would be extremely hard.

  Hillary’s parents own a huge

  ranch. Thoroughbred horses

  and black Angus cattle dot

  the rolling hillsides, requiring

  the oversight of a decent-size

  crew of laborers. Local kids

  sometimes get jobs out there,

  mucking stalls and tossing hay.

  Hillary would never stoop so low,

  despite her love of all things

  equine. The girl defines arrogance,

  which isn’t totally her fault.

  Not only is she privileged, but

  she also happens to be smart,

  talented, and a decent athlete.

  The all-around rich American girl.

  I’m not nearly as intelligent,

  have no real talents to speak of.

  The only place I’ve got her beat

  is on the basketball court.

  Today, However

  She holds her own in practice,

  which makes me work that much

  harder, not that I have one damn

  thing to prove, except to myself.

  Coach loves me just as I am,

  and so do my teammates (especially

  one of them, who I’m dangerously

  close to loving back). And honestly,

  even Hillary treats me with respect

  on the court, though she ignores me

  anywhere else, other than to maybe

  nod slightly, the way she might reward

  the hired help. Regardless, we play

  together on a team, and our shared

  goals matter there. Guess you don’t

  have to like someone to appreciate

  their ability. I do admire Hillary’s.

  But I have to admit I’m glad mine

  is at least marginally better. If that

  makes me immature, sticks and stones.

  After Practice

  I take the time to shower off the sweat

  and wash my hair. Sometimes I’ll wait

  until I get home to clean up, knowing

  Syrah smells just as bad as I do, but

  I don’t think Zelda would appreciate

  me showing up scented like effort.

  Or Gabe, either, not that I care

  what he thinks. I’m not dressing to

  impress some random guy, though

  it’s only polite to show up clean.

  On the way over to Zelda’s, Syrah

  comments, So, you’ve never met this

  Gabe guy, right? When I agree that

  I haven’t, she actually asks, What if

  he’s a knockout? You swing both ways?

  “I don’t ‘swing’ at all. If you mean

  have I ever been attracted to a guy,

  well, yeah. But I’ve never acted

  on it, or on any attraction, for that

  matter.” The statement rings

  true, and when she asks why

  not, I’m straightforward. “Before

  Sonora, we never lived one place long

  enough for me to hook up with anyone.

  And now, I guess, I’m a little scared.”

  Afraid

  Of lust, its recent bloom

  inside of me. Powerful.

  How do I control it?

  Do I even want to try?

  Anxious

  about the mechanics,

  seventeen and never

  been kissed, at least not

  in the context of romance.

  Nervous

  I’ll make an improper move.

  Choose the wrong person

  and not be able to correct

  a dire mistake of the heart.

  Uncertain

  of outcomes. The future,

  and my place in it, with

  little to zero ability

  to take charge of its direction.

  Petrified

  of falling all the way in love.

  Lacking anything like a role

  model, commitment isn’t

  something I understand.

  Beyond This Fear

  Exists bone-deep trepidation

  about my dad’s reaction

  if he finds out I’ve fallen

  for anyone at all.

  Sharing isn’t his best thing,

  and I’m pretty sure the idea

  of divvying my affection

  with someone else would

  drive him totally crazy.

  A guy would present a certain

  kind of threat, of course.

  But a girl? How can I ever

  confess that? It would push

  him all the way over the edge,

  and that’s a shadowy, perilous

  place I’d rather not revisit.

  There’s teeth-rattling pain

  there, wrapped in the skin

  of my father’s hands.

  I’m sure the vast majority

  of parents expect their kids

  to partner up eventually,

  but Dad isn’t like most people.

  The topic is off-limits.

  Inaccessible. And I’m a whole

  lot safer keeping it that way.

  I Don’t Share

  These intimate details

  about my hesitant psyche

  with Syrah. I’m not sure

  I could confess them

  to Monica, and probably

  shouldn’t. The last thing

  I want to do is hurt her.

  Besides, as I recently read

  in a book, Taking no chances

  means wasting your dreams.

  It’s past time to take chances.

  I’m considering my dreams

  when Syrah drops me off.

  Stuck mid-musing about

  my first kiss, I rap my knuckles

  on Zelda’s front door, fully

  anticipating she’ll answer it.

  But when it opens, the face

  on the far side is unexpected,

  and so is my reaction to it.

  Oh, hi. You must be Ariel.

  I’m Gabe. Come in. His smile

  softens his angular face, and

  when I look into the deep ponds

  of his eyes, interest surfaces.

  In him. In me. It’s instant connection.

  But what, exactly, can that mean?

