The You I've Never Known(3)

made me discover

something about myself.

Something disquieting.

Disheartening, even,

at least at first,

because I found a facet I never suspected

and, considering my history, was not prepared for.

Sonora is small-town

conservative, especially by California standards.

Accepting to a point,

but not exactly a mecca for the LGBTQ crowd.

Monica Torres is not

only a lesbian, but also a queer Mexican American, and while she’s mostly okay carrying both banners, they make her an outsider in a school that takes great pride in its Wild West spirit.

I would’ve run in the other direction if I’d known she was gay when I first met her.

The last thing I wanted was a lezzie best friend.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated my mother

for running off with her lesbian lover. Dad has branded that information into my brain, and with it the concept that queer equals vile.

But Monica is warm. Kind.

And funny. God, she makes me laugh. I crave her company.

It was months before I figured out the way she leaned, and by then I already loved her as a friend. Now, I’m afraid, I’m starting to love her as something much more, not that we’ve explored the places romance often leads to. When we touch, we don’t touch there.

When you’re ready, novia, she tells me. Only then.

Monica understands the reasons for my hesitation.

She’s the only person I’ve ever confided in about my parents— both my mother’s desertion and my dad’s instability.

Realizing I might in fact carry some kind of queer gene, not to mention a predisposition toward imbalance, isn’t easy to accept. I still haven’t exactly embraced the idea, nor the theory that one could very well lead to the other.

Even if and when that finally happens, I’ll have to contend with Dad, who will never admit to himself or anyone else that living inside his head is a person prone to cruelty.

Despite that, I love him. Depend on him. He’s protected me.

Overprotected me, really.

I’m sure he only wants what’s best for me. I could never confess to him the way I feel about Monica.

But I won’t hide the fact that we’re Freak Club sisters.





Dad’ll Have to Get Over It


He’s the one who created

Freak Me to start with, so

however I choose to deal

with it had better be okay.

With him and Zelda (who

names their adorable newborn Zelda, anyway?) busy elsewhere for the evening, I invited

Monica over. She shows up

with a big foil-covered pan.

Hope you’re into tamales.

My mom doesn’t know how to make just a few, and I figured these would be better than frozen pizza.

That would be our usual

go-to spend-the-night dinner.

“This is probably lame,” I admit, “but I’ve never tried tamales.”

Monica walks past me on her

way to the kitchen. Totally lame, she agrees. Tamales are dope.

I fall in line behind her, experience a small sting of jealousy. What I wouldn’t give for her powerful, compact build. I’m way too tall, and thin to the point of looking anorexic, not because I purposely don’t eat, but rather because when I was growing up

there was never an excessive 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.