

  Why Now?

  That’s what I want to know.

  Why here? Why today?

  But all I manage to say is,

  “I don’t understand. Dad . . . ?”

  Immediately, Dad pushes

  between Maya and me.

  Ariel, you get in your car

  and leave here right now.

  Don’t say another word.

  Everyone moves at once.

  Zelda, toward Dad.

  Spiky hair, between him and Maya.

  Monica, to my right.

  Gabe and Syrah, who can’t help

  but notice the commotion,

  start across the parking lot.

  “Why are you here?” I demand.

  Casey . . .

  “My name is Ariel.”

  No. It’s not. It’s Casey Baxter,

  and I’m your mom. I’ve been

  looking for you for fifteen years,

  ever since he kidnapped you.

  It was only a fluke that I found you.

  It’s a lie! thunders Dad.

  Don’t you listen to her.

  She’ll just hurt you again.

  Go, Ari . . . I’ll take care of this.

  He tries to circle Spiky, but

  she and Zelda form a wall

  between him and Maya,

  who reaches out for me.

  I jerk my arm away.

  “Leave me alone! What

  do you want from me?”

  All I want is the chance

  to be your mom. Please.

  Shut the fuck up, you

  cheating whore, and leave

  my daughter alone. Get out

  of here, Ariel. I mean it.

  Or what, Jason? You going

  to hurt her? Does he hurt you,

  Casey? Because if he does—

  “Stop calling me Casey!

  Who the hell do you think

  you are? You can’t just show

  up out of the blue, fifteen damn

  years without a single word,

  pretending to be my mom.

  You are not my mom. A real

  mom does not desert her kid

  and run off with her girlfriend. . . .”

  At that, Maya looks down

  and Spiky sli
des an arm around

  her shoulders, confirmation.

  See? demands Dad. See?

  She never gave a damn

  about you. Only about her.

  Oh, Casey. That’s not true.

  I’ve never, ever stopped

  loving you or searching—

  “Screw you! I don’t want you

  in my life. I’ve never had a mom,

  and I don’t need one now!”

  Goddamn it. I’m crying.

  Tears stream from my puffing

  eyes, down my superheated

  cheeks. I must look like shit,

  not that I care, because

  I definitely feel like a huge

  steaming mound of crap.

  Leering Faces

  Masks

  of real people

  surround me in

  a wide semicircle.

  I glance face to face to face.

  Maya looks pummeled.

  Spiky looks sad.

  Zelda looks stunned.

  My friends look confused.

  Dad looks ready to detonate.

  And when Maya lifts her eyes

  from the ground,

  meeting mine to beg compassion,

  he does.

  I will kill you, bitch!

  He lunges toward her,

  hands outstretched

  as if seeking her neck,

  and I scream, “No, Dad, stop!”

  This time it’s Gabe who steps in.

  Hold it right there, Mark.

  You wouldn’t really hurt

  her, would you? Let’s work

  this out like civilized people.

  Dad Looks More

  Like a caged wolf.

  Wary. Confused.

  Bone-deep pissed.

  Hatred shimmers

  in his eyes.

  Also fear.

  And like a trapped animal,

  fear makes him dangerous.

  Still, he pretends courage.

  Get out of my way, kid.

  I ain’t afraid of you.

  He steps into Gabe,

  swinging wildly.

  But Dad has grown

  slow and is out of practice.

  Gabe steps to one side

  and Dad’s momentum

  carries him too far forward.

  He goes down on one knee

  as everyone else scatters.

  I don’t want to hurt you,

  Mark. Don’t get up.

  Dad doesn’t understand

  the danger, springs to his feet.

  I picture Garrett and Keith,

  just last night.

  “No, no, no, no, no!”

  I Can’t Watch

  I turn.

  Run for my car.

  Don’t look back.

  Don’t look back.

  People shout my name.

  Ariel!

  Casey!

  Who am I?

  Who am I?

  “Leave me alone!”

  Don’t follow me.

  Don’t follow me.

  What just happened?

  What the fuck

  just happened?

  I don’t get it.

  I don’t get it.

  I jam the keys in

  the ignition.

  Start, car, start.

  It does, no problem,

  despite my quaking hands.

  The space in front

  is empty. I gun the car,

  barely glancing

  at the group splintering

  in different directions.

  Monica comes running,

  waving to stop.

  Dad is right on her heels.

  Don’t hurt her.

  Don’t hurt her.

  He won’t.

  Gabe won’t let him.

  I drive right past.

  Can’t stop.

  Won’t stop.

  How do I process this?

  Maya McCabe.

  Who is this woman

  who claims to be my mom?

  My mom?

  Impossible.

  Shows up.

  At my game.

  Just like that.

  Materializes

  out of thin air.

  How the hell does that happen

  after all this time?

  And Casey? Who is she?

  My Name

  Is Ariel.

  Ariel Pearson.

  And my dad

  is Mark Pearson.

  Not Jason Baxter.

