Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls(51)

Oh, sure, I go. Of course.

We’re trying joint custody with Koko, but I guess that doesn’t matter. What matters is I think I might, maybe, sort of, be done with men for good, you know? On to the next.

She reaches to click her glass against mine.

I don’t think I understand.

I mean I’ve marched in a Pride parade before, in Florida. I marched with bisexuals.

I stuff my mouth with pasta. I nod into my bowl.

Are you not …? she says, leaning back.

No. No, I don’t think.

No offense, she says, but you seem really gay. Like really, really gay.

I’ve thought of it before, I say. I mean it’s not like I’ve never—or anything.

I could tell.

I mean I think I’ve even loved a girl before, maybe once. Paula. Back in Florida. She doesn’t really know who I am, though.

I could tell.



November. Lennox’s face under the blue glow of a bar on Graham Avenue. She looks like a drawing of herself in this deep swell of light. Every waiter and bartender, every bad date, eyeing all of Lennox Price, the pale halo of electric blue hair, her high leather boots. She kicks them up and on the bar to show me the stitching, something Lennox Price can do without pause. Her bangs are growing out, caught up in her eyelashes, twitching as she blinks.

You should touch me more, she says. What’s the shy about?

I’m just a very serious person, I say. That’s all. I lean into my elbow, looking at her.

You always look like you’re about to cry. Do you know that?

I usually am about to cry, I say.

Put your arm around me if you want.

Okay, I say. I sit up. I move the weight of my arm around her without letting it fully rest on Lennox’s shoulder. I don’t want to burden her with it. I strain to keep it there, in position, a slight hover on her skin. My hand there. There.

It’s like I want to take a picture of you every second of every day.

You’re drunk, she says.

So are you.

It’s like you love me or something.

I just get you, I think. Maybe it’s a Florida thing.

Why’d you leave? she says.

My dad—I wanted to see him more. I had shit grades but design school let me in. Wonder why, I say, sipping my drink.

Does the shoe stuff get annoying?

You have no idea.

You like it here? I miss the sunshine.

I’ll never go back, I say. I can be alone here, surrounded by people. Best combination.

That’s kind of sad.

Can I tell you a secret? I say.

Anything.

I used to—I think I once saw you on the Internet. When I was some dumb kid. You had a webpage, right? Pictures, diary entries?

Yes, oh my god. Her face scrunches. That is so embarrassing!

Yeah, I saw you there. Maybe I did love you a little, yeah.

That’s so cute, she says.

I scoot closer to her. I look at her, steady, really try to see her. I don’t laugh this moment off. I want her to see me, too.

And by cute, I mean creep, she says, pinching my nose.

Careful, I’m a bleeder.

The bartender says our last round is on the house. I can tell Lennox is used to this. He pushes over a receipt on which he’s drawn a sketch of Lennox—square jaw, apostrophe eyes—a ballpoint pen masterpiece in which she looks perfect, alone.



Once, I did mention it. To Clarissa. My favorite specials on the black box. Misty’s dance teacher, Jaqueline. Ren Stevens on the Disney Channel. Winnie Cooper in her cat-eye glasses. Every girl who’s ever worked her hair into a pencil twist. Ms. Dyke Hoochie. Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Linda Perry. Leonardo DiCaprio just before he freezes to death; the way he looks like he’s wearing lipstick.

That would change if you ever had sex with one, she said. And, like, how do you even have sex with one?



It’s a nickel-slapping kind of rain, a silver bounce to it. It is not cold enough to snow. Outside the bar, under the awning, we shiver. I rub my gloved hands up and down Lennox’s arms.

Call me a cab? Can you call cabs in Brooklyn? she asks.

Would you come home with me? I say. Even five drinks in, I don’t know how I possibly say it.

Okay, she says. Sure.

I’m close.

I start to run. Slowly at first, and then faster. A neck-throbbing run. We run from the sharp pings of freezing rain and we run to keep our blood from freezing. We run for Lennox’s hair. I run to keep my hands from trembling. She runs to show me how well she can run in heels. I run because I don’t want the time to talk, for her to take back what she’s just said, or for me to do the same.

We run under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, a relief from the rain. We run beneath that hollow ribbon of orange light, the echo-swish sound of cars; we run around skateboard ramps made of milk crates, crookedly parked cars, browned, dimpled mattresses. We run past the people who live under here—gimme some sugar!—we run wet and dizzy until my breathing can’t keep up, until I barely know where I live, until I round a corner and find the doorway of my gate and push in the key, lean into it, release. We run up the stairs, into my living room, where we shake our clothes off. They slop on the wooden floor—the garments pooling out with a steam to them. I push her onto my bed and run my fingers through the hair by her ear, and she’s moaning before I even kiss her.