  Maya

  Tomorrow will be three months since I met Jason. We’ve seen each other almost every weekend, and our relationship moved quickly to love. I mean, I guess it’s love, though I’m not sure it’s exactly the “deep, forever” kind, at least not yet. I’m willing to give it time, especially now. Meanwhile, he’s buying the beer, and the sex is amazing.

  Jason wasn’t my first. I’ve been with other guys, all around my age or a little older, but hurried backseat sex, fumbling with belt buckles and condoms, didn’t really do much for me. Jason springs for a room, or sometimes borrows one from a friend who lives here in Austin. With plenty of space and no prying eyes, we can be relaxed about making love. It feels closer to that than rutting. Plus, we always do something frivolous before and after.

  A sergeant expects to be in charge, so I’ve been subtle about how I’ve directed things, not that it’s exactly difficult to maneuver a guy into sex. But high school boys don’t care that they’re being played, mostly because they don’t believe a girl is capable of such a thing. A man like Jason has been around the block a time or two, experienced decent partnering, and awful.

  He’s never been married, but has been engaged twice. The first time he was still in boot camp, but when his back was turned, she hooked up with a guy who owned a car lot. “More money in selling beaters than my lousy paychecks could compete with,” he told me. The second time, his fiancée couldn’t cope with his deployment to the Gulf War. “She was sure I’d come home in a body bag,” he explained. “Too bad. I loved that damn woman.”
r />
  He claims he’s been waiting for someone to love ever since, and that was six years ago. Pretty sure he hasn’t been waiting for someone to sleep with, but that’s okay. He’s with me now, and with luck he’ll decide to stay once I share my news. If not, there’s always abortion.

  I confided in Tati, of course. At the moment she isn’t speaking to me. The last thing she said was, “Are you fucking insane? This is not the way to stay in Austin. You could’ve just run away and stayed with me until you turn eighteen.”

  Like Mom couldn’t figure out that’s where I went? Like she wouldn’t happily have me arrested? I’ve got a whole fourteen months before I can split legally. But maybe if Jason does the right thing, like a decent country boy might, I’ll become Mrs. Baxter. Mom will have to sign off on it, but why wouldn’t she? It’s not like she wants to be my mother. All she cares about is going “Clear” and climbing higher up the Scientology ladder. Plus, she wants to take me along.

  She keeps insisting I go to auditing to deal with Dad’s death, but I’m not swallowing the Kool-Aid. I went one time, just to shut her up, but I’ll never, ever go again. She’d have to tie me up and drag me. The auditor managed to tap into a memory of the Christmas right before Dad left. Mom quit celebrating any holidays other than the sanctioned Scientology ones like L. Ron Hubbard’s birthday, but Dad and I held on to Christmas, with or without her participation.

  Lots of details about that day floated out of my brain. I wore lilac-colored pajamas to open the two presents under the little tinsel-trimmed tree. Both were for me, and both from Dad. One was a skateboard—black with a red hawk logo. The other was a journal bound in dark green leather, and on the first page was a message from Dad: Write down everything important that happens so you can share it with me.

  He didn’t say he was leaving. Not that day. But even at twelve I could read between the lines, and I couldn’t blame him. I kept that journal, and several since, always meaning to share them with him one day. Too bad, so sad, miss you, Dad.

  I didn’t confide that information to the auditor. Last thing I need is Mom digging around in my stuff, looking for written confessions. Instead, I told him about learning to ride a skateboard—a lot of painful memories there, all involving scrapes and bruises.

  Now it’s my time to get away. I did a little research. A US Army sergeant, Grade E-5 with almost ten years in, earns around $1700 a month. With perks like base housing, commissary shopping, and military health care, we should live comfortably.

  I’ll have to drop out of school, but I can get a GED or something. Not like I’m Harvard-bound. Not like I have a chance at any job other than waitressing or bagging groceries.

  It isn’t the greatest plan, and I totally get that. I’m turning seventeen in a couple of weeks, and that’s young to be a wife, not to mention a mom. I don’t know what military life is like, but I’m sure it’s kind of confining. Still, lots of people manage it, and no matter what it will offer more freedom than staying in my mother’s house, struggling with school and sneaking out to have any fun at all.

  I’m sorry to use you, baby-inside-me, but this seems like the best move for my future.

  Our future.

  That thought slams into me suddenly.

  Our future.

  Mine.

  Jason’s.

  Our baby’s.

  Ariel

  Almost Three Weeks

  Since I first met Gabe

  and he has proven to be

  a complication I really

  didn’t need. Every time

  I start to think I know who

  I am, something clouds

  my already hazy POV.

  My feelings for Monica

  haven’t changed. She is

  a comet in the night sky,

  and the moment I see her

  my mood becomes brighter.

