amount of food around.
When we weren’t bumming
meals off some sympathetic
woman, we survived on gas
station hot dogs, outlet store
bargains, and food pantry
handouts. On those lucky
days when I got fast food,
it was always kid’s meals,
even after I outgrew kidhood.
I didn’t dare complain,
of course, not even when
there was nothing at all.
I learned to make do with
whatever was offered.
And now my stomach still
can’t quite accept larger-
than-child-size portions.
The Spartan rations are
enough to fuel my daily
activities, but don’t allow
me a spare ounce of flesh.
I’m a Rectangle
Monica has curves,
and if tamales can round
out my straight lines
a little, I’m damn sure
going to give them a try.
Besides, when she peels
back the foil, the spicy-
sweet aroma arouses
a growl in the pit of my belly.
“Oh my God. If those taste
half as good as they smell,
my mouth’s going to
have an orgasm.”
Okay, that’s kind of nasty.
But I like it. And believe me,
they taste better, so I’m gonna
be watching your mouth.
Straightforward interest,
barely disguised as humor.
That’s fine. We’ve played
this game for a while now.
I can’t win because Monica
knows exactly who she is.
I’m just starting
to figure out me.
I Just Graduated from Tacos
Because tamales are dope.
I polish off two without
thinking about it, am eyeing
a third when the doorbell rings.
Monica looks up from her
plate, where she’s working
on her fourth. You expecting
someone? she mutters around
a big bite. I shake my head.
“I’ve got no clue who that can
be. But I guess I should find out.
Don’t you dare finish those.”
She smiles. Better hurry.
Tamales disappear around me.
Glad you like them, though.
You could use a little meat—
“On my skinny damn bones?
Yeah, I know. That’s what Dad says.”
I go to the front door, peek
out the adjacent window to make
sure I’m not opening it for a mass
murderer or something. But, no,
it’s just Syrah, who’s basically
my other friend. I unlock the dead bolt.
Speaking of Bolts
That’s what Syrah does, right past
me. “Uh . . . come on in?” I offer.
Duh. I already did. Hey, what do
I smell? Mexican food? Score!
She zips straight toward the kitchen.
Syrah moves at two velocities:
freeway speed limit or stoned.
I trail her, feeling no jealous stab
at all as I watch her retreating form.
Monica has curves, but they’re carved.
She’s granite. Syrah’s soft outside
and in. It’s the inside that counts,
and that’s why I like her, though
you wouldn’t know how decent
she is if you only listened to her talk.
Sometimes she’s got an obnoxious
mouth. Sometimes I do, too, courtesy
of my ex-military dad, who uses every
awful word in the book anytime
he gets a little wasted. C’est la vie.
By the Time
I reach the kitchen, Syrah
has already helped herself
to two tamales, leaving
the last three in the pan.
“Should we finish those
now, or save them for later?”
Better save ’em, says Syrah.
We might get the munchies.
I know your birthday’s not
till tomorrow, but I brought
you a present. Two, in fact.
She reaches into her purse
and, like magic, a full bottle
of vodka appears, along with
a couple of rolled cigarettes.
“I don’t suppose that’s tobacco.”
Syrah laughs. It’s a lot pricier.
But I swiped these from my crack-
brained brother. I’ll catch hell
for it later, but I don’t give a shit.
And that’s why we love you.
Monica takes her plate over
to the sink, opens the vodka,
and sniffs. Pee-yew. You stole
this, too, I’m guessing. Yeah?
Let’s just call it borrowing,
not that I’ll give it back, but
who cares? My mom stocks
up on this stuff five bottles at
a time. She was halfway to blitzed
when I left. She’ll never miss it.
We finish eating and I take
the time to wash the dishes.
The last thing I want is to
invite one of Dad’s ugly scenes.
He despises a dirty kitchen.
A dirty anything, really, except
maybe Zelda. Ooh. Ugly thought.
Got any OJ? Syrah pokes her
head into the fridge, withdraws
with a carton of orange juice.
Aw, come on. You don’t like
vodka straight? But Monica
says it with a smile. Does
anyone like vodka straight?
I take three tumblers from
the cupboard, hand them to
Syrah. “We have to go outside.
I really don’t need my dad
to smell booze, let alone weed.”
We Pull Chairs
To the far side of the house,
away from the road. Luckily,
the manufactured homes in
this area sit on large lots.
We barely know our neighbors,
but then we never do.
Dad insists we keep our distance,
that we not invite
people living nearby
to borrow stuff or peek
in our windows. Okay by me.
Who needs a next-door spy,
especially when my girls
and I are sitting outside,
enjoying a toke or two?
Early October, the evening
is still really warm, made awesome
by little puffs of westerly breeze.
Said wind makes lighting the joint
something of a challenge, but one
Syrah is most definitely up to.
Got it. She takes a big drag,
holds it a very long time.
She passes the blunt, finally
exhales. So where’s your dad?
He won’t be home soon, will he?
Dad almost caught us the last
time we indulged, and while
he isn’t above maintaining
bad habits, he would not be
good with my having any.
“He went out dancing
with Zelda. They’ll definitely
be out late, unless they have
an argument or something.”
That’s not out of the question,
which reminds me to remain
alert to the possibility.
Zelda. Who in the actual fuck
names their kid Zelda?
Considering my own thoughts
earlier, both the question and her
colorful phrasing make me smile.
Monica snorts. Could be
the kind of mom who names
her kids Syrah and Chardonnay?
First of all, as you well know,
I pronounce my name SEER-uh,
not sir-AH. And second, so happens
Mom didn’t name us. Dad did.
First of all, just because you
mispronounce your name doesn’t
mean it isn’t actually sir-AH,
any more than your sister calling
herself char-DON-eye would
make her not Chardonnay.