  Why does Maya McCabe,

  who so can’t be my mother,

  let alone my mom,

  insist my name is Casey?

  I’ve never even met

  a Casey. I can’t be one.

  She’s crazy.

  That’s it.

  Maya McCabe is crazy.

  My name is Ariel.

  Air. Ari.

  I’ll even take Ari Fairy.

  Which circles me

  right back to Dad.

  Mark Pearson.

  Not Jason Baxter.

  Right?

  He couldn’t have—

  wouldn’t have?—

  woven my entire history

  into a tapestry of lies.

  I Drive

  And drive, looking

  in the rearview mirror,

  but there’s no sign

  of anyone following me.

  Head spinning, I cycle

  through snapshots

  of my past.

  All those women.

  My teachers.

  Ma-maw and Pops.

  None of them ever called

  me Casey. None

  I can remember.

  No, I must be Ariel.

  I drive until I notice

  my gas gauge registers

  under a half tank.

  Work tomorrow.

  School all week.

  I have no money

  and won’t get paid

  until the eighteenth.

  That’s Ariel thinking.

  Casey’s asking:

  Work?

  School?

  You’re kidding, right?

  Pertinent Question

  Who am I kidding?

  How can I go to work?

  How can I go to school?

  How can I play basketball,

  or hang out with my friends

  or fall in love or dare

  to dream about my future?

  How can anything

  be normal again?

  In fact, what’s normal?

  How would I know

  when I can’t even be sure

  who the fuck I am?

  Casey. Casey Baxter.

  Are you a part of me?

  Are you who I am?

  “This is who I am!”

  That’s what I want to yell,

  but I need certainty.

  I need the truth of me.

  But who can I believe?

  I Stop the Car

  In a wide turnout,

  try to decide where

  to go from here.

  My cell has buzzed

  messages for over an hour.

  I scroll through them while

  I consider my next move.

  Everyone wants to talk.

  Dad: WE HAVE TO TALK. COME HOME RIGHT NOW.

  At some point. But not yet.

  From Syrah: WOW. THAT WAS WEIRD. I’M HERE IF YOU

  WANT TO TALK.

  Maybe later.

  From Monica: LO SIENTO, NOVIA. YOU’RE STILL

  COMING OVER, YEAH? YOU CAN TALK TO ME, OKAY?

  I know. But not now.

  And I can’t even consider

  a boisterous Torres crowd

  when all I want to do is fall

  into bed and sleep this away.

  From Gabe: AUNT ZELDA WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO

  YOU. I KNOW YOU’RE UPSET. SO IS SHE.

  U
pset

  Yeah. I bet she is.

  I get it completely.

  Upset.

  Confused.

  In need of a giant dose

  of truth.

  I’ve always known

  Dad was unreliable.

  Self-centered.

  Deceitful, yes, even that.

  But there are lies,

  and there are lies.

  Identity isn’t something

  that should be trifled with.

  I can’t believe he’s been

  lying about who he is

  all this time.

  Oh yeah, and who I am, too.

  Because as much

  as I’d like to blame

  this on Maya’s insanity,

  the name thing

  somehow resonates.

  Holy shit.

  What if I really am

  Casey Baxter?

  There’s One More Message

  From an unknown number,

  which can only belong

  to Maya McCabe, and it does:

  YOUR FRIEND GAVE ME YOUR NUMBER. HOPE THAT’S

  OKAY. I’M SORRY I WASN’T MORE CIRCUMSPECT. TATI

  SAID I SHOULD WAIT, BUT I WAS SO EXCITED TO

  HAVE FINALLY FOUND YOU I JUST COULDN’T. YOU

  DON’T KNOW, CASEY, YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY KNOW

  HOW HARD I’VE LOOKED FOR YOU. NOTHING I TOLD

  YOU WAS A LIE. I’M SURE THIS COMES AS A SHOCK

  AND AM WILLING TO GIVE YOU AS MUCH TIME AS

  YOU NEED.

  Friend, huh? Wonder

  which so-called friend

  that might have been.

  Syrah, probably.

  Who else would feel

  the need to stick her nose

  where it doesn’t belong?

  And what the hell does Maya

  mean, as much time as I need?

  To what? Decide she is, in

  fact, my mother? A blood

  test can prove that.

  What does it take to prove

  you’re an actual mom?

  Where Do I Go Now?

  Not home. Not ready

  to listen to Dad’s bullshit

  excuses and lies.

  How could he do

  this to me?

  How can I ever believe

  a single word

  he utters again?

  Not going to Syrah’s

  or Monica’s.

  What would I say?

  Hey, don’t sweat it.

  (Santa please . . . )

  Everything’s cool.

  Nothing’s changed.

  Oh, except

  don’t forget

  to call me Casey.

  Can I just keep being

  Ariel instead?

  I’ll go to Zelda’s.

  We have something

  in common: betrayal.

  The GTO

  Is nowhere in sight.