Smoky Café on U Street

Sophomore

2011-06-20T23:15:00.008-04:00

He leaned onto his elbow, pencil jutting into the cream carpet. His lips barely made contact with my neck.

“What are you doing?” I snapped, whispering. “My mom’s in the next room!”

He smiled smugly, all lips and no teeth. “I just wanted to see what you smelled like.”

I giggled through my nose, gripping my pencil more strongly. “You’re so weird.” His glasses reflected the setting sun against his brown eyes. The black frames rested on his caramel cheeks and dove behind his small, finely crafted ears. “What problem are you on?”

“Number three.”

“Three?! I’m on ten! What have you been doing this whole time?” I frowned, turning from the coffee table to face him.

He leaned on the shin of the couch, lips pursed in jest. “Adoring you.”

“Ha,” I said. “That’s not gonna help you on your test, so you should probably get back to work.”

I turned away, as if I’d been chiding myself instead of him. My fingers pressed into my temples as my elbow rested nervously on the coffee table. I pushed my glasses up on my nose.

He set his textbook down, leaving the pages open to where he should have been working. “Okay,” he said. “I need a break.”

I peered at him over the rims of my frames.

“Okay.” I tossed my pencil down and stood, smoothing my shorts down.

We left the den and walked through the living room, through the kitchen, through the garage, until we reached fresh air. I picked up my brother’s basketball, which lay in the grass next to the driveway.

“I don’t know how you want a break this early,” I said, dribbling, bobbing, and weaving.

“School wears me out faster than you,” he replied, nearly mirroring my moves. “It’s like prison for me.”

“Really? Not me.” I spun around him and shot. Nothing but net.

He rebounded the ball and smiled at me. “That’s because you’re smart,” he dribbled.

I held up my hands to, unsuccessfully, block his shot. “Well, not really.” He passed me the ball and I passed it back. “It’s more of a way out to me.”

He easily shot it over my head and rebounded it again. “I guess.” His voice had lowered, sad. I hadn’t heard him speak that way before.

“If anything, I mean, why not, you know? You don’t have anything better to do.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, dribbling.

I stopped and placed my hands on my hips. “Like what? Play video games?”

He rushed up to me, stopping just short of touching me. He tapped my mouth with his finger, wiping away my smirk. “Maybe,” he smiled.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, unable to hold back a smile of my own. I clapped my hands once, and he tossed me the ball. A couple of quick moves and another shot.

“Have you thought about trying out for the school team? You’re pretty good.” He nodded.

I shrugged. “Nah. My mom wouldn’t let me play in middle school since she said ‘those big girls’ would hurt me. I’ve just been too busy in high school.”

“But it’s almost over.”

“For you.” I threw a chest pass and pointed my fingers at him.

He switched his lips to the side momentarily and grunted.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do afterwards? College or something?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged.

He bounced the ball once, then held it under his hairy armpit. “Laura Stevens is having a party Saturday. Do you want to go? I’ll drive.”

I looked down. “No, I don’t think I will,” I said to a crack in the cement.

He held the ball in his open palm, dropped it, then caught it. “Why not?”

I dug my sneaker into the ground. “I just…don’t want to.” I felt his eyes on my cheeks. I looked up at him. “There’s going to be drinking and stuff.”

“So?”

“I just don’t want to.”

He dribbled. “No one’s going to force you to do anything, you know.”

“I know.” I ran up and smacked the ball away. He lagged as I ran and laid the ball up. I rebounded and dribbled, bouncing myself up to him.

With his toothless smirk, he grabbed the ball and me, and kissed me, right there in my driveway.

I pulled away. “My mom!”

He giggled.

I licked my lip, swallowing a grin. “Come on.” I tilted my head toward the house.

He set the ball back in the grass. We walked back inside, back to math, til the sun went down.

“You hungry?” I asked, closing my textbook.

“Kinda,” Jayson said.

I stretched my neck, looking toward the kitchen. “I don’t think my mom is cooking tonight.”

