would be extremely hard.
Hillary’s parents own a huge
ranch. Thoroughbred horses
and black Angus cattle dot
the rolling hillsides, requiring
the oversight of a decent-size
crew of laborers. Local kids
sometimes get jobs out there,
mucking stalls and tossing hay.
Hillary would never stoop so low,
despite her love of all things
equine. The girl defines arrogance,
which isn’t totally her fault.
Not only is she privileged, but
she also happens to be smart,
talented, and a decent athlete.
The all-around rich American girl.
I’m not nearly as intelligent,
have no real talents to speak of.
The only place I’ve got her beat
is on the basketball court.
Today, However
She holds her own in practice,
which makes me work that much
harder, not that I have one damn
thing to prove, except to myself.
Coach loves me just as I am,
and so do my teammates (especially
one of them, who I’m dangerously
close to loving back). And honestly,
even Hillary treats me with respect
on the court, though she ignores me
anywhere else, other than to maybe
nod slightly, the way she might reward
the hired help. Regardless, we play
together on a team, and our shared
goals matter there. Guess you don’t
have to like someone to appreciate
their ability. I do admire Hillary’s.
But I have to admit I’m glad mine
is at least marginally better. If that
makes me immature, sticks and stones.
After Practice
I take the time to shower off the sweat
and wash my hair. Sometimes I’ll wait
until I get home to clean up, knowing
Syrah smells just as bad as I do, but
I don’t think Zelda would appreciate
me showing up scented like effort.
Or Gabe, either, not that I care
what he thinks. I’m not dressing to
impress some random guy, though
it’s only polite to show up clean.
On the way over to Zelda’s, Syrah
comments, So, you’ve never met this
Gabe guy, right? When I agree that
I haven’t, she actually asks, What if
he’s a knockout? You swing both ways?
“I don’t ‘swing’ at all. If you mean
have I ever been attracted to a guy,
well, yeah. But I’ve never acted
on it, or on any attraction, for that
matter.” The statement rings
true, and when she asks why
not, I’m straightforward. “Before
Sonora, we never lived one place long
enough for me to hook up with anyone.
And now, I guess, I’m a little scared.”
Afraid
Of lust, its recent bloom
inside of me. Powerful.
How do I control it?
Do I even want to try?
Anxious
about the mechanics,
seventeen and never
been kissed, at least not
in the context of romance.
Nervous
I’ll make an improper move.
Choose the wrong person
and not be able to correct
a dire mistake of the heart.
Uncertain
of outcomes. The future,
and my place in it, with
little to zero ability
Petrified
of falling all the way in love.
Lacking anything like a role
model, commitment isn’t
something I understand.
Beyond This Fear
Exists bone-deep trepidation
about my dad’s reaction
if he finds out I’ve fallen
for anyone at all.
Sharing isn’t his best thing,
and I’m pretty sure the idea
of divvying my affection
with someone else would
drive him totally crazy.
A guy would present a certain
kind of threat, of course.
But a girl? How can I ever
confess that? It would push
him all the way over the edge,
and that’s a shadowy, perilous
place I’d rather not revisit.
There’s teeth-rattling pain
there, wrapped in the skin
of my father’s hands.
I’m sure the vast majority
of parents expect their kids
to partner up eventually,
but Dad isn’t like most people.
The topic is off-limits.
Inaccessible. And I’m a whole
lot safer keeping it that way.
I Don’t Share
These intimate details
about my hesitant psyche
with Syrah. I’m not sure
I could confess them
to Monica, and probably
shouldn’t. The last thing
I want to do is hurt her.
Besides, as I recently read
in a book, Taking no chances
means wasting your dreams.
It’s past time to take chances.
I’m considering my dreams
when Syrah drops me off.
Stuck mid-musing about
my first kiss, I rap my knuckles
on Zelda’s front door, fully
anticipating she’ll answer it.
But when it opens, the face
on the far side is unexpected,
and so is my reaction to it.
Oh, hi. You must be Ariel.
I’m Gabe. Come in. His smile
softens his angular face, and
when I look into the deep ponds
of his eyes, interest surfaces.
In him. In me. It’s instant connection.
But what, exactly, can that mean?
Maya
Tomorrow will be three months since I met Jason. We’ve seen each other almost every weekend, and our relationship moved quickly to love. I mean, I guess it’s love, though I’m not sure it’s exactly the “deep, forever” kind, at least not yet. I’m willing to give it time, especially now. Meanwhile, he’s buying the beer, and the sex is amazing.
