The You I've Never Known(5)
And second, really? Your dad?
I thought your mom was the lush.
First off . . . Syrah raises her hand for a high five. Touché, bitch. And second, my dad used to drink, same as Mom. After they split up, he went all AA because he fell for a churchy straight-edge vegan chick who never touched a damn drop of booze in her life. Not only that, but he married her! Fucking unreal.
See, One Thing
About Freak Club membership,
no one’s feelings are easily hurt.
We’ve all erected force fields
to keep the haters from our truths.
When it’s just us we can lower
the barriers, allow our demons
a safe place to socialize, especially when we’re partying, too.
We pass the weed, chug down
our screwdrivers, listen to crickets, a dog yapping in the distance. “How come you don’t you live with your dad?”
Syrah gives me one of those Are you effing out of your mind? looks.
My mom would never let that happen.
Dad actually pays child support.
Anyway, we see him all the time, and it’s not like he’s nicer sober.
In fact, he was a pretty cool drunk.
Sobriety made him lose his sense of humor. Or maybe it made me lose mine. I always feel stressed when I’m around him. Of course, my stepmom’s most of the problem.
I’ve Never Met Her
Then again, I’ve never
met Syrah’s dad, either,
just her mom, and I’ve
only bumped into her
a few times. We tend to
hang out when and where
our keepers aren’t around.
“What’s wrong with your
stepmom?” She’s got me
curious now. “I mean, if
you don’t mind telling us.”
Syrah shrugs. She and Dad have two kids—twins, and she’s always fussing about the boys’ clothes and hair, and don’t forget those teeth! She’s a freaking tyrant, and she thinks she can boss me around, too. Just, nope.
Pretty sure that’s what moms, step or the regular kind, are supposed to do, observes Monica. My mom is the bossiest person ever.
The only difference is she does her bossing in Spanish.
I’ve Met Monica’s Mom
I’ve met her entire immediate family, in fact. Dad. Two big brothers, one little sister, good Catholics all. Well, Monica is probably the exception.
She says she’s a Catholic in constant need of confession.
What about your mom, Air? asks Syrah. Is she the overbearing type?
The question hits square
in the diaphragm. Monica
shoots me a sympathetic look.
She knows about my mother, but I’ve never talked to Syrah about her. It’s more than a sore subject. It’s a gaping wound, barely scabbed over by time.
“For all I know, my mother’s dead. She hit the highway when I was two, and we
haven’t heard one word
from the bitch since.”
Wow. That’s shitty. Guess even a drunk mom is better than none.
“Not necessarily.” My voice is razor-edged. “Speaking of drunk, I vote we get that way.”
I don’t want to talk about her anymore, so I head in to fix more screwdrivers.
Syrah stays put, but Monica stands. I’ll help. She follows me inside. Hey. You okay?
My hands shake as I pour
vodka. “Sure. Fine. Or I will be soon.” I lift my drink, toasting my sudden rotten mood.
Monica comes closer, takes the glass away, and places it on the counter. It’s okay to be angry, novia.
The back of her hand
is a silk brushstroke
against my cheek,
so soft it invites tears.
The implication
makes me sway. But I can’t go there. Not now. Not yet.
Wait, Wrong
I don’t dare
go there
ever.
Yes, I want
to fall hard
for someone,
experience love and maybe
even lust.
However,
capital H, it can’t be
with a girl.
That’s not
who I am.
Mustn’t be
what I am.
Not only
because of Dad, who’d happily
kick the crap
out of me after calling me every name in his antigay slur book.
Beyond the universal homo fag dyke butch muff diver carpet muncher etc.
would come words he reserves for my lesbian mother and/or her girlfriend: home wrecker cheater liar whore These things
are contrary
to everything
I know about me.
Though I have to admit that knowledge is elementary.
Who am I,
really?
Logic Suggests
I take a step back. Instinct insists I hold my ground.
It feels good to be this close to someone I care about.
And I do care
about Monica.
“It’s stupid to be mad at someone who means
nothing. Now let’s go back outside before SEER-uh decides to come looking.”
Monica takes two glasses.
I carry mine, plus the vodka bottle, now registering two-thirds empty. “Remind me to stash this somewhere once we finish it off, okay?”