The You I've Never Known(64)
You’re in no condition to drive.
Fuck you, shithead.
Garrett does his best
to shake it off. He points at me. You good with this, bitch?
Gabe leans closer.
That’s no way to talk to a lady. I suggest you apologize. You too, he says to Keith,
who’s struggling
to get up on his feet.
The guys must’ve read
the pleasure factor
in Gabe’s eyes,
because both mutter
halfhearted apologies
before limping away.
Still, they refuse to accept complete
defeat, extending middle fingers before vanishing into the dark of night.
Monica rushes to my side.
?Estás bien? ?Que pasó?
I reach for her, and
discover how badly
I’m shaking. “I’m okay,”
I lie, falling into her arms.
“Garrett thought I should prove whether I’m into guys or girls.”
What? For real? Did he . . .?
“No, thanks to Gabe.
But he would have.
At least, I think so.”
Do you want to call the cops?
asks Gabe. You probably should.
“And tell them what?
Nothing happened?
And even if it had,
they’d write it off as drunk kids getting carried away.”
What I Hold Very Close
Unable to share, even with these, my best and only friends, is that I don’t dare call the cops.
Ever.
My dad’s programmed that into me for as long as I can remember.
Why?
I have no clue.
All I know is it’s near the top of his rules list, just below “Don’t question me.”
Ever.
Once, when he left me with Ma-maw and Pops, he drilled into me that should flashing red and blue lights ever appear on the horizon, I was to dash out into the alfalfa fields.
Hide.
I never had to do that.
Never had to deal with law enforcement one way or another.
Somehow, Dad’s managed to avoid any kind of run-in, too.
How?
Sheer luck,
I suppose. I know he’s done things in the past that should’ve
resulted in some kind of punitive measures.
Rhonda’s emerald ring, for instance.
Pawned.
If tonight
had resulted in actual penetration—rape— would I feel differently and report it?
Excellent
question.
Monica Holds Me Close
Until I finally stop quivering.
Then, heedless of spectators,
she reaches up and kisses me
so sweetly I momentarily forget
the ugliness I’m mere minutes
beyond. She wraps me in love,
and it’s almost enough to smother the residual fear and outrage.
Gabe looks vaguely uncomfortable
at our emotional exchange.
Syrah is her usual underwhelmed
self. She ignores us, rushes over to Gabe.
Wow! You were amazing! The words escape in a rush of breath. I’ve never seen anything like that. Hey, wanna be my bodyguard? Then, totally as an afterthought, Oh, and are you okay? Giddy, that’s how she sounds.
Gabe blushes crimson. Other than sore knuckles, I’m fine. At least one of them has granite-strength bones.
He looks down. Sorry about your floor.
Hey, no problem, gushes Syrah.
That’s why they invented paper towels and cleanser. It’s gross, though.
She goes to find the necessary items.
I push away from Monica, swallow
my disgust at the bodily fluids
pooled on the tile. What I really want to do is crawl into a corner and sleep so I won’t think about
the images solidifying in my mind, resurrected by visions of Garrett’s and Keith’s faces. Blood gushing.
Snot dripping. Bruises resembling thunderheads rearing up. A woman, dropped down on her knees, sobbing apologies for “inviting” my dad’s abuse.
I can see her broken face clearly.
But I don’t remember her name.
Funny How the Brain
Manages damage control,
conveniently curtaining
windows that overlook
certain footpaths into the past.
I try to keep the shades drawn.
Monica notices, however.
She moves closer again,
a drift of solace, claims
her place at my side.
Estás bien, novia? No te ves tan bien. You look a little sick.
“I’m queasy,” I admit.
“I’m not real good with blood, and watching someone get
pummeled is more than
I can take. I mean, I’ve seen random guys involved
in altercations, but never
that close. I didn’t realize how brutal it is.”
I’m s-sorry, sputters Gabe.
I couldn’t see another way out.
“No. It’s okay. Not your fault, and not like they didn’t deserve it, especially Garrett. But where did you learn to fight like that?
That wasn’t, like, amateur night.”
Where I grew up you either decided to be a tough guy or you let the tough guys take you down. I chose to be strong, and Dad encouraged me to learn to box. He put in extra hours to pay for gym time and a trainer, even.