The You I've Never Known Read online

  amount of food around.

  When we weren’t bumming

  meals off some sympathetic

  woman, we survived on gas

  station hot dogs, outlet store

  bargains, and food pantry

  handouts. On those lucky

  days when I got fast food,

  it was always kid’s meals,

  even after I outgrew kidhood.

  I didn’t dare complain,

  of course, not even when

  there was nothing at all.

  I learned to make do with

  whatever was offered.

  And now my stomach still

  can’t quite accept larger-

  than-child-size portions.

  The Spartan rations are

  enough to fuel my daily

  activities, but don’t allow

  me a spare ounce of flesh.

  I’m a Rectangle

  Monica has curves,

  and if tamales can round

  out my straight lines

  a little, I’m damn sure

  going to give them a try.

  Besides, when she peels

  back the foil, the spicy-

  sweet aroma arouses

  a growl in the pit of my belly.

  “Oh my God. If those taste

  half as good as they smell,

  my mouth’s going to

  have an orgasm.”

  Okay, that’s kind of nasty.

  But I like it. And believe me,

  they taste better, so I’m gonna

  be watching your mouth.

  Straightforward interest,

  barely disguised as humor.

  That’s fine. We’ve played

  this game for a while now.

  I can’t win because Monica

  knows exactly who she is.

  I’m just starting

  to figure out me.

  I Just Graduated from Tacos

  Because tamales are dope.

  I polish off two without

  thinking about it, am eyeing

  a third when the doorbell rings.

  Monica looks up from her

  plate, where she’s working

  on her fourth. You expecting

  someone? she mutters around

  a big bite. I shake my head.

  “I’ve got no clue who that can

  be. But I guess I should find out.

  Don’t you dare finish those.”

  She smiles. Better hurry.

  Tamales disappear around me.

  Glad you like them, though.

  You could use a little meat—

  “On my skinny damn bones?

  Yeah, I know. That’s what Dad says.”

  I go to the front door, peek

  out the adjacent window to make

  sure I’m not opening it for a mass

  murderer or something. But, no,

  it’s just Syrah, who’s basically

  my other friend. I unlock the dead bolt.

  Speaking of Bolts

  That’s what Syrah does, right past

  me. “Uh . . . come on in?” I offer.

  Duh. I already did. Hey, what do

  I smell? Mexican food? Score!

  She zips straight toward the kitchen.

  Syrah moves at two velocities:

  freeway speed limit or stoned.

  I trail her, feeling no jealous stab

  at all as I watch her retreating form.

  Monica has curves, but they’re carved.

  She’s granite. Syrah’s soft outside

  and in. It’s the inside that counts,

  and that’s why I like her, though

  you wouldn’t know how decent

  she is if you only listened to her talk.

  Sometimes she’s got an obnoxious

  mouth. Sometimes I do, too, courtesy

  of my ex-military dad, who uses every

  awful word in the book anytime

  he gets a little wasted. C’est la vie.

  By the Time

  I reach the kitchen, Syrah

  has already helped herself

  to two tamales, leaving

  the last three in the pan.

  “Should we finish those

  now, or save them for later?”

  Better save ’em, says Syrah.

  We might get the munchies.

  I know your birthday’s not

  till tomorrow, but I brought

  you a present. Two, in fact.

  She reaches into her purse

  and, like magic, a full bottle

  of vodka appears, along with

  a couple of rolled cigarettes.

  “I don’t suppose that’s tobacco.”

  Syrah laughs. It’s a lot pricier.

  But I swiped these from my crack-

  brained brother. I’ll catch hell

  for it later, but I don’t give a shit.

  And that’s why we love you.

  Monica takes her plate over

  to the sink, opens the vodka,

  and sniffs. Pee-yew. You stole

  this, too, I’m guessing. Yeah?

  Let’s just call it borrowing,

  not that I’ll give it back, but

  who cares? My mom stocks

  up on this stuff five bottles at

  a time. She was halfway to blitzed

  when I left. She’ll never miss it.

  We finish eating and I take

  the time to wash the dishes.

  The last thing I want is to

  invite one of Dad’s ugly scenes.

  He despises a dirty kitchen.

  A dirty anything, really, except

  maybe Zelda. Ooh. Ugly thought.

  Got any OJ? Syrah pokes her

  head into the fridge, withdraws

  with a carton of orange juice.

  Aw, come on. You don’t like

  vodka straight? But Monica

  says it with a smile. Does

  anyone like vodka straight?

  I take three tumblers from

  the cupboard, hand them to

  Syrah. “We have to go outside.

