Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls(50)

So talk to me, I say. What’s your story?

An hour later, Lennox Price and I recline our chairs and stare up and into the galaxy. Meteors corkscrew overhead; they look like giant cookies. We laugh as Whoopi Goldberg’s voice booms through the auditorium, telling us how small we are, reminding us that we will all burn out into dust. At the end of the show, a child approaches Lennox—You look like a fake! Like a doll! So pretty—before the child’s mother yanks her by the arm. Lennox smiles at me in the dark.

You get that a lot? The attention?

All the time, she says.



We spend Christmas in the Florida Keys. My parents and I drive with the top down, wind blasting, a turquoise wall snaking us all the way down past trailer homes, roadside coolers of bleeding fish, rusting statues of dolphins. We stop at the Shell Man, where a fisherman tries to sell us hermit crabs, conch shells that will bring us straight to Jesus if we listen carefully enough. My parents squeeze each other’s hands the whole drive, singing their favorite songs—I believe in miracles. Where you from? You sexy thing; they make out at every stop sign. They’re like teenagers—this sober version of them, these final years of my father’s life—as if they’ve just been reunited after a lame summer apart. As if that’s all they had missed of each other.

My brothers and their partners meet us down there, at the resort. Shawn’s wife, Maya, is a fitness instructor. She runs me up and down the beach, a stopwatch in her hand. She counts my pushups and puts money wagers on each set I complete. She promises extra food and alcohol if I finish another circuit. This has always been our bonding.

Maya wants me to practice wellness. When she tells me I could have a life full of sweat and centeredness and rippling ribbons of muscle, I believe her. She has always wanted what’s best for me. She checks in, long distance. Reminds my brothers of my birthday. Before she ever met me, she sent those Sour Patch candies to Florida—she’s your sister. It’s time you get to know each other. Maya’s kind like that.

That evening, we sit by the swimming pool. I jogged one mile today, and I’ve wrapped my ankles in ace bandages in order to feel more accomplished, like an athlete. Tiki torches blaze behind our heads. A man splays his fingers across a classical guitar while steel drums hammer behind him. He sings about margaritas and lost dogs. He sways and spins in slow circles as he sings, tangling and untangling the mic cord as he goes.

I have to tell you something, I say to Maya. I don’t know who else to tell.

We’re slurping down blue drinks. BINGO plates slick with other peoples’ tanning oil rest on our laps.

What’s up, buttercup?

I’m involved in something, I say. I mean, with someone.

David? That guy is such an asshole. Don’t tell your brothers if you’re back with him.

There’s a girl. Her name is Lennox. She’s so beautiful, Maya, you wouldn’t believe. Her nails are these perfect little squares and she took care of me after the accident last month. She’s also super in shape; you’d be impressed.

Involved?

I’m feeling a lot of things about it.

Well, it’s okay, she says. We all have experiences like this at some point. That’s college.

I think it’s more.

Listen, she says. I wouldn’t go telling anyone about this just yet.

How come?

Let’s see if it sticks before we cross that bridge, okay?

It’s sticking.

Let’s just see before you say anything. You can’t unsay something like that.



Or, perhaps, I never had the context to think about it—girls—in the right ways. I wanted to be them. I wanted them to like me. I wanted to smell like them and dress like them and know what girl tastes like, know how to walk pretty and line my eyes so they would look more open and shave the girl parts of my body and once, the first night I met that butch writing instructor, I wanted to run my hands all over the shaved parts of her neck. I wanted to tip the woman at a café more because she held that smile a beat too long. I wanted to have sleepovers with that middle school science teacher—SUCH a dyke—I wanted to try on her slacks, stand in front of her closet mirror while both of us fussed with the belt, the pleats; I wanted her to tell me I looked good, hot, handsome even, maybe wink at me, slyly, in the middle of class—our secret; but believe me—girls—I never knew how much more I wanted them.



Lennox Price eats junk food. Jars of peanut butter by the spoonful, chicken fries, bright, shiny taffies. She is also an online life coach. Other things that surprise me about Lennox Price: She does not speak to her family—not even your brothers? / Never. They’re all still in Sweden. She likes to get high in the small, dank bathrooms of East Village bars. She has never been on a vacation that a man hasn’t paid for, and her real name is Louisa—but don’t say that shit in public, okay?

We’re eating spaghetti on the Upper East Side. She uses a fork and spoon to twist the pasta in perfect form. I use the chopsticks I carry in my purse, and try so hard to be neat, tidy. No slips.

My last breakup was so bad, she says.

With the comedian?

Mmhmm. We had a cat together. Little bitty thing. She looked like a baby koala, so I changed her name to Koko. She was a koala or a moose, depending on the day.

I say, Those are very different things.

It was bad. I miss Koko. I miss living in the Village, rent-free. Stars are tough to date, all that ego—you know?