The You I've Never Known(6)
Like where? Under your bed?
“Ha-ha. Good question, actually. Let me think about it.” Where indeed?
If Dad finds it, I’m toast, not to be confused with toasted, which is what I’m rapidly becoming.
As We Start to Circle
To the far side of the house,
an engine in dire need
of a muffler comes coughing
and sputtering up the road,
working so hard there’s zero
doubt it’s going way too
fast at night where deer and
opossums and the occasional
bear often wander. The vehicle—
an old Chevy pickup that happens
to belong to Garrett Cole—slows
and the passenger window lowers.
The head that pops out is attached
to Keith Connelly. Hey, girls!
Is that vodka? Wanna party?
Garrett and Keith are world-class
third-string pretend-to-be jocks.
“Not with you!” I yell in their direction.
Now Garrett shouts his two cents.
Stupid lezbos. Bet what I got right here in my pants could cure you.
“Maybe if you could actually
get it up!” I call cheerfully. “I mean, for anyone besides each other.”
Yeah! adds Monica. Takes a queer to know one. She and I both find the exchange immensely funny.
The guys, however, don’t seem
to agree. Garrett punches the gas
pedal, kicking up a huge fog of dust behind the farting exhaust pipe.
“Hope they forgot to roll up
the windows. What a couple
of dweebs.” Giggling like complete dweebs ourselves, we continue
around the house, where Syrah
has started to worry about the wait.
What took so long? Thought you two took off with what’s left of the vodka.
“Nah. We just got waylaid by Keith and Garrett, who wanted to party
with us lesbians as long as we were providing the booze and were willing to try what was right there in their pants. Garrett’s sure he can ‘cure’ us.”
I have got to quit hanging out with dykes. Just think. I could be part of the popular crowd instead.
“Don’t call me a dyke. I mean, just because one of my best friends
is queer doesn’t make me that way.”
I smile at Monica’s obvious eye
roll. “Anyway, I bet if one of us
would give those boys head, we could be popular, too.” We look at one
another, all serious like, before we bust up laughing again. “’Kay, never mind.”
We finish off the vodka, and despite the blooming buzz, a brilliant idea jumps into my brain. “You guys up for a little walk? I think I figured out how to dispose of the evidence.” I hold up the empty bottle and outline my plan.
No one objects, so off we go down
the road to Garrett’s house. By the time we arrive, there’s no sign of the guys, though the bass boom of music tells us they’re inside. Easy peasy. “Think I should wipe off our fingerprints?”
Without waiting for an answer, I use my shirttail to do just that, then place the bottle in the bed of Garrett’s pickup.
Syrah Isn’t Finished
Keep an eye out, she orders.
More quietly than I would’ve thought possible, she opens the truck’s passenger door, sticks her head inside.
She’s making me nervous, whispers Monica, and I agree.
Monica looks in one direction, I keep tabs on the other,
while Syrah pokes around
in the glove box in search of what, exactly, I have no clue.
Surely Garrett wouldn’t leave valuables in his truck.
Ha! It’s not weed, but . . .
She exits the cab suddenly, with a box in her hand, shuts the door almost as noiselessly as she opened it, nudges Monica.
Hurry up. Let’s go.
We Quick-Time
Away from Garrett’s,
where the music’s still
blasting, obscuring all
the noise we’ve made.
I’ve got no idea what’s
in Syrah’s right hand,
but it must be amazing
because she’s laughing
in a way that means
she’s congratulating
herself. We trot
toward home at an easy
gait, but as we pass
the first neighbor’s house, his dog starts barking— huge hoarse hrrufs that make us pray
his fence is solid,
and send us sprinting
up the middle
of the road, howling
laughter in response.
“Don’t look back!”
I urge, but of course
all of us keep glancing
over our shoulders.
See anything? hisses Monica, trying not to trip over obstacles obscured
by night’s shadows.
“Nah. There’s nothing
behind us.” No dog.
No dweebs. No sputtering
truck. Looks like we
escaped in the clear.
Finally, damp-haired
with sweat and winded,
we turn into my driveway, Syrah still in the lead.
Once we’re on the porch,
I tap her shoulder.