The You I've Never Known(22)
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.