  I really don’t need my dad

  to smell booze, let alone weed.”

  We Pull Chairs

  To the far side of the house,

  away from the road. Luckily,

  the manufactured homes in

  this area sit on large lots.

  We barely know our neighbors,

  but then we never do.

  Dad insists we keep our distance,

  that we not invite

  people living nearby

  to borrow stuff or peek

  in our windows. Okay by me.

  Who needs a next-door spy,

  especially when my girls

  and I are sitting outside,

  enjoying a toke or two?

  Early October, the evening

  is still really warm, made awesome

  by little puffs of westerly breeze.

  Said wind makes lighting the joint

  something of a challenge, but one

  Syrah is most definitely up to.

  Got it. She takes a big drag,

  holds it a very long time.

  She passes the blunt, finally

  exhales. So where’s your dad?

  He won’t be home soon, will he?

  Dad almost caught us the last

  time we indulged, and while

  he isn’t above maintaining

  bad habits, he would not be

  good with my having any.

  “He went out dancing

  with Zelda. They’ll definitely

  be out late, unless they have

  an argument or something.”

  That’s not out of the question,

  which reminds me to remain

  alert to the possibility.

  Zelda. Who in the actual fuck

  names their kid Zelda?
/>   Considering my own thoughts

  earlier, both the question and her

  colorful phrasing make me smile.

  Monica snorts. Could be

  the kind of mom who names

  her kids Syrah and Chardonnay?

  First of all, as you well know,

  I pronounce my name SEER-uh,

  not sir-AH. And second, so happens

  Mom didn’t name us. Dad did.

  First of all, just because you

  mispronounce your name doesn’t

  mean it isn’t actually sir-AH,

  any more than your sister calling

  herself char-DON-eye would

  make her not Chardonnay.

  And second, really? Your dad?

  I thought your mom was the lush.

  First off . . . Syrah raises her

  hand for a high five. Touché,

  bitch. And second, my dad used

  to drink, same as Mom. After

  they split up, he went all AA

  because he fell for a churchy

  straight-edge vegan chick

  who never touched a damn

  drop of booze in her life. Not

  only that, but he married

  her! Fucking unreal.

  See, One Thing

  About Freak Club membership,

  no one’s feelings are easily hurt.

  We’ve all erected force fields

  to keep the haters from our truths.

  When it’s just us we can lower

  the barriers, allow our demons

  a safe place to socialize, especially

  when we’re partying, too.

  We pass the weed, chug down

  our screwdrivers, listen to crickets,

  a dog yapping in the distance. “How

  come you don’t you live with your dad?”

  Syrah gives me one of those Are

  you effing out of your mind? looks.

  My mom would never let that happen.

  Dad actually pays child support.

  Anyway, we see him all the time,

  and it’s not like he’s nicer sober.

  In fact, he was a pretty cool drunk.

  Sobriety made him lose his sense

  of humor. Or maybe it made me

  lose mine. I always feel stressed

  when I’m around him. Of course,

  my stepmom’s most of the problem.

  I’ve Never Met Her

  Then again, I’ve never

  met Syrah’s dad, either,

  just her mom, and I’ve

  only bumped into her

  a few times. We tend to

  hang out when and where

  our keepers aren’t around.

  “What’s wrong with your

  stepmom?” She’s got me

  curious now. “I mean, if

  you don’t mind telling us.”

  Syrah shrugs. She and

  Dad have two kids—twins,

  and she’s always fussing

  about the boys’ clothes and

  hair, and don’t forget those

  teeth! She’s a freaking tyrant,

  and she thinks she can boss

  me around, too. Just, nope.

  Pretty sure that’s what

  moms, step or the regular

  kind, are supposed to do,

  observes Monica. My mom

  is the bossiest person ever.

  The only difference is she

  does her bossing in Spanish.

  I’ve Met Monica’s Mom

  I’ve met her entire immediate

  family, in fact. Dad. Two big

  brothers, one little sister, good

  Catholics all. Well, Monica

  is probably the exception.

  She says she’s a Catholic in

  constant need of confession.

  What about your mom, Air? asks

  Syrah. Is she the overbearing type?

  The question hits square

  in the diaphragm. Monica

  shoots me a sympathetic look.

  She knows about my mother,

  but I’ve never talked to Syrah

  about her. It’s more than a sore

  subject. It’s a gaping wound,

  barely scabbed over by time.

  “For all I know, my mother’s

  dead. She hit the highway

  when I was two, and we

  haven’t heard one word

  from the bitch since.”

