it is what a little horndog she turns
into when she’s smoking. Boo
frigging yah! Whatever I want.
Jack Coughs
Pulling my mind away from
Ronnie’s superior body, back
into the present, toward the sofa.
I go sit next to Jack. Boy, is his
face pale. “Mom’s not home
yet. Can I bring you something?”
He turns toward me, eyes wet
with tears. (Tears?) No, Cody,
I’m okay. Where are you off
to tonight anyway? Got a hot date?
Before I can answer, a door slams.
Must be Cory. He’s the only one
who comes into the house like
that. Sure enough, he stomps
into the room, grinning like a goat.
Damn, even from here he smells
like a brewery. Hey! What’s up?
Why you look sho—so serious?
Jack takes it in. Turns to me.
He’s messed up, huh? I could
say no, and Jack might even go
for it. But Cory’s way too young
to start down this ol’ road. I nod.
You been drinking, Cory boy?
Cory’s face flushes, from beer
and defiance. So what? Cody
drinks all the time. You never
sh—say nothing to him! Fingers
knotting and unknotting, he
waits for someone’s next move.
If he’s expecting me to deny
it, he’s drunker than he looks.
I don’t want the situation to
get out of hand. I’ll try humor.
“‘Never say nothing’ is a double
negative. What you said means—”
Suddenly Cory wobbles.
Weaves. Drops face-first to
the floor. Holy shit, says Jack,
trying to get up, and wobbling
almost as bad as Cory before
he took his literal nosedive.
I nudge Jack back down on
the overstuffed cushion. “No
worries. Other than a lump or
two, I’m guessing he’ll be fine
once he sleeps it off. I’ll get him
to bed.” Like when he was little.
I Pick Him Up
Off the floor, haul him to his
room, thinking about when we
were younger, before Jack came
along. I took my big-brother job
seriously then, and often helped
Mom feed him, bathe him, put
him to bed. Déjà vu! Except this
time he smells like cheap brew.
Thirteen! How did he even get
hold of the stuff? Ripped it off,
no doubt. But from where? Or
who? Damn it all, Cory! I tuck
a light blanket around him, go
to check on Jack. He’s snoring,
pushed down into a painkiller
pit. I pull up the foot of the La-Z-
Boy, cover him with Mom’s
favorite afghan. She’ll be home
soon. Think I’ll make my escape
now. Things could get ugly—or
at least complicated—when every-
one wakes up and accusations get
kicked back and forth. I don’t want
to play explanation dodgeball.
It’s a Short Drive
To Vince’s apartment, not far
from the UNLV campus. But since
it’s Friday evening, just past six,
the freeway looks like a boulder
field. I opt for surface streets,
which aren’t a whole lot better.
him to bed. Déjávu! Except this
time he smells like cheap brew.
Thirteen! How did he even get
hold of the stuff? Ripped it off,
no doubt. But from where? Or
who? Damn it all, Cory! I tuck
a light blanket around him, go
to check on Jack. He’s snoring,
pushed down into a painkiller
pit. I pull up the foot of the La-ZBoy,
cover him with Mom’s
favorite afghan. She’ll be home
soon. Think I’ll make my escape
now. Things could get ugly—or
at least complicated—when everyone
wakes up and accusations get
kicked back and forth. I don’t want
to play explanation dodgeball.
The Game Hasn’t Started Yet
Four or five guys are drinking.
Smoking. Snorting something
off the glass-topped coffee table.
They barely notice me join the party,
and that makes me a little nervous.
Vince is setting up the card table.
He, at least, sees me come in. Hey.
Help me out here. You brought
some of that good green, didn’t you?
As I suspected, the key to my invite.
When I nod, he surprises me. Cool.
I’ll throw some extra chips your way.
When he actually does, I’m even
more surprised. Six of us belly up
to the table, and I light a big fat one.
I buy in for fifty, and he slides me
sixty in chips. The dope is worth
more, but I didn’t expect anything,
so I figure I’m ahead. “Thanks.”
The poker-for-beginners rules
said to watch the other players,
learn how they “tell.” In other
words, read their body language.
Three might as well tell for real.
You can see what they’ve got in
their eyes. But Vince and some guy
called Fly (pretty sure I don’t want
to know why) are damn good at bluffing.
