Tears stream from my puffing eyes, down my superheated
cheeks. I must look like shit, not that I care, because
I definitely feel like a huge steaming mound of crap.
Leering Faces
Masks
of real people
surround me in
a wide semicircle.
I glance face to face to face.
Maya looks pummeled.
Spiky looks sad.
Zelda looks stunned.
My friends look confused.
Dad looks ready to detonate.
And when Maya lifts her eyes from the ground,
meeting mine to beg compassion, he does.
I will kill you, bitch!
He lunges toward her, hands outstretched as if seeking her neck, and I scream, “No, Dad, stop!”
This time it’s Gabe who steps in.
Hold it right there, Mark.
You wouldn’t really hurt her, would you? Let’s work this out like civilized people.
Dad Looks More
Like a caged wolf.
Wary. Confused.
Bone-deep pissed.
Hatred shimmers
in his eyes.
Also fear.
And like a trapped animal, fear makes him dangerous.
Still, he pretends courage.
Get out of my way, kid.
I ain’t afraid of you.
He steps into Gabe, swinging wildly.
But Dad has grown
slow and is out of practice.
Gabe steps to one side and Dad’s momentum carries him too far forward.
He goes down on one knee as everyone else scatters.
I don’t want to hurt you, Mark. Don’t get up.
Dad doesn’t understand the danger, springs to his feet.
I picture Garrett and Keith, just last night.
“No, no, no, no, no!”
I Can’t Watch
I turn.
Run for my car.
Don’t look back.
Don’t look back.
People shout my name.
Ariel!
Casey!
Who am I?
Who am I?
“Leave me alone!”
Don’t follow me.
Don’t follow me.
What just happened?
What the fuck
just happened?
I don’t get it.
I don’t get it.
I jam the keys in the ignition.
Start, car, start.
It does, no problem, despite my quaking hands.
The space in front is empty. I gun the car, barely glancing at the group splintering in different directions.
Monica comes running, waving to stop.
Dad is right on her heels.
Don’t hurt her.
Don’t hurt her.
He won’t.
Gabe won’t let him.
I drive right past.
Can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
How do I process this?
Maya McCabe.
Who is this woman who claims to be my mom?
My mom?
Impossible.
Shows up.
At my game.
Just like that.
Materializes
out of thin air.
How the hell does that happen after all this time?
And Casey? Who is she?
My Name
Is Ariel.
Ariel Pearson.
And my dad
is Mark Pearson.
Not Jason Baxter.
Why does Maya McCabe, who so can’t be my mother, let alone my mom, insist my name is Casey?
I’ve never even met a Casey. I can’t be one.
She’s crazy.
That’s it.
Maya McCabe is crazy.
My name is Ariel.
Air. Ari.
I’ll even take Ari Fairy.
Which circles me right back to Dad.
Mark Pearson.
Not Jason Baxter.
Right?
He couldn’t have— wouldn’t have?— woven my entire history into a tapestry of lies.
I Drive
And drive, looking in the rearview mirror, but there’s no sign of anyone following me.
Head spinning, I cycle through snapshots of my past.
All those women.
My teachers.
Ma-maw and Pops.
None of them ever called me Casey. None
I can remember.
No, I must be Ariel.
I drive until I notice my gas gauge registers under a half tank.
Work tomorrow.
School all week.
I have no money
and won’t get paid until the eighteenth.
That’s Ariel thinking.
Casey’s asking:
Work?
School?
You’re kidding, right?
Pertinent Question
Who am I kidding?
How can I go to work?
How can I go to school?
How can I play basketball, or hang out with my friends or fall in love or dare to dream about my future?
How can anything
be normal again?
In fact, what’s normal?
How would I know
when I can’t even be sure who the fuck I am?
Casey. Casey Baxter.
Are you a part of me?
Are you who I am?
“This is who I am!”
That’s what I want to yell, but I need certainty.
I need the truth of me.
But who can I believe?
I Stop the Car
In a wide turnout,
try to decide where
to go from here.
My cell has buzzed
messages for over an hour.
I scroll through them while I consider my next move.
Everyone wants to talk.
Dad: WE HAVE TO TALK. COME HOME RIGHT NOW.
At some point. But not yet.
From Syrah: WOW. THAT WAS WEIRD. I’M HERE IF YOU
WANT TO TALK.
Maybe later.
From Monica: LO SIENTO, NOVIA. YOU’RE STILL
COMING OVER, YEAH? YOU CAN TALK TO ME, OKAY?
I know. But not now.
And I can’t even consider a boisterous Torres crowd when all I want to do is fall into bed and sleep this away.
From Gabe: AUNT ZELDA WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO
YOU. I KNOW YOU’RE UPSET. SO IS SHE.
Upset
Yeah. I bet she is.
I get it completely.
Upset.
Confused.
In need of a giant dose of truth.
I’ve always known Dad was unreliable.
Self-centered.