morning and again before bed.
But even after I was old enough to choose my own wardrobe
and cut my hair if that’s what I wanted, I felt right in my body.
As for attraction, I thought some girls were prettier than others, and ditto for good-looking boys, but didn’t everyone think that way?
With sexual awareness came new understanding, but that arrived relatively late, and not only
because moving so much prevented any real connection, but there also seemed to be physiological reasons for that. I never even had a period until I was almost fifteen.
When I talked to my health teacher about it, she suggested I see a doctor.
That took some convincing for Dad to finally let me go to Planned Parenthood, which was the only place we could afford. PP did a whole workup, and the ob-gyn told me the delay was probably because of a lack of early nutrition. Thanks so much, Father-of-the-Decade.
At least it wasn’t a true hormonal problem, something my height
and decent breast development
denied. I was ecstatic to know things were mostly right with
my body. Not like I ever had anyone I could really talk to about things like periods. Dad, of course, would swear otherwise, insist I could discuss anything with him. Yeah, right.
A Few Years Ago
Just about the time
I first really noticed there was a difference between boys and girls, we were living with
Jewel, the only one
of Dad’s women who
had kids of her own
in the same house.
Debra was younger
than I was, but Shayla was three years older, and had a boyfriend
who came over once
in a while, mostly when Dad and Jewel were out.
One time I made
the mistake of telling Dad I thought Carlos
was kind of cute.
Cute! he roared. Boys are not cute, they’re wild animals, and I’d better not ever catch you with a Mexican, understand me, missy? He shook me hard for emphasis.
I heard, but even with the jaw-snapping reminder, didn’t understand.
What I took away
from the experience
was the message that
I should never bring up anything about boys
to my dad. Especially not Mexican boys, or
Mexican anything.
So the time Debra and I were playing hide-and-seek, and I burst into Shayla’s room while
she and Carlos were
doing some naked thing together, I kept my mouth sealed. And when she
wound up pregnant at
the tender age of fourteen, I barely knew enough
to put the two things together. And only later did I realize had I said something sooner, Shayla might’ve escaped that fate.
So, No
Dad is totally unavailable to in-need-of-a-confessor, completely confused me.
Can’t talk to Monica about Gabe, and
though Gabe claims an open mind about my thing with Monica, in-depth conversation about it would feel all wrong. The only other person I can maybe discuss it with is Syrah, except she’s not the most
discreet girl in the world.
For now, I guess,
I’ll keep dissecting it internally and hope the process doesn’t devour me alive,
from the inside out.
Even Beyond the Triad
Something primitive, feral, really,
has taken possession of me.
Sometimes
it feels like a superpower.
Sometimes
it feels like an Achilles’ heel.
At school, when I cruise the hallways,
I view people through a new lens.
It’s not just are they cute, or do they smile at me. It’s how they make me feel.
Turned off?
Turned on? More and more it’s the latter.
Guys. Girls. Doesn’t matter.
That both intrigues and scares the hell out of me.
What’s truly terrifying is they notice it.
That Transparency
Is beyond my ability to control.
It’s like living inside one of those dreams where you’re naked in a public place, except skinned in plastic wrap.
People can see your heartbeat
quicken or the way your breath falls shallow inside the draw of your lungs, or the acceleration of your brain’s electric impulses which signals an unexpected blush of desire.
Sometimes they look away.
Sometimes they stop and gaze.
Once in a while the person
you catch staring puts you straight on edge. Yesterday on my way
to the gym, I felt eyes laser in, and when I glanced around
in search of them, it was Garrett I found studying me, intently, as if finding something new.
I expected an ugly remark
or a flipped middle finger, maybe two. Instead, he smiled, creeping me out with his undisguised interest.
Today Is Gobbler Day
As Dad likes to call Thanksgiving.
I’ll be spending it with Gabe, doing most of the cooking at Zelda’s. She has a big oven and all the pots, pans, and various utensils we need. Dad and I
have never cooked an actual turkey
ourselves, on our own. In the past
we either went out or relied on whoever we were living with to provide dinner.