I’m being yanked in two directions, and either way I go offers conflict.
To my left, Gabe.
Soft-spoken.
Smart.
Funny.
To my right, Monica.
Opinionated.
Smart-ass.
Hilarious.
Left.
Ambition.
Loyalty.
Patience.
Right.
Talent.
Honesty.
Comfort.
Left.
Boy.
Right.
Girl.
The Last Comparison
Means the least, honestly, and I’m more and more sure about that, though I still haven’t given in to the growing desire to go all the way either way.
I want to.
I’m scared to.
Because it would
feel like commitment.
Maybe I don’t want to choose, and I’m not talking about left or right. I’m talking about Gabe or Monica. I don’t think I’m allowed to have both.
I hear people talk.
I know how they feel
about “someone like me.”
There’s no such thing as “bi.”
That means they’ll fuck anything.
They’re . . . (depending on who’s talking) straight or gay, and going through a phase or in total denial.
They’re full of shit.
They’re mentally ill.
These Sentiments
Bother me
not because I think they’re wrong, but because I worry they might be right, in whatever ways.
What if
? my brain is in serious need of rewiring?
? I’m totally topped off with manure?
? I’m straight—or gay— and keep denying that obvious fact?
? all I really want to do is screw indiscriminately?
? there’s no such thing as bi?
All I Know
For sure is I’m totally distracted from the things I should be thinking about—schoolwork, teamwork— while trying to figure this stuff out, not to mention keeping Dad in total darkness about this major change in me.
Paying attention in my classes today was a losing battle. Mr. Santos called me on it, too, in third-period Spanish.
Se?orita Pearson. ?Dónde estás?
Por favor, únete a nosotros aquí en el planeta tierra. Or, roughly translated, Miss Pearson. Where are you? Please join us here on planet earth. Which, of course, tore everyone else out of their
personal stupors, busting them
up like they weren’t just as guilty, though I doubt their thoughts had strayed anywhere close to mine.
Then again, I can’t be certain. Maybe every single person in that class
is an oversexed full-of-shit lunatic.
One of the Hardest Things
About my left/right dilemma
is balancing spending time with Monica and Gabe. I love being with both, but not in the same space. The right/left day I tried was one of the strangest ever.
I mean, they attempted to be nice to each other, but the narrow stream of jealousy that flowed between them burgeoned into a regular river before the afternoon was through, and I’m afraid
the fault was mostly mine.
I tried not to flirt, which probably made it even more obvious that I really wanted to. After we left the hospital, first we went for burgers, and it wasn’t so bad while all of us were stuffing our faces. Then we decided
to play tourist and walk around downtown Sonora. It’s mostly just shops and places to eat, but the fun was supposed to be the company, and it was for a while.
Then stupid me, walking between them, I slipped one of my hands into Monica’s, the other into Gabe’s, and all I could do as we strolled along the sidewalk was compare the two. Size.
Softness. Texture. The weight of the pressure each applied.
Monica’s fingers felt like eels— smooth and cool and slender.
Gabe’s were more like sausages— plump and warm and dimpled,
and they gripped mine tightly.
Securely. That’s it. He made me feel safe. Monica kept
slipping hers up and down,
in and out of mine, the way
a little child might. Playful.
That’s right. She’s my one
true source of fun. I love her.
I do. And the screwed-up thing is I think I’m falling hard
for Gabe, too. Is there such a thing as promiscuous love, or does it only apply to sex?
My Brain’s Relentless
It really needs to stop processing anything other than basketball drills at the moment, and all it does is argue with me. Earth to Pearson! yells Coach Booker, echoing Mr. Santos, only in English. You’ve made that shot a hundred times. Yank your head out of your butt, would you, please?
It takes force of will, but I do as she so bluntly requests, managing to land a three-pointer, not that those count in practice. “How’s that for an apology?” I shout back.
But I’m so busy being a smart-ass that I don’t notice Syrah right in front of me. I crash into her at decent speed and we both hit
the floor. Jesus freaking Buddha!
Syrah screeches, using the Spanish Hey-suess pronunciation. That makes everyone laugh, including Syrah and me, despite what
I’m sure will become awesome
bruises on both our rear ends.
Monica Sprints Over
Holds out her hands,
offering to help me
up from the floor.
When they connect
with mine, the subsequent electric arcs almost make me pull away. Instead, I let her tug me to my feet.
That had to hurt, she says. You should pay better attention.