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 . . .