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
still a coffee virgin? I’d
never live that down.”
Seventeen? When did that
happen? He grins like a total
goober. Oh. That’s right. Today’s
your birthday, isn’t it? Well,
happy, happy, Ari Fairy.
“Dad!” Inevitable laughter
spills from the mouths
of my so-called friends.
Nothing to do but laugh
along with them. “God, Dad,
I’m not, like, four anymore.”
Too bad, too. You were such
an adorable little girl. He
watches Zelda pour coffee
and put two spoons of sugar
in each mug. What the hell
do you think you’re doing?!
All Laughter
And pleasant conversation
brake to a complete standstill.
Zelda freezes. What do you
mean? What did I do now?
You put all that goddamn sugar
in my coffee. What the fuck for?
Zelda’s jaw drops. But Mark,
you always put sugar in your coffee.
Only in the sludge they serve
in town. I told you before . . .
Her head is twisting side to side.
Are you saying no milk, either?
That’s exactly what I’m saying.
I don’t know why you’re acting
like this is some big surprise.
It’s not like we haven’t had coffee
at home before. Brew Folgers right,
no need to make it fucking sweet.
“Here, I’ll take the one with sugar,”
I offer, mostly to make them shut up.
What a Strange Exchange
It’s unsettling, and I really wish
they’d stop. Monica and Syrah
are trying not to participate as
spectators, but that’s pretty hard.
“Eggs are done. You guys want
to eat outside?” I don’t wait for
them to answer because I know
they must be as uncomfortable
as I am. I divide the omelet into
three portions, put them on paper
plates, and hand them out. “Don’t
forget your coffee.” I grab my own
syrupy cup, and we head off for
our alfresco dining experience.
We’ve barely cleared the door
when Monica says, What was that
all about? How long have they been
together? Like, six months?
You’d think she’d know how your
dad likes his coffee by now, right?
I settle into a chair, take a bite
before I answer. “No one said
she’s the brightest bulb, but yeah,
seems like she ought to by now.”
Well, I’m not positive, but it looked
like your dad wanted to pick a fight,
says Syrah. Is he always so argumentative?
And what about that Ari Fairy thing?
My face ignites. “He hasn’t called
me that since I was really little.
He just wanted to embarrass me.
And yes, he enjoys a good argument.”
Saying it out loud makes me realize
just how true the statement is.
Sometimes he insists things are
honest-to-God facts, when I know
they’re not. It’s like a big game
for him. Regular entertainment.
The point is to make his opponent
question her beliefs. Maybe even
her sanity. I use the feminine
pronoun because it’s almost
always a female he coerces
into playing. That includes me.
I take a sip of coffee, now cooled
to lukewarm. “Hey. This isn’t bad. I
don’t get what Dad was griping
about.” Actually, now I consider it,
I think Zelda was right. I remember
sneaking a sip of his coffee a couple
of times. It was always sweet.
And milky. It reminded me of hot
cocoa, only made with coffee ice
cream. Has he really changed
the way he drinks his Folgers?
Never mind. I already know
the answer. But why mess with
Zelda, and why exactly then?
I wish I could figure out the rules
to Dad’s confounding games.
What I do know is if you call him
on his bullshit, first thing he does
is deny he ever said it in the first
place. If that doesn’t work, he’ll swear
you misunderstood. And if you still
hold your ground, he’ll go all-out
verbal attack, doing his best to
convince you that you’re victimizing
him. If you don’t back off then, things
can progress quickly to physical
violence. I learned the hard way
to zip it sooner rather than later.
But Then Comes
The inevitable apology,
and it’s always so sincere
there’s no possible way
not to forgive him.
He swears everything
he does, he does for me,
and how can I not
believe him, when
he loves me more
than life itself—
another regular vow.
Up to a point,
I understand where
his cruel streak began.
As a soldier, he saw things
that, God willing, I’ll never see—
flesh-chewed corpses
and people left living,
but missing limbs
or lacking intact brains.
So, yeah, I cut him
a lot of slack, and anyway,
he’s been around the block
a time or two, as the saying
goes. He knows things
I’ve yet to learn,
so I listen to his advice,
even when it confuses me.
Omelet Finished
We’re still sitting outside
in my pj’s, warmed by tepid
October sunshine,
when Garrett and Keith
go chug-chugging by,
headed toward town.
Garrett honks, Keith opens
his window long enough to
give us the finger, and Syrah
says, Hell yeah! Now I can say
those assholes saw me in lingerie.
I still have a chance at popularity.
That cracks me up, and Monica
actually spits out a mouthful
of coffee. Lingerie! Oh, baby,
these are some sexy jammies.
She pronounces the j like
an h, Spanish language–style.
Probably the sexiest hammies
those boys have ever seen, at
least on real flesh-and-blood girls.
