has started to worry about the wait.
What took so long? Thought you two took off with what’s left of the vodka.
“Nah. We just got waylaid by Keith and Garrett, who wanted to party
with us lesbians as long as we were providing the booze and were willing to try what was right there in their pants. Garrett’s sure he can ‘cure’ us.”
I have got to quit hanging out with dykes. Just think. I could be part of the popular crowd instead.
“Don’t call me a dyke. I mean, just because one of my best friends
is queer doesn’t make me that way.”
I smile at Monica’s obvious eye
roll. “Anyway, I bet if one of us
would give those boys head, we could be popular, too.” We look at one
another, all serious like, before we bust up laughing again. “’Kay, never mind.”
We finish off the vodka, and despite the blooming buzz, a brilliant idea jumps into my brain. “You guys up for a little walk? I think I figured out how to dispose of the evidence.” I hold up the empty bottle and outline my plan.
No one objects, so off we go down
the road to Garrett’s house. By the time we arrive, there’s no sign of the guys, though the bass boom of music tells us they’re inside. Easy peasy. “Think I should wipe off our fingerprints?”
Without waiting for an answer, I use my shirttail to do just that, then place the bottle in the bed of Garrett’s pickup.
Syrah Isn’t Finished
Keep an eye out, she orders.
More quietly than I would’ve thought possible, she opens the truck’s passenger door, sticks her head inside.
She’s making me nervous, whispers Monica, and I agree.
Monica looks in one direction, I keep tabs on the other,
while Syrah pokes around
in the glove box in search of what, exactly, I have no clue.
Surely Garrett wouldn’t leave valuables in his truck.
Ha! It’s not weed, but . . .
She exits the cab suddenly, with a box in her hand, shuts the door almost as noiselessly as she opened it, nudges Monica.
Hurry up. Let’s go.
We Quick-Time
Away from Garrett’s,
where the music’s still
blasting, obscuring all
the noise we’ve made.
I’ve got no idea what’s
in Syrah’s right hand,
but it must be amazing
because she’s laughing
in a way that means
she’s congratulating
herself. We trot
toward home at an easy
gait, but as we pass
the first neighbor’s house, his dog starts barking— huge hoarse hrrufs that make us pray
his fence is solid,
and send us sprinting
up the middle
of the road, howling
laughter in response.
“Don’t look back!”
I urge, but of course
all of us keep glancing
over our shoulders.
See anything? hisses Monica, trying not to trip over obstacles obscured
by night’s shadows.
“Nah. There’s nothing
behind us.” No dog.
No dweebs. No sputtering
truck. Looks like we
escaped in the clear.
Finally, damp-haired
with sweat and winded,
we turn into my driveway, Syrah still in the lead.
Once we’re on the porch,
I tap her shoulder.
“So, tell us, Sherlock.
What did you find?”
When she turns, the look
on her face is priceless.
Check it out. Why would Garrett need these?
She lifts a small carton
up under the porch light.
Trojan condoms. Latex.
Ultrathin. Lubricated.
Thirty-six-count value pack.
“You stole Garrett’s condoms? What if he
actually does get lucky?”
We all look at one another and totally bust up.
Garrett would never get that lucky, says Monica when she finally stops
hiccuping laughter.
That’s for sure. This right here is a lifetime supply of rubbers for Garrett, adds Syrah, and that makes the three of us dissolve
into a fit of amusement
again. We go inside, still laughing, retreat to my
room in case Dad comes
home. I put on some music and for some crazy reason that no doubt has everything to do with vodka and weed, Syrah decides to play with the foil packets. She opens one, extracts the condom, stretches it full length.
Jeez, the guy thinks a lot of himself. I kind of thought he was dickless. Hey, think fast! She tosses a couple at Monica, who
catches them on the fly.
What am I supposed to do with these? she complains.
Syrah shrugs. Use ’em for water balloons? Give ’em to your big brother? I just know I don’t need all of them.
I haven’t gotten lucky myself lately. Okay, ever.
Now she opens the drawer
in my nightstand, practices sinking shots from across the room before finally
growing bored with the game.
All right, everyone’s stocked up on latex. Everyone except Garrett, that is. And . . .
We’re laughing again. Hot damn, is it great to have friends.
Maya