  Wow. That’s shitty. Guess even

  a drunk mom is better than none.

  “Not necessarily.” My voice

  is razor-edged. “Speaking of

  drunk, I vote we get that way.”

  I don’t want to talk about

  her anymore, so I head in

  to fix more screwdrivers.

  Syrah stays put, but Monica

  stands. I’ll help. She follows

  me inside. Hey. You okay?

  My hands shake as I pour

  vodka. “Sure. Fine. Or I will be

  soon.” I lift my drink, toasting

  my sudden rotten mood.

  Monica comes closer, takes

  the glass away, and places

  it on the counter. It’s okay

  to be angry, novia.

  The back of her hand

  is a silk brushstroke

  against my cheek,

  so soft it invites tears.

  The implication

  makes me sway. But I can’t go

  there. Not now. Not yet.

  Wait, Wrong

  I don’t dare

  go there

  ever.

  Yes, I want

  to fall hard

  for someone,

  experience love

  and maybe

  even lust.

  However,

  capital H,

  it can’t be

  with a girl.

  That’s not

  who I am.

  Mustn’t be

  what I am.

  Not only

  because of Dad,

  who’d happily

  kick the crap

  out of me after

  calling me every

  name in his antigay

  slur book.

  Beyond the universal

  homo

  fag

  dyke

  butch

  muff diver

  carpet muncher

  etc.

  would come words

  he reserves for

  my lesbian mother

  and/or her girlfriend:

  home wrecker

  cheater

  liar

  whore

  These things

  are contrary

  to everything

  I know about me.

  Though I have to admit

  that knowledge

  is elementary.

  Who am I,

  really?

  Logic Suggests

  I take a step back. Instinct

  insists I hold my ground.

  It feels good to be this close

  to someone I care about.

  And I do care

  about Monica.

  “It’s stupid to be mad

  at someone who means

  nothing. Now let’s go back

  outside before SEER-uh

  decides to come looking.”

  Monica takes two glasses.

  I carry mine, plus the vodka

  bottle, now registering

  two-thirds empty. “Remind

  me to stash this somewhere

  once we finish it off, okay?”

  Like where? Under your bed?

  “Ha-ha. Good question,

  actually. Let me think

  about it.” Where indeed?

  If Dad finds it, I’m toast,

  not to be confused with

  toasted, which is what

&nb
sp; I’m rapidly becoming.

  As We Start to Circle

  To the far side of the house,

  an engine in dire need

  of a muffler comes coughing

  and sputtering up the road,

  working so hard there’s zero

  doubt it’s going way too

  fast at night where deer and

  opossums and the occasional

  bear often wander. The vehicle—

  an old Chevy pickup that happens

  to belong to Garrett Cole—slows

  and the passenger window lowers.

  The head that pops out is attached

  to Keith Connelly. Hey, girls!

  Is that vodka? Wanna party?

  Garrett and Keith are world-class

  third-string pretend-to-be jocks.

  “Not with you!” I yell in their direction.

  Now Garrett shouts his two cents.

  Stupid lezbos. Bet what I got right

  here in my pants could cure you.

  “Maybe if you could actually

  get it up!” I call cheerfully. “I mean,

  for anyone besides each other.”

  Yeah! adds Monica. Takes a queer

  to know one. She and I both find

  the exchange immensely funny.

  The guys, however, don’t seem

  to agree. Garrett punches the gas

  pedal, kicking up a huge fog of dust

  behind the farting exhaust pipe.

  “Hope they forgot to roll up

  the windows. What a couple

  of dweebs.” Giggling like complete

  dweebs ourselves, we continue

  around the house, where Syrah

  has started to worry about the wait.

  What took so long? Thought you two

  took off with what’s left of the vodka.

  “Nah. We just got waylaid by Keith

  and Garrett, who wanted to party

  with us lesbians as long as we were

  providing the booze and were willing

  to try what was right there in their

  pants. Garrett’s sure he can ‘cure’ us.”

  I have got to quit hanging out

  with dykes. Just think. I could be

  part of the popular crowd instead.

  “Don’t call me a dyke. I mean, just

  because one of my best friends

  is queer doesn’t make me that way.”

  I smile at Monica’s obvious eye

  roll. “Anyway, I bet if one of us

  would give those boys head, we could

  be popular, too.” We look at one

  another, all serious like, before we bust

  up laughing again. “’Kay, never mind.”

  We finish off the vodka, and despite

  the blooming buzz, a brilliant idea

  jumps into my brain. “You guys up

  for a little walk? I think I figured out

  how to dispose of the evidence.” I hold