I keep my bets low. One pair ain’t going
to beat much, and that’s all I’m dealt
for several hands. I bluff a couple of
times, to make ’em think I know
the game. Down thirty, the deal goes
to Fly. I turn my cards over one at
a time. Ten. Eight. Ten. One pair.
Here we go again. King. Ten.
Holy crap. I swallow the rush. Can’t
tell ’em I’ve got three of a kind. Ante up.
Don’t bet too much. Ask for two cards
without smiling. One dude folds.
Another bets five. Vince calls, raises
ten. I flip one card. It’s a three. Fuck.
Bet comes to me as I flip the last card.
Ten. Four of a kind? Calm. Stay calm.
I raise Vince twenty. Fly folds. Vince
looks into my eyes, but I give nothing
away. He calls, shows two pairs.
I win! For once in my life, I win!
I Leave Vince’s
Two hundred dollars richer.
I’m walking on water, oh yeah,
and the rush is effing amazing.
Only one thing could make
this night better. I dial Ronnie’s
number. “Hey. It’s me. You
up for some fun?” I knew her
answer before I asked the question,
and she doesn’t live far. When
I get there, it’s too late to knock
on the door, so I go to her window.
It’s the only one with a light in it.
My head is Tilt-A-Whirling with
substance abuse, but more because
of finishing off the evening as
a winner. I won at poker. And I’m
about to win at something even
better. Ronnie comes to the glass,
opens it, lets me inside. Her room
smells of roses, and she has nothing
on but a thigh-length shirt. She puts
a finger to her lips, but there’s no
need for words once we fall together
into her bed. Night slips away.
A Poem by Eden Streit
Once
I thought fairy tales were
lies or worse, promises
spoken, yet meant to be
broken. Intent is all.
Why
do grown-ups feel
the need to make up
a story, only to later
confess that it was a
lie?
Why look for a prince
when frogs are much
more common? Why
reach for a dream
when
you’re at ease within
your nightmares? Why
scramble to disguise
what your personal
truth is
when reality not only
hurts less in the long
run, but is most often
the easier path?
Eden
Spring Break
And for once, it actually feels like spring
in Idaho. For most of my life, spring break
was called Easter vacation. Daddy about had
a meltdown when the school board caved
in and changed it. What’s this country
coming to when the Spring Bunny delivers
spring eggs to children? As if he ever gave
two cents about bunnies and egg hunts. Not
in his church. Not on the holiest day of the year,
and Easter Sunday remains that for Christians
near and far. For the family of Pastor Streit,
it is even more, because at Papa’s church,
it’s an all-out celebration of the Resurrection,
and, dressed up in our Easter bonnets, we sit
front and center. I’ve never really minded
that before. But today, I’d much rather hang out
in back, pretending not to notice the good-looking
reformed Catholic sitting nearby.
Papa Has Noticed
Andrew, of course. No way would he miss
a possible convert wandering into his hallowed
sanctuary. Once or twice he’s made the effort
to engage Andrew in conversation and Andrew,
bless his heart, does his best to respond
positively. No dunking yet (and Papa is quite
likely the reincarnation of John the Baptist
himself!), but he is cordial almost to the point
of brownnosing. Almost. And speaking of
nosing, Mama’s ever-observant gaze is harder
to avoid. She must have seen something,
because two Sundays ago, she went fishing:
That McCarran boy is a fine-looking
young man, don’t you think, Eden?
If Papa is John the Baptist (again), Mama
is the Inquisition incarnate. I tried not
to gulp, struggled to meet her eye. “Who?
Him?” I pretended to study his face
for the first time. “Well, now that you mention
it …” Then I almost blew it, almost smiled.
My mouth twitched. Mama pounced,
all lioness to my poor little gazelle.
Appearances can be deceptive. Her hand
settled on my shoulder. Why, if I had tumbled
for every handsome boy who looked my way,
I shudder to think where I might be today!
I bit hard on my lip, excused myself
to go to the bathroom, barely making it
through the door before shuddering
myself—with uncontainable laughter.
Needless to Say
Andrew and I have been completely
discreet at church since then. And today,
no way to flirt even a little, it’s going to be
really tough. But you know, just seeing
Andrew at all makes any day special.
He’s already there, with his sister
and mother, when we arrive. Mariah
smiles and waves. She is four years
older than Andrew, but the two are tight.
So tight, in fact, that he has confessed
our secret to her. So tight that, despite a little
righteous worry, she has chosen not only
to keep quiet about our relationship, but
also to nurture it. She comes over now.