“We can go get burgers.”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “You’ll have to ask my mother.”

“Mrs. Covet!”

My eyes widened, not believing that he was actually going to ask her.

“May I take Ilyn to get a burger and bring her right back?”

“Sure,” Mom called from the kitchen, where she sorted bills rather than cooked.

He stuck his tongue out at me. “Didn’t think I’d do it, huh?” He picked up his backpack and keys.

I smoothed my shorts down again as I stood, smiling. We walked through the den and living room. “We’ll be back, mom!” I called over my shoulder before slamming the front door shut.

In his Camaro, we rolled up to the gate near my house. When he turned to look right, I kissed him quickly. He smiled and peeled out onto the country road. He didn’t turn on the radio. I lowered the window. My palms rested on my bare knees, which were sweating a little before the wind hit them.

After a few lefts and rights and stretches of country, a dilapidated sign that read “That’s a Burger!” grew larger as we approached. I raised an eyebrow as Jayson pulled into the lot. The building must have been at least a hundred years old, with peeling paint crumbling off its splintery rear. A window darkened by soot and time sat in the middle of the wall.

I looked left and right, at woods and wheat field.

“Uhhhh, this place doesn’t sell burgers,” I managed to get out eventually.

“Yeah, it does.” He turned the car around and drove to the front of the building, which was slightly less unappealing to the eye and showed definite signs of life. “Drive-up style.”

Like magic, a woman with feathered blond hair and burnt orange skin appeared with a notebook beside the car. She clicked her pen and smiled with bright pink lips. “What can I getcha, sweethearts?”

“Two cheeseburgers,” Jayson said, “one with everything, one with just ketchup.”

I smiled, glad he’d remembered how I like my burgers.

The waitress turned away fluidly and seemed to glide away. My eyes followed her til they caught sight of the rollerskates wound tightly around her feet. Impressed, I stuck out my lip and nodded.

“Looks like the gang’s here.”

“What gang?” I asked.

Jayson peered into the rearview mirror. I turned to look through the back windshield.

“Laura Stevens, Corey Evans…”

“The gang” sat on their cars, or inside them with the legs dangling from the open doors. The one I assumed was Corey Evans sat at the wheel of a black Mustang, top down, while Laura Stevens, I guessed, sat on the hood, gaffawing at one of the other boys. At least three other carfuls accompanied them.

“So the cool kids hang out behind a burger shack?” I turned to Jayson, who nodded and smiled. I blinked. “You’re not going to college, are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I stared out the front windshield, waiting for my food.

He sighed roughly, nearly grunting. “I’ll be back.”

He snapped the door open and hopped out. Through his side mirror, I watched him limp up to them, slap the boys’ hands and attempt to pinch their nipples through their jerseys.

I rolled my eyes. How long could it take to make a burger?

“The gang” burst into laughter, loud enough for me to hear them from a good distance with the window just cracked. I tapped my fingertips on the armrest.

Jayson bounded back into the car. “Laura said she really wants you to come to the party. Come talk to them.”

“No,” I said gently, looking up at him.

“Please come to the party? Just this once?”

He poked out his bottom lip and peered at me over the rims of his specs.

“But I won’t know anyone there. It’ll be all Chamberlain kids.”

“You’ll know me.” He poked his lip out farther.

I sighed but held my breath instead of exhaling. I closed my eyes behind my glasses and hoped he didn’t notice. “Okay,” I squeezed out.

Grinning, he caught me in a gentle headlock and kissed me deeply before releasing me. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

I inhaled to sigh again, but let the breath out quickly so he wouldn’t hear. Our burgers arrived.

“I think my mom’s gonna expect me back,” I said, closing the bag as I folded a French fry into my mouth.

He nodded. He turned the car on and called out, “Peace!” to “the gang.” He ripped out of the lot.

Through the window, I looked back at them, biting the inside of my lip.