Jason wasn’t my first. I’ve been with other guys, all around my age or a little older, but hurried backseat sex, fumbling with belt buckles and condoms, didn’t really do much for me. Jason springs for a room, or sometimes borrows one from a friend who lives here in Austin. With plenty of space and no prying eyes, we can be relaxed about making love. It feels closer to that than rutting. Plus, we always do something frivolous before and after.
A sergeant expects to be in charge, so I’ve been subtle about how I’ve directed things, not that it’s exactly difficult to maneuver a guy into sex. But high school boys don’t care that they’re being played, mostly because they don’t believe a girl is capable of such a thing. A man like Jason has been around the block a time or two, experienced decent partnering, and awful.
He’s never been married, but has been engaged twice. The first time he was still in boot camp, but when his back was turned, she hooked up with a guy who owned a car lot. “More money in selling beaters than my lousy paychecks could compete with,” he told me. The second time, his fiancée couldn’t cope with his deployment to the Gulf War. “She was sure I’d come home in a body bag,” he explained. “Too bad. I loved that damn woman.”
He claims he’s been waiting for someone to love ever since, and that was six years ago. Pretty sure he hasn’t been waiting for someone to sleep with, but that’s okay. He’s with me now, and with luck he’ll decide to stay once I share my news. If not, there’s always abortion.
I confided in Tati, of course. At the moment she isn’t speaking to me. The last thing she said was, “Are you fucking insane? This is not the way to stay in Austin. You could’ve just run away and stayed with me until you turn eighteen.”
Like Mom couldn’t figure out that’s where I went? Like she wouldn’t happily have me arrested? I’ve got a whole fourteen months before I can split legally. But maybe if Jason does the right thing, like a decent country boy might, I’ll become Mrs. Baxter. Mom will have to sign off on it, but why wouldn’t she? It’s not like she wants to be my mother. All she cares about is going “Clear” and climbing higher up the Scientology ladder. Plus, she wants to take me along.
She keeps insisting I go to auditing to deal with Dad’s death, but I’m not swallowing the Kool-Aid. I went one time, just to shut her up, but I’ll never, ever go again. She’d have to tie me up and drag me. The auditor managed to tap into a memory of the Christmas right before Dad left. Mom quit celebrating any holidays other than the sanctioned Scientology ones like L. Ron Hubbard’s birthday, but Dad and I held on to Christmas, with or without her participation.
Lots of details about that day floated out of my brain. I wore lilac-colored pajamas to open the two presents under the little tinsel-trimmed tree. Both were for me, and both from Dad. One was a skateboard—black with a red hawk logo. The other was a journal bound in dark green leather, and on the first page was a message from Dad: Write down everything important that happens so you can share it with me.
He didn’t say he was leaving. Not that day. But even at twelve I could read between the lines, and I couldn’t blame him. I kept that journal, and several since, always meaning to share them with him one day. Too bad, so sad, miss you, Dad.
I didn’t confide that information to the auditor. Last thing I need is Mom digging around in my stuff, looking for written confessions. Instead, I told him about learning to ride a skateboard—a lot of painful memories there, all involving scrapes and bruises.
Now it’s my time to get away. I did a little research. A US Army sergeant, Grade E-5 with almost ten years in, earns around $1700 a month. With perks like base housing, commissary shopping, and military health care, we should live comfortably.
I’ll have to drop out of school, but I can get a GED or something. Not like I’m Harvard-bound. Not like I have a chance at any job other than waitressing or bagging groceries.
It isn’t the greatest plan, and I totally get that. I’m turning seventeen in a couple of weeks, and that’s young to be a wife, not to mention a mom. I don’t know what military life is like, but I’m sure it’s kind of confining. Still, lots of people manage it, and no matter what it will offer more freedom than staying in my mother’s house, struggling with school and sneaking out to have any fun at all.
I’m sorry to use you, baby-inside-me, but this seems like the best move for my future.
Our future.
That thought slams into me suddenly.
Our future.
Mine.
Jason’s.
Our baby’s.
Ariel
Almost Three Weeks
Since I first met Gabe
and he has proven to be
a complication I really
didn’t need. Every time
I start to think I know who
I am, something clouds
my already hazy POV.