Porn star bitches don’t count.
“Girl, I happen to be attached
to these pahamas, and at least
they know we wear them. They
probably fantasized all night
about the naked lesbian party
happening just down the road.
Hey. You think they spotted
the Popov bottle in back?”
We decide that’s highly unlikely,
considering their general state
of awareness. “And that stinking
exhaust is so loud, I doubt
they’d hear it rolling around.”
Oh, says Syrah. What time is it,
anyway? I’m supposed to be at
work by eleven. They’ve got me
doing the lunch shift today.
She waits tables at the Diamondback
Grill. Best cheeseburgers in town.
“It’s probably around ten.
We were up a little after nine.”
Much later than I usually get up.
I’m an early riser for the most part.
Can I catch a ride? asks Monica.
My brother said he’d pick me up,
but I could be waiting forever.
“So sorry my company sucks.”
I pout, pretending to be hurt.
But I get it. Dad and Zelda
are way too present inside.
I Expect Zelda
To hang out all day, in fact.
She usually stays the weekend.
So I’m surprised when she asks
for a ride back into town with
Syrah. Not sure if it’s because
of the earlier stress or what.
She claims something else.
My nephew’s coming to visit
for a while. His father passed
away recently, and my sister’s
having a real tough time dealing
with everything. I want you to
meet Gabe. You two will get along.
We’re waiting for Monica
and Syrah to exit my bedroom
dressed in something other
than hammies. “I’m sorry,”
I tell her, because that’s what
you say to someone dealing
with a loss, even peripherally.
“Is Gabe going to go to SHS?”
No. He’s nineteen. Your dad
at the shop. Gabe’s a pretty good
mechanic himself. And this might
sound weird, coming from his old
aunt, but he’s easy on the eyes.
Awesome
She wants to set me up with
her nephew, who’s too old,
too greasy, and too connected
to Zelda to possibly be the man
of my dreams, as if I’m dreaming
about men to start with. But since
she’s being nice, and since I feel
sorry for the way Dad talked to her
earlier, I find myself agreeing to stop
by her house tomorrow after practice
to meet him. “As long as I can
convince Syrah to give me a ride.”
She offers a knowing smile.
I hear you’ll be able to drive
yourself around pretty soon.
I stop my eyes mid-roll. “Really?
How’s that supposed to happen?”
I don’t have a license, not to mention
a vehicle. Zelda lowers her voice.
I’m not supposed to say anything,
but Mark’s been looking at used cars.
Before she can say more, Dad
comes blustering down the hall.
He looks at Zelda. Ready to go?
She Holds Up One Hand
As if to say stop. No worries.
You don’t have to take me.
Ari’s friend offered to give
me a ride home. Oh . . .
She glances at me nervously.
Is it okay to call you Ari?
I’m not big on nicknames,
but
at least she asked,
and it kind of feels warm.
I’d say like family, but that’s
something I don’t have much
experience with. I start to tell
her it’s fine, but before I can open
my mouth, Dad interjects,
No, it’s not okay, it’s way
too goddamn familiar.
She’s my daughter and
I don’t even call her Ari.
Unless he attaches
“Fairy” to it, apparently,
but I’m not jumping into
this round of his game
except to say, “I don’t mind,”
disregarding the eye arrows
he shoots in my direction.
Zelda Ducks Them, Too
Choosing to use my un-nicked
name. Anyway, I’ll go ahead
and ride back into town with
Ariel’s friends so I don’t
interrupt your day. I know
you’ve made other plans.
Dad scowls. What the hell are
you talking about, woman? My plan
was to buy some beer, take you
home, and watch the Astros game
at your house. She’s got a big-screen
TV. We don’t. Houston’s on a roll.
Zelda shoots me a sympathetic
glance. It’s your daughter’s
birthday, Mark. Spend it with her.
Now you’re telling me what to
do? But when he notices the hurt
in my eyes, he says, Fine, goddamn it.
Stung to the core, tears threaten.
I push them away. “It’s okay, Dad.
You watch the game. I’m good.”
No, no, he backtracks. Zelda’s right.
A girl only turns seventeen once.
What would you like to do today?
Hard Question
I’m considering my answer
when Syrah and Monica finally
appear, dressed in yesterday’s
clothing, which is wrinkled
and carries vague essences
of tamales, vodka, and weed.
Emphasis on the Mexican food,
thank goodness, and maybe
the rest is all in my head. Dad
and Zelda don’t seem to notice.
Okay, says Syrah. Better hustle.
I have to stop at home and change.
Come by the restaurant later and
we’ll do something cool for your day.
Something cool like a sundae?
asks Monica. ’Cause you can count
me in! Let me know what time
if you’re going, okay? I’ll even
bring the candles. She comes over.
Gives me a hug.
A long hug.
Long enough
to make me squirm,