Resolution

2011-01-26T12:11:00.003-05:00

They sat in a dim coffee shop. She stared at the floor, caressing a mug of tea.

"What's on your mind?" Sheila asked.

She looked up and smiled. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Weight of the world, then?" Sheila smiled and sipped her martini.

She chuckled so light it came out as just a breath. "You could say that." She stared out at the other patrons milling about the shop, or sitting typing at tables, or sipping bowls of milky coffee with members of the opposite sex. "I just want to write. I need to slow down. It's all just going so fast. There's always something standing in the way. I feel like I'm in a moment, then something always stands in the way."

Sheila nodded slowly. "Life comes at you fast. But you can't let it pass you by."

"I just keep getting hit with everything."

"I know." Sheila leaned in and whispered, "Try to catch some of them."

She smiled the slanted smirk she saved for flirting, when the guy said something unwittingly clever. "I have so much peace when I write," she said. "I miss it. I remember loving it. But it's gotten lost...in all this... in meetings, in studying, in budgets--"

"In worrying? In lack of control?"

Her eyes snapped up. For a moment, Sheila looked just like her mother, though she'd always reminded her of her mother: so strong and wise, with eyes that speak of her life's joys and sorrows before her mouth opens to tell you about them.

"Stop worrying."

She knew Sheila was thinking more. But she was holding back. Like her mother would.

"It's easier said than done, though," Sheila continued. She perched her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist.

She nodded. "I'm just scared I'll lose my craft."

"Have you ever?"

"...No. But that's not to say it can't happen."

"That's true, too," Sheila said without actually believing it. "Then make time. You prioritize your work; prioritize life so as not to make you insane."

She nodded and looked into her tea.

"Look at me."

She rose her eyes."You are who you are. Sure, life happens and you adapt, but nothing is going to change who you are. This is who you are," she tapped her sternum, nowhere near her heart, but she got the picture. "Don't lose sight of who that is."

She nodded in agreement. "I won't," she declared to herself.

"Good," she said. She drank the rest of her martini like a shot and collected her bags. "My work here is done. I'll see you next week. Call me if you need anything."

She stood and left the table, nearly bumping into a man as she turned. He glowed, it seemed, showing white teeth in a debonair smile before drawing away. Sheila threw her a wink and a smile over shoulder.

She giggled and watched Sheila walk out the door. She picked up her book, removed the mark, and, gently biting her lip, resumed where she'd left off.

Her Italy

2010-03-12T15:45:00.005-05:00

"John and Susan got in the car. They sat in silence. John didn't start the ignition. Susan stared out the windshield, avoiding John's eyes; avoiding every part of him. John did the same, staring down at the keys laying slack in his hand. He sighed. 'You know,' he started, 'You can't go forever without speaking to me.' Try me, Susan thought. She blinked and her dark curls shifted across the fur of her coat as she turned her neck, looking out the window. 'Okay, maybe you can,' John said. He sighed and finally inserted the key. He revved the engine over his thoughts."

I don't think this is going anywhere, Jordanna typed.

What are you talking about? Charlie replied.

This story, my story. What am I doing? Charlie, do you like your job?

I do. The people are cool and the work is really easy.

That's nice. I'm bored as hell.

The boss could be better, but what can you expect

As always

And they give a Christmas bonus

oh shut up, I'm not getting one

Oh. Sorry.

"Now that the car was moving, Susan's eyes drifted about the cityscape, which slowly melted into country on either side of the highway, reminding her of train rides through Tuscany with John. But that was when he was an artist. It was Their Italy."

You could always talk about Italy.

That's what I was doing, Charles.

k.

"You know, he started suddenly."

No.

"You know, he started suddenly, exasperated."

Emotion. Good.

"It was Their Italy, with food that made her tongue glisten."

Hey, can your tongue glisten?

Sounds dangerous. And kinda kinky.

I'll take that as a no.

"She thought of Their Italy: the food that melted on her tongue"

Already used 'melted'.