And second, really? Your dad?
I thought your mom was the lush.
First off . . . Syrah raises her
hand for a high five. Touché,
bitch. And second, my dad used
to drink, same as Mom. After
they split up, he went all AA
because he fell for a churchy
straight-edge vegan chick
who never touched a damn
drop of booze in her life. Not
only that, but he married
her! Fucking unreal.
See, One Thing
About Freak Club membership,
no one’s feelings are easily hurt.
We’ve all erected force fields
to keep the haters from our truths.
When it’s just us we can lower
the barriers, allow our demons
a safe place to socialize, especially
when we’re partying, too.
We pass the weed, chug down
our screwdrivers, listen to crickets,
a dog yapping in the distance. “How
come you don’t you live with your dad?”
Syrah gives me one of those Are
you effing out of your mind? looks.
My mom would never let that happen.
Dad actually pays child support.
Anyway, we see him all the time,
and it’s not like he’s nicer sober.
In fact, he was a pretty cool drunk.
Sobriety made him lose his sense
of humor. Or maybe it made me
lose mine. I always feel stressed
when I’m around him. Of course,
my stepmom’s most of the problem.
I’ve Never Met Her
Then again, I’ve never
met Syrah’s dad, either,
just her mom, and I’ve
only bumped into her
a few times. We tend to
hang out when and where
our keepers aren’t around.
“What’s wrong with your
stepmom?” She’s got me
curious now. “I mean, if
you don’t mind telling us.”
Syrah shrugs. She and
Dad have two kids—twins,
and she’s always fussing
about the boys’ clothes and
hair, and don’t forget those
teeth! She’s a freaking tyrant,
and she thinks she can boss
me around, too. Just, nope.
Pretty sure that’s what
moms, step or the regular
kind, are supposed to do,
observes Monica. My mom
is the bossiest person ever.
The only difference is she
does her bossing in Spanish.
I’ve Met Monica’s Mom
I’ve met her entire immediate
family, in fact. Dad. Two big
brothers, one little sister, good
Catholics all. Well, Monica
is probably the exception.
She says she’s a Catholic in
constant need of confession.
What about your mom, Air? asks
Syrah. Is she the overbearing type?
The question hits square
in the diaphragm. Monica
shoots me a sympathetic look.
She knows about my mother,
but I’ve never talked to Syrah
about her. It’s more than a sore
subject. It’s a gaping wound,
barely scabbed over by time.
“For all I know, my mother’s
dead. She hit the highway
when I was two, and we
haven’t heard one word
from the bitch since.”
Wow. That’s shitty. Guess even
a drunk mom is better than none.
“Not necessarily.” My voice
is razor-edged. “Speaking of
drunk, I vote we get that way.”
I don’t want to talk about
her anymore, so I head in
to fix more screwdrivers.
Syrah stays put, but Monica
stands. I’ll help. She follows
me inside. Hey. You okay?
My hands shake as I pour
vodka. “Sure. Fine. Or I will be
soon.” I lift my drink, toasting
my sudden rotten mood.
Monica comes closer, takes
the glass away, and places
it on the counter. It’s okay
to be angry, novia.
The back of her hand
is a silk brushstroke
against my cheek,
so soft it invites tears.
The implication
makes me sway. But I can’t go
there. Not now. Not yet.
Wait, Wrong
I don’t dare
go there
ever.
Yes, I want
to fall hard
for someone,
experience love
and maybe
even lust.
However,
capital H,
it can’t be
with a girl.
That’s not
who I am.
Mustn’t be
what I am.
Not only
because of Dad,
who’d happily
kick the crap
out of me after
calling me every
name in his antigay
slur book.
Beyond the universal
fag
dyke
butch
muff diver
carpet muncher
etc.
would come words
he reserves for
my lesbian mother
and/or her girlfriend:
home wrecker
cheater
liar
whore
These things
are contrary
to everything
I know about me.
Though I have to admit
that knowledge
is elementary.
Who am I,
really?
Logic Suggests
I take a step back. Instinct
insists I hold my ground.
It feels good to be this close
to someone I care about.
And I do care
about Monica.
“It’s stupid to be mad
at someone who means
nothing. Now let’s go back
outside before SEER-uh
decides to come looking.”
Monica takes two glasses.
I carry mine, plus the vodka
bottle, now registering
two-thirds empty. “Remind
me to stash this somewhere
once we finish it off, okay?”
Like where? Under your bed?
“Ha-ha. Good question,
actually. Let me think
about it.” Where indeed?
If Dad finds it, I’m toast,
not to be confused with
toasted, which is what
&nb
sp; I’m rapidly becoming.
As We Start to Circle
To the far side of the house,
an engine in dire need
of a muffler comes coughing
and sputtering up the road,
working so hard there’s zero
doubt it’s going way too
fast at night where deer and
opossums and the occasional
bear often wander. The vehicle—
an old Chevy pickup that happens
to belong to Garrett Cole—slows
and the passenger window lowers.
The head that pops out is attached
to Keith Connelly. Hey, girls!
Is that vodka? Wanna party?
Garrett and Keith are world-class
third-string pretend-to-be jocks.
“Not with you!” I yell in their direction.
Now Garrett shouts his two cents.
Stupid lezbos. Bet what I got right
here in my pants could cure you.
“Maybe if you could actually
get it up!” I call cheerfully. “I mean,
for anyone besides each other.”
Yeah! adds Monica. Takes a queer
to know one. She and I both find
the exchange immensely funny.
The guys, however, don’t seem
to agree. Garrett punches the gas
pedal, kicking up a huge fog of dust
behind the farting exhaust pipe.
“Hope they forgot to roll up
the windows. What a couple
of dweebs.” Giggling like complete
dweebs ourselves, we continue
around the house, where Syrah
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