The You I've Never Known(7)

“So, tell us, Sherlock.

What did you find?”

When she turns, the look

on her face is priceless.

Check it out. Why would Garrett need these?

She lifts a small carton

up under the porch light.

Trojan condoms. Latex.

Ultrathin. Lubricated.

Thirty-six-count value pack.

“You stole Garrett’s condoms? What if he

actually does get lucky?”

We all look at one another and totally bust up.

Garrett would never get that lucky, says Monica when she finally stops

hiccuping laughter.

That’s for sure. This right here is a lifetime supply of rubbers for Garrett, adds Syrah, and that makes the three of us dissolve

into a fit of amusement

again. We go inside, still laughing, retreat to my

room in case Dad comes

home. I put on some music and for some crazy reason that no doubt has everything to do with vodka and weed, Syrah decides to play with the foil packets. She opens one, extracts the condom, stretches it full length.

Jeez, the guy thinks a lot of himself. I kind of thought he was dickless. Hey, think fast! She tosses a couple at Monica, who

catches them on the fly.

What am I supposed to do with these? she complains.

Syrah shrugs. Use ’em for water balloons? Give ’em to your big brother? I just know I don’t need all of them.

I haven’t gotten lucky myself lately. Okay, ever.

Now she opens the drawer

in my nightstand, practices sinking shots from across the room before finally

growing bored with the game.

All right, everyone’s stocked up on latex. Everyone except Garrett, that is. And . . .

We’re laughing again. Hot damn, is it great to have friends.





Maya


Funerals stink. Especially your daddy’s funeral. Especially, especially when you have to sneak out to go because your crazy mother would totally flip if she had a clue that was your plan. And, hey, why not toss in the fact that your lunatic mom was most of the reason your dad drank himself to death to start with?

Mom chased Dad out of the house and all the way to San Antonio four years ago. Maybe it’s just eighty miles from Austin, Texas, but it might as well have been eight hundred. I’ve only seen him a half dozen times since he left, and the only way I even know he died was because I happened to answer the phone when Uncle Wade called. Mom wouldn’t have said a word. I didn’t bother to tell her, either.

Instead, I bummed a ride with Tati, who only griped a little about spending her Saturday taking me to the funeral of a dude she’s never even met. “What are best friends for?” I asked, when she hesitated to say she’d drive.

“Sex?” she answered, and all I could do was laugh.

I’ve been in love with Tatiana Holdridge since seventh grade, but that’s not something I can say out loud, and it’s got nothing to do with sex. Tati is the one person who knows me inside out, and sticks around anyway.

“Are you sad?” she whispered as we slipped into seats near the front of the mostly empty funeral parlor.

The simple question was hard to answer. Dad was in my life daily till I turned twelve, but even when he was home he was mostly absent. Kind of like how I am in chemistry class—there, but not. Still, he was gentle, funny, and offered himself up when Mom aimed her anger my way. The few times I’ve seen him since, he always did nice things—took me clothes shopping or to a movie, something Mom considers frivolous. That’s her word for anything fun. “Frivolous.” Things that qualify: movies, arcades, amusement parks. Even television.

Dad’s funeral wasn’t frivolous. It was spare. The only people there were his girlfriend Claire, his brother Wade, a few of the guys he worked with, and a couple of kids from the middle school where he was a janitor. That was sweet. They told me he didn’t put up with the bullies who harassed them, and they wanted to pay their respects. I’m glad Dad was a hero to someone.

Throw pride into my jumble of feelings. Sadness was in there, of course. I also felt pity for Claire, who looked swallowed up by grief. She never said a word to me, or anyone else that I could see. But then, if I barely knew my dad, I didn’t know her at all.

I felt grateful for Uncle Wade, who took care of all the details. His eyes watered as the minister recited his canned eulogy, and that made me remember the last funeral I went to. He was there, too, and Dad, when Grandma and Grandpa McCabe were killed in a car wreck. That must’ve been five years back.

Today, after the minister talked, everyone offered a favorite memory. Claire talked about the day she met Dad, working at a car wash fund-raiser for the school. Uncle Wade told about going fishing when they were kids, and how Dad insisted on using stink bait so he wouldn’t have to thread worms. One of the kids shared about the bullies.

And me? “Mostly what I remember about Dad is watching games on TV on weekends. He taught me baseball and football and basketball. Tried to get me to watch hockey, too, but it’s not my thing. My best-ever memory was going to an Astros game and they creamed the Dodgers. My dad was so happy he sang all the way home. He could really sing.”

That choked me up. When we were called forward and I bent to kiss Dad’s white wax cheek, it was like the air got sucked from my lungs. It hurt to breathe. You always think you’ll have more time, you’ll get another chance to make things right with someone you should be closer to. Sometimes that doesn’t happen. But why did it have to be Dad, and why so soon?