"She thought of Their Italy: the food that sang ballads to her senses and the men that did the same, before she met John, of course. Like Vittorio. At least she thought his name was Vittorio. At least she thought he was Italian. He was an actor. She didn't trust actors, but he kissed like a prince. He was probably an American named Kyle, but she still fell into his kisses like an autumn leaf."

Hehehe.

What?

What I just wrote.

What did you just write?

I can't tell you.

So what was the point of you telling me it was something you just wrote?

I don't know. Thought you mighta wanted to know.

"They met on the Spanish Steps. Susan had spent the day shopping and sightseeing. She plopped down on a step, letting her bags flail on either side of her in her desperation to get off her feet. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, where the sun was setting behind Via Condotti. She exhaled, smiling. When she opened them, he stood before her."

"She exhaled, smiling. When she opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of the young man sitting a few steps below her. His body was turned away, but his face, toward her. Sunglasses perched on his dark-coiffed head, leather jacket; so Roman. She smiled again, bold and purposeful, like many a smile she'd given before. He smiled back, lips smooth across his face and the fading sunlight catching his"

"He smiled back, lips smooth across his face and his brown eyes catching the fading sunlight. She watched as he stood and ascended to her. He invited himself to sit next to her, though she would have done so if her Italian were a little more than 'tourist.'"

Jordanna blinked at her computer screen. She tilted her head, hoping it would shift something in her brain.

What happened next in the story escaped her, perhaps willingly. In that instance, her own memories of Italia slipped from her memory.

Or did she leave them, knowing they would never happen again?

She clicked the X at the corner of the screen of the document.

Well, I should get back to work now...on something.

Okay, ttyl.

Bye.

Bye.

We'll Always Remember What's to Come

2009-01-21T13:27:00.007-05:00

The television blared as I rocked in my chair. I ran my hands along the wood arms, resting on the knobs that were clinched like fists. I still remember when I got it. My son gave it to me 30 years ago, for my 52nd birthday.

"A Georgetown rocker for my Hoya mom," he'd said grinning, himself a Hoya.

I smiled, tilting my head back on a small pillow. My eyes closed as they so often do on their own now. Even after years, your body never gets used to the effects of certain medicines. It always gives in, leaving me to sleep, at least, if not rest, at ease.

When they opened, my eyes rested on my husband, who sat in his arm chair next to me, but too far to reach. He sat up, fixated on the television.

"Look," he said. His voice had grown huskier as he aged, and only more debonair. "They're showing the ceremony." He pointed at the screen.

A young Black woman stood on the Presidential platform in front of the Capitol. Her husband, a tall, brown-skinned man with an easygoing smile, held President Lincoln's Bible, as she held up her right hand. Millions of people packed the National Mall. The crowd was veiled through red, as hundreds of thousands of American flags fluttered in the wind.

"I never thought I would see this," I confessed.

"Yeah, lawd," my husband said, smiling so wide I could see all of his dentures.

"Then again, that's not true," I continued. "I figured it would happen... Remember the first Black president? I mean, the very first one?"

He nodded. "How could I forget?" His eyes shined as they met mine.

"I remember the inauguration," I said, my eyes nostalgically drifting to the ceiling. "I wasn't going to go, since none of my friends wanted to come with me and stand out in the cold."

"Man, it was cold!"

"Wasn't it?" I shook my head, remembering the wind that cut across my nose and cheeks. "But it was January in Washington, DC. What a day. I was all the way back at the Washington Monument, by myself."

"But you weren't alone," he interjected. "You had two million of your closest friends there with you!"

I laughed. "I guess."

"I was there."

"No, you weren't."

"Yes, I was. And how would you know anyway? It's not like you could have seen me. Shoots. I had tickets. I was sitting right next to Beyonce."

"You lyin'!"

He chuckled. "I was there, though. Up the Mall, nowhere near the Capitol, though."

I sighed. "I couldn't believe he'd won. I should never have doubted."

He leaned forward in his chair. "You did vote for him right?"

I blