The You I've Never Known(9)

My girls and I were still awake when we heard them come in bickering.

We quieted for a minute, trying to figure out what, exactly, their problem was, but Dad shushed Zelda long enough to move their dispute to a more private location.

So we went back to yakking about our upcoming varsity girls’ basketball season.

All three of us are pretty great at the sport, though Syrah has to work a lot harder.

Prior to starting Sonora High, I had no clue I had any athletic ability to speak of.

But when we played in our regular PE

class last year, I found out I could shoot with a high degree of accuracy, and I’m quick on the court, too. Somehow word got around and Coach Booker asked me to try out for the team. When I argued that I’d never participated in organized sports before, she silenced me. “Talent trumps experience, I’ve found. Show me what you’ve got.” So I did, and now, here I am—starting center. I had to convince Dad to let me join the team. He works long days, and we live a fair distance from town, so extracurricular activities are difficult to accommodate. As for basketball, transportation would

definitely be an issue except I stay after school to practice and Syrah chauffeurs me home, often with a stop for a burger on the way, so there’s less cooking to do.

I hope Dad will make time to come

to home games. He claims he’s proud of me, but I never see the truth of that reflected in his eyes. Words are easy.

Maybe if he witnesses my ability

on the court, he’ll recognize how hard I’ve worked to rise above mediocrity, and reward me with honest respect.





That Being the Case


I’d prefer he not realize the reason I’m in the bathroom not long past

daybreak is because I need pain

relief for the residual effects of too much vodka consumed rather quickly.

I swallow a couple of aspirin, chase them with a whole lot of water, pee out what I can, and return to my bed.

This time when I crawl over the foot and across the mattress, the groan of the frame wakes Monica. Hey, she whispers softly. Can I get in bed with you? Sleeping on the floor sucks.

I pull back the covers, invite her beneath them. It’s a double bed,

so there’s plenty of room. Still,

our feet touch. Who knew toe

connection could create sparks?

It scares me, but I don’t move, and neither does Monica. Happy birthday, novia. Do you feel different this morning?

We both keep our voices low, so we don’t disturb Syrah. “If you mean do I feel older, not really. If you mean do I feel hungover, damn straight. How

about you? Do you need some aspirin?”





I Expect Her


To admit she needs exactly

that. Instead, she shakes her head.

No. Te necesito. I need you.

She traces the line of my jaw

with one gentle finger. Now

I’m terrified. But I stay very still and she presses no further.

In fact, she turns over. Maybe now I can finally get some sleep.

“You were sleeping before.

I know because you snore.”

Lo sé, she sighs. Get used to it.

She sighs again, dips into slumber.

I lie back against my pillow,

inhaling the cologne of sun-toasted skin and coconut oil lifting off her shiny black satin hair. The scent rustles leaves of memory in a forest too dark to enter. Longing, not sexual, but more a need for connection

stirs, upwelling suddenly at Monica’s dream-driven sigh. Novia. Te necesito.





I Wake Again


This time to a window bright

with sunlight and some foreign

movement disturbing my sheets.

Monica. Yes. Everything comes

tumbling back in one moment

of clear consciousness. “Morning.”

Still prone on the floor, Syrah

peeks up through heavy lashes.

Oh, man. My mouth tastes like rotten potatoes. And I need coffee.

Monica sits up beside me. Coffee?

Si, lo quiero también. And I’m starving.

Wish we had leftover tamales instead of pigging out on them last night.

“You guys actually drink coffee?

Like, to wake up in the morning?

The only way I can choke it down is

cut with cream and enough sugar

to trigger a diabetic coma.”

I vow to attempt the Mr. Coffee anyway, and we pad to the kitchen in our pj’s.

My pj’s, actually, as neither Monica nor Syrah brought theirs to the impromptu slumber party. Both fight the extra

leg length, especially Syrah, who says, Jeez, Ariel. How tall are you, anyway?

“Five ten plus. Hopefully I’m done growing now. As my dad always says,

it’s hard for tall girls to find dates.”

Maybe dates with boys, corrects Monica. Personally, I kind of like my women built like Amazons.

Shut up! exclaims Syrah. Listen, I am a total ally. But here’s the deal.

I really don’t want to hear details.

That’s ’cause you’re dumb, says Monica. The details are the best part. She’s claimed the Mr. Coffee, located the Folgers, and poured water into the reservoir. You got filters?

It takes a couple of cupboard

explorations to find them, and