The You I've Never Known(83)
I love her.
The door is closed, so I chance a kiss, this one with tongue, and the wet satin of her lips makes me want a whole lot more.
Can’t happen here, of course, and there’s something kind of nice about having to wait.
Like it’s an experience to anticipate. Still, the stunning rush of desire
makes me tremble.
That she returns my kiss with the same driving passion tells me all
I need to know.
She loves me, too.
And I’m forgiven.
At least, mostly.
Panting
We pull ourselves out
of the what-will-be, return to the what-is-right-now.
Which basically tosses
me smack back into
the what-happened-today.
“Just so you know,
Gabe is picking me up in
the morning and taking me
to work. I’m supposed to
be at the barn by eight.”
Pretty good friend to get up so early for you on a Sunday.
“I guess, and I’m grateful.
I need to make some money.
Dad’s on the run. . . .” I fill her in on the evening’s ugliness.
Anxiety creases her forehead.
What are you going to do?
“I don’t know, but I’ll
figure out something.
For sure I’m not leaving
Sonora. I’ve got an actual life here, which includes you.
It’s a year before I turn eighteen, but maybe I can emancipate.”
You haven’t talked to your mom?
I gave her your number.
It was Monica? “Why did
you do that? I figured it must have been Syrah, not you.
And, no, I haven’t talked
to her. I’ve got nothing to say.”
She crosses her arms. Snorts.
Maybe not. But she’s got plenty to say to you. I don’t get why you won’t listen. Don’t you want to know who you are?
Stamp “pissed” across
my face. “I know who I am, Monica. I don’t need Maya
McCabe to explain it to me.”
You only know what your dad’s told you, Air. You don’t even know what your birthday is.
“What are you talking about?
My birthday’s October ninth.”
She shakes her head. That’s Ariel Pearson’s birthday.
Bulldozed
October 9
is Ariel Pearson’s birthday. And I’m
not Ariel Pearson.
Meaning October 9
is probably not
my birthday.
Spicy hominy stew gurgles in my stomach.
Churns acid.
My entire backstory has been fabricated.
Birth certificate.
School records.
Driver’s license.
Social security card.
All bear the name Ariel
Pearson.
But I’m not
Ariel
Pearson.
The Truth
When delivered so abruptly
is impossible to ignore.
I fall back on the bed, nestle my head into the Monica—
scented pillow, and my best
friend settles beside me.
I know it’s totally up to you, but my advice is to talk to her.
A huge sigh escapes. “She left my dad for a woman, Monica.”
So what? She reaches for my hand.
You left your boyfriend for me.
“That’s true.” I have to smile.
“But I don’t want to leave here.
I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to have to go live with her.”
You don’t have to go anywhere.
Ariel might be seventeen, but Casey is eighteen. You were three when your dad took you away.
This Revelation Sinks Like Lead
“What? No! That’s impossible.
I might not know my birthday, but I know how goddamn old I am.”
Do I?
“There’s no freaking way Dad could convince me I was younger than I was! That makes no sense.”
Or does it?
I’ve always been considered big for my age, but I always thought it was because
of my height.
Monica shrugs. Remember that time with Zelda and the coffee and he told her he drinks it black?
On my not-birthday.
You could tell she was all confused, like she’d never heard that before.
But he swore she knew all along, right?
How can I forget?
There’s a word for what your dad did. It’s called gaslighting. If he could convince her, how hard would it be . . .
“To convince a little kid.”
Bits and pieces of memory flash like multicolored neon—people, mostly women, asking my age. Dad correcting my fingers.
Until I finally got it right. Did I argue my name with him, too?
Or was I simply content to become the Little Mermaid?
My childhood is a jigsaw puzzle, with chewed and misplaced
pieces. I’ve always known that.
What I didn’t realize
is that even if every correct piece was fitted perfectly into place, the resulting picture would’ve been interpretive art.