My feelings for Monica
haven’t changed. She is
a comet in the night sky,
and the moment I see her
my mood becomes brighter.
I can’t deny that I love her.
I don’t think I’m in love
with Gabe, but I adore
spending time with him.
He’s the first guy I’ve ever
met who actually listens
when I talk, and at least
pretends interest. Plus
Zelda was totally right.
He’s easy on the eyes.
Speaking of Eyes
His are unique.
They remind me
of opals—a mottled
mixture of green
and blue, and when
the light hits them
just so, you can see
glints of orange
circling the pupils
in a narrow band.
The condition is called
heterochromia, he tells
me. There are different
kinds. Some people or
other animals have eyes
that are totally dissimilar
colors. That’s complete
heterochromia. Sectoral
is when the eyes have
spikes of pigment that
look like spots. Gabe’s
type, where the centers
are a different hue than
the rest of the irises,
is central heterochromia.
Sometimes science rocks.
Gabe inherited his condition,
and as he explains it, he
grows pensive because it
makes him talk about his father.
My dad gave me his eyes,
he says. It was the best
gift of all, because I can
keep it forever, and if I ever
have children they might
get it passed on to them,
too. I like that because
it helps me feel like a part
of him is still alive in me,
and carried in my genes.
We’re sitting on Zelda’s
porch swing. She and
Dad are inside, doing
whatever while waiting
for the coals in the barbecue
to ash over. We can hear
them bellowing inebriated
laughter. I’m embarrassed,
but it would be worse if
Zelda was Gabe’s mom
instead of his aunt.
This way there’s a single
layer of separation, at
least. But thinking about
Gabe’s family makes me
ask, “Is your mom okay?
I heard she’s having
a tough time dealing with . . .
Oh, man. I’m sorry.”
Okay, that was awkward,
but even so, he says, Hey.
Don’t be sorry. Look, we just
never expected to lose him,
you know? Dad was such
a solid fixture in our lives.
Not rich or highly educated,
but he was a hard worker
and a really nice guy. It might
sound like a cliché, but
everyone truly loved him.
Suddenly, it strikes me
that if something awful
happened to Dad I wouldn’t
have the slightest clue
what to do. Find a way
to bury him, I suppose,
and then . . . What?
I don’t even know how
to get hold of Ma-maw
and Pops. That makes me
feel very alone and a little
scared. One time when I was
maybe eight I got off the school
bus and no one was there to
meet me, so I walked back
to the house where we were
living. Dad’s woman du jour
was gone. So was he, and it
was hours before he got back.
I was petrified I’d be alone forever.
I inch closer to Gabe,
till our legs almost touch.
The autumn air is cool, and
the heat of his bo
dy through
his jeans and Levi’s shirt
is noticeable. Couple that
with the clean, leathery
scent lifting off his skin,
it’s borderline sensory
overload. It’s a good thing.
So, Naturally
I backpedal immediately.
Put distance between us.
Quick, change the subject.
I ask how he likes his job,
the one my dad helped him
get—part-time work at the shop.
He says other than the grease
and porn on the wall it’s decent.
There’s a joke there somewhere
because he grins and then
hot damn, man, is he gorgeous.
I push that thought aside and
search for the humor, and
when I finally understand,
reward him with rich laughter.
Now a single word surfaces
inside my head: comfortable.
That’s the way I feel with Gabe.
No. Not right. More like half
the way I feel. The other half
is uncomfortably turned on.
I Command
That half to remain very, very quiet,
and am more than a little relieved
when Dad bombs through the door,
carrying a platter of sausages.
Gabe jumps to his feet. Here, let me
help. Barbecue is one thing I’m pretty
darn good at. Dad was a great teacher.
Oh, he must have been, agrees Zelda.
I remember this one time . . . She takes
Gabe’s arm and steers him toward
the grill. Dad follows, weaving slightly.
I cross my fingers that our dinner
doesn’t crash-land on the ground,
but my luck or Dad’s, the hot dogs
end up dirt free on the barbie. Watching
the scene unfold initiates my huge sigh
at the domesticity of it all—something
I struggle to reconcile in connection
to Dad and me. The idea of extended
family is totally foreign. I command
my inner voice to shut the hell up
and let me enjoy what’s left of this
day without overthinking or dissecting
or second-guessing or otherwise closing
myself off to perhaps very real possibilities.
After We Eat
Dad switches from beer
to tequila. This will turn