The You I've Never Known(43)

standing on the sidewalk.

As we start past them

Garrett steps in front

of us, blocking our path.

Why don’t you girls give us a little show?

I’ve always wanted to watch lezzie action up close and personal.

Cállate, idiota, responds Monica. Shut up, idiot.

And move the hell out of our way.

Or what, bitch? He draws himself tall and wide

and puffs out his chest.

Most of the group shrinks back against the wall,

but Keith moves into place at Garrett’s right elbow.

“What’s the problem, Garrett?

We weren’t bothering you.”

I pretend courage

I’m really not feeling.

The problem is I don’t like gays. It ain’t natural.

Besides . . . He dares to run his hand down over my left breast. It’s a waste of pussy.

Monica steps in between

Garrett and me. Don’t you touch her. And what would you know about pussy?

I’ve never seen you with a girl. Only with your friend there. She points to Keith.





The Other Kids Laugh


At the implication.

Keith hurls an expletive.

Garrett’s face ignites and he starts to lift his right hand, but

thinks better of striking a girl—lesbian or not— in front of so many people.

Monica stays in place, as if willing to jump one-on-one with this arrogant prick, but

I won’t let it go that far.

“Come on. Syrah’s waiting.

Sorry, Garrett, no show for you. You’ll have to do what you always do and find it on pay-per-view.”

I steer Monica around Garrett and Keith, off the sidewalk, and into the parking lot. “What were you thinking?

He could have hurt you.”

No estaba pensando.

I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to protect you.





I Don’t Care Who’s Looking


I reach for her hand, weave my fingers into hers as we head toward Syrah’s car. “That was dumb. But thank you.”

What’s his problem, anyway?

I shrug. “Maybe you got it right. They say the biggest homophobes are often

closet queers.”

Who says that?

“I don’t know. I just read it somewhere. You take shotgun.”

I let go of her hand, slide into the backseat where I can think.

While Monica explains to Syrah what happened with Garrett, I consider the homophobe theory, which can’t apply to all of them, or my dad would be totally gay.

Pretty sure he’s not, but wouldn’t that be crazy? What if my queer gene came from his side of the family?





When We Get to My House


There’s a strange car in the driveway.

What’s even weirder, Dad isn’t home,

and I don’t see anyone around. “Do

you guys think there’s someone inside?”

I don’t know, says Monica. You and your dad lock your doors, don’t you?

“Yeah. Dad’s all paranoid about it,

in fact. Kind of obsessive compulsive.”

Syrah jumps out. One way to know.

Come on. There’s safety in numbers.

We circle the house, looking for any

sign of a break-in, but the windows

are intact, both doors still locked, and we find no hint of possible covert entry, so I use my key and one by one, we cross the threshold to take a look inside. The house is empty. Let’s check out the car, Monica suggests. Hope there’s no dead bodies inside.

That’s dumb, says Syrah. Who leaves corpses in some stranger’s driveway?





We Don’t Find Corpses


But on the front seat

of the candy-red Ford

Focus is an envelope,

and it’s addressed to me.

Inside is a thank-you

card, and a note which

reads:

DEAR ARIEL,

I REALLY CAN’T THANK YOU

ENOUGH FOR WHAT YOU DID

FOR HILLARY. PLEASE ACCEPT

THIS GENTLY USED TOKEN

OF MY THANKS. I’VE TAKEN

THE LIBERTY OF REGISTERING

THE CAR IN YOUR NAME AND

PAID UP THE INSURANCE FOR

SIX MONTHS. ENJOY!

CHARLES GRANTHAM

P.S. I TOLD THEM YOU WERE

MY NIECE, SO PLEASE LET’S KEEP

THAT OUR SECRET. ALSO, TO BE

HONEST, THIS WAS HILLARY’S

CAR. SHE’S GETTING A NEW ONE.

IT WAS HER IDEA TO GIVE THIS

TO YOU.





No Freaking Way!


Hillary Grantham’s given me

her car? This has got to be

some kind of joke. The girls and I exchange incredulous

looks. “This can’t be real, can it?”

Sure looks real to me, comments Syrah. And “gently used” is right.

The odometer only has 38,000 miles. She opens the glove box and pulls

out the owner’s manual.

It’s a 2012. Hillary must’ve only driven it to school.

“I don’t think I can keep

it. It’s way too extravagant.

Besides, I didn’t do anything to earn it. Not really.” Even if I did, what’ll Dad say?