  I can’t deny that I love her.

  I don’t think I’m in love

  with Gabe, but I adore

  spending time with him.

  He’s the first guy I’ve ever

  met who actually listens

  when I talk, and at least

  pretends interest. Plus

  Zelda was totally right.

  He’s easy on the eyes.

  Speaking of Eyes

  His are unique.

  They remind me

  of opals—a mottled

  mixture of green

  and blue, and when

  the light hits them

  just so, you can see

  glints of orange

  circling the pupils

  in a narrow band.

  The condition is called

  heterochromia, he tells

  me. There are different

  kinds. Some people or

  other animals have eyes

  that are totally dissimilar

  colors. That’s complete

  heterochromia. Sectoral

  is when the eyes have

  spikes of pigment that

  look like spots. Gabe’s

  type, where the centers

  are a different hue than

  the rest of the irises,

  is central heterochromia.

  Sometimes science rocks.

  Gabe inherited his condition,

  and as he explains it, he

  grows pensive because it

  makes him talk about his father.

  My dad gave me his eyes,

  he says. It was the best

  gift of all, because I can

  keep it forever, and if I ever

  have children they might

  get it passed on to them,

  too. I like that because

  it helps me feel like a part

  of him is still alive in me,

  and carried in my genes.

  We’re sitting on Zelda’s

  porch swing. She and

  Dad are inside, doing

  whatever while waiting

  for the coals in the barbecue

  to ash over. We can hear

  them bellowing inebriated

  laughter. I’m embarrassed,

  but it would be worse if

  Zelda was Gabe’s mom

  instead of his aunt.

  This way there’s a single

  layer of separation, at

  least. But thinking about

  Gabe’s family makes me

  ask, “Is your mom okay?

  I heard she’s having

  a tough time dealing with . . .

  Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

  Okay, that was awkward,

  but even so, he says, Hey.

  Don’t be sorry. Look, we just

  never expected to lose him,

  you know? Dad was such

  a solid fixture in our lives.

  Not rich or highly educated,

  but he was a hard worker

  and a really nice guy. It might

  sound like a cliché, but

  everyone truly loved him.

  Suddenly, it strikes me

  that if something awful

  happened to Dad I wouldn’t

  have the slightest clue

  what to do. Find a way

  to bury him, I suppose,

  and then . . . What?

  I don’t even know how

  to get hold of Ma-maw

  and Pops. That makes me

  feel very alone and a little

  scared. One time when I was

  maybe eight I got off the school

  bus and no one was there to

  meet me, so I walked back

  to the house where we were

  living. Dad’s woman du jour

  was gone. So was he, and it

  was hours before he got back.

  I was petrified I’d be alone forever.

  I inch closer to Gabe,

  till our legs almost touch.

  The autumn air is cool, and

  the heat of his bo
dy through

  his jeans and Levi’s shirt

  is noticeable. Couple that

  with the clean, leathery

  scent lifting off his skin,

  it’s borderline sensory

  overload. It’s a good thing.

  So, Naturally

  I backpedal immediately.

  Put distance between us.

  Quick, change the subject.

  I ask how he likes his job,

  the one my dad helped him

  get—part-time work at the shop.

  He says other than the grease

  and porn on the wall it’s decent.

  There’s a joke there somewhere

  because he grins and then

  hot damn, man, is he gorgeous.

  I push that thought aside and

  search for the humor, and

  when I finally understand,

  reward him with rich laughter.

  Now a single word surfaces

  inside my head: comfortable.

  That’s the way I feel with Gabe.

  No. Not right. More like half

  the way I feel. The other half

  is uncomfortably turned on.

  I Command

  That half to remain very, very quiet,

  and am more than a little relieved

  when Dad bombs through the door,

  carrying a platter of sausages.

  Gabe jumps to his feet. Here, let me

  help. Barbecue is one thing I’m pretty

  darn good at. Dad was a great teacher.

  Oh, he must have been, agrees Zelda.

  I remember this one time . . . She takes

  Gabe’s arm and steers him toward

  the grill. Dad follows, weaving slightly.

  I cross my fingers that our dinner

  doesn’t crash-land on the ground,

  but my luck or Dad’s, the hot dogs

  end up dirt free on the barbie. Watching

  the scene unfold initiates my huge sigh

  at the domesticity of it all—something

  I struggle to reconcile in connection

  to Dad and me. The idea of extended

  family is totally foreign. I command

  my inner voice to shut the hell up

  and let me enjoy what’s left of this

  day without overthinking or dissecting

  or second-guessing or otherwise closing

  myself off to perhaps very real possibilities.

  After We Eat

  Dad switches from beer

  to tequila. This will turn