definitely be an issue except I stay after school to practice and Syrah chauffeurs me home, often with a stop for a burger on the way, so there’s less cooking to do.
I hope Dad will make time to come
to home games. He claims he’s proud of me, but I never see the truth of that reflected in his eyes. Words are easy.
Maybe if he witnesses my ability
on the court, he’ll recognize how hard I’ve worked to rise above mediocrity, and reward me with honest respect.
That Being the Case
I’d prefer he not realize the reason I’m in the bathroom not long past
daybreak is because I need pain
relief for the residual effects of too much vodka consumed rather quickly.
I swallow a couple of aspirin, chase them with a whole lot of water, pee out what I can, and return to my bed.
This time when I crawl over the foot and across the mattress, the groan of the frame wakes Monica. Hey, she whispers softly. Can I get in bed with you? Sleeping on the floor sucks.
I pull back the covers, invite her beneath them. It’s a double bed,
so there’s plenty of room. Still,
our feet touch. Who knew toe
connection could create sparks?
It scares me, but I don’t move, and neither does Monica. Happy birthday, novia. Do you feel different this morning?
We both keep our voices low, so we don’t disturb Syrah. “If you mean do I feel older, not really. If you mean do I feel hungover, damn straight. How
about you? Do you need some aspirin?”
I Expect Her
To admit she needs exactly
that. Instead, she shakes her head.
No. Te necesito. I need you.
She traces the line of my jaw
with one gentle finger. Now
I’m terrified. But I stay very still and she presses no further.
In fact, she turns over. Maybe now I can finally get some sleep.
“You were sleeping before.
I know because you snore.”
Lo sé, she sighs. Get used to it.
She sighs again, dips into slumber.
I lie back against my pillow,
inhaling the cologne of sun-toasted skin and coconut oil lifting off her shiny black satin hair. The scent rustles leaves of memory in a forest too dark to enter. Longing, not sexual, but more a need for connection
stirs, upwelling suddenly at Monica’s dream-driven sigh. Novia. Te necesito.
I Wake Again
This time to a window bright
with sunlight and some foreign
movement disturbing my sheets.
Monica. Yes. Everything comes
tumbling back in one moment
of clear consciousness. “Morning.”
Still prone on the floor, Syrah
peeks up through heavy lashes.
Oh, man. My mouth tastes like rotten potatoes. And I need coffee.
Monica sits up beside me. Coffee?
Si, lo quiero también. And I’m starving.
Wish we had leftover tamales instead of pigging out on them last night.
“You guys actually drink coffee?
Like, to wake up in the morning?
The only way I can choke it down is
cut with cream and enough sugar
to trigger a diabetic coma.”
I vow to attempt the Mr. Coffee anyway, and we pad to the kitchen in our pj’s.
My pj’s, actually, as neither Monica nor Syrah brought theirs to the impromptu slumber party. Both fight the extra
leg length, especially Syrah, who says, Jeez, Ariel. How tall are you, anyway?
“Five ten plus. Hopefully I’m done growing now. As my dad always says,
it’s hard for tall girls to find dates.”
Maybe dates with boys, corrects Monica. Personally, I kind of like my women built like Amazons.
Shut up! exclaims Syrah. Listen, I am a total ally. But here’s the deal.
I really don’t want to hear details.
That’s ’cause you’re dumb, says Monica. The details are the best part. She’s claimed the Mr. Coffee, located the Folgers, and poured water into the reservoir. You got filters?
It takes a couple of cupboard
explorations to find them, and
while I’m looking it occurs to me
that I wouldn’t trade my Freak
Club friends for membership
in the Popular Pack, even without
a required BJ initiation. Monica’s
queer, Syrah swears she’s not, but
she doesn’t judge or question or get all fake about liking Monica anyway.
And neither has insisted I declare
myself gay, straight, or just confused.
I’m Confused
About a lot of things,
including the coffee—
making process, but
I am totally clear on
how to make a killer
omelet for three, and
that’s what I’m working
on when Dad and Zelda
materialize, scarlet-eyed and crazy-haired. They
must have gotten past
bickering long enough
to engage in (yeesh!)
creepy old-people sex.
I don’t care what that
involves, don’t want to
consider the visuals.
The vague smell of
rutting is more than
enough to stimulate
a gigantic yuck factor.
Morning, girls, says Dad.
Smelled the coffee and thought we’d come help ourselves. That okay?
When we agree that it
is, he comes over and
nudges me. When did you start drinking coffee, anyway?
I could say I didn’t really, that this pot was mostly meant for my friends.
Instead, I tell him, “This seemed like as good a day as any. Seventeen and