Happy Easter, she says to Papa before stroking
Mama. Lovely dress. That color is wonderful
on you! She takes my arm. May I borrow Eden?
I’d like to introduce her to my mother.
Andrew and I are hoping to get her to church
more than two or three times a year.
If Mama is surprised that Mariah
and I are acquainted, she hides it well.
Of course. Eden, you know where
to find us. See you in a few minutes.
Mariah steers me toward love. Andrew wears
it like skin, so obvious it makes me blush.
His mother’s face, so like his, lights as she
takes my hand in hers. Her voice is soft,
and still she forces it low. Hello, Eden. I hope
you don’t mind that I tagged along today,
but I simply had to meet you. She draws me
a little bit away from anyone likely to overhear.
Then she looks me in the eye. I’ve never
seen Andrew so happy. Thank you for that.
My reply comes easily. “There is no
Old Mrs. Beatty
Launches a spirited “Old Rugged Cross”
on the aging organ, and I must fall back
into the role of perfect preacher’s daughter.
I take my expected place in front, but find
every opportunity to glance behind me,
even as I hear the well-known story
of a love greater than any human love
could ever be. So sayeth Papa. Again.
Three rows back sits the greatest love
I’ll ever know, and my heart promises
that our love was sparked, as all love is,
by God’s love. So why—WHY—is it wrong?
Rephrase. Why—WHY—does my own
family think it’s wrong when his doesn’t?
Three rows back sits the one true love
of my life, surrounded by his own
family’s love. A family that accepts me
for who I am, to him. A family I long to
be part of. And if that means leaving
my family behind, maybe I have to go.
As Soon as the Thought
Crosses my mind, I backtrack. Can’t
go. Not yet. He’s not ready for me.
And I am only sixteen. Sixteen.
Immersed in the Easter story. Thinking
about loving Andrew, about giving him
the ultimate gift—my virginity. This week.
Not that he knows it. But it’s spring break.
Lots of girls give it away on spring break, right?
So it’s normal. And, despite sitting in the front
row while my papa preaches about resurrection—
including ways to avoid it—I want to be normal.
Not “normal” as defined by abnormal people.
My people. My parents. I never considered
them (and so never considered me) abnormal
until I met Andrew. But it’s completely clear
now. And the best way I can think of to become
completely normal is by becoming a woman.
All I need is the opportunity. Eve, help me.
Ironically
It is Eve (not the original) who sets it up.
See, my s
ister has asthma. Talking major.
And like I said, it is spring, also in a major
way. We had snow over the winter, an early
melt. Rain to follow. And that means wild
flowers. Early bloom of sage. Beautiful.
Obnoxious to someone who can’t tolerate
pollen. Especially someone young. Someone
like Eve. It is Tuesday. Spring break. Eve
wakes, wheezing. Papa is off somewhere,
leaving Mama to rush my little sister
to Emergency. She calls just before noon.
They want to keep her for observation.
I have to stay with her. You’ll be okay?
“I’m fine, Mama. You do what you need
to. If I’m not here, I’ll be at the library.
I have to research a history paper.” Guilt
wants to well as I hang up. I force it
back down, call Andrew, knowing
it’s wrong. Wondering if I’m damned.
In the Back of My Mind
I’m thinking he’ll take me to a hotel, all the while
stressing about how we’ll get away with it.
Spies, remember? But when he picks me up,
we head out of town, and it occurs to me
that I never confessed what I had in mind
for the afternoon. “Where are we going?”
He pulls me very close to him, right
up against his very warm body. Home.
My parents went to Elko for a few days.
Not exactly a world-class destination,
but for them it’s a second honeymoon.
You and I will go to Hawaii, okay?
He always says the right thing. “Okay.
But I’m allergic to pineapple.” I’m not,
at least, not that I know for sure. But
they say humor steadies the nerves.
Nervous?
Let’s see. Why wouldn’t I be? My mom
and sister are at the ER, which is the only
reason I’m here. What if Mama calls and
I’m not home? Will she buy the library thing?
And what if something is really wrong
with Eve? Should I be there? Or here?
Andrew’s parents are likely a few hundred
miles away. But are they really? And are
they discussing the likelihood of what is
going on here? Are they talking about me?
And even if they’re not, and everything else
is on the up-and-up, am I seriously considering
doing that stuff I read on the Net the other
night? I answered all those “Are you really
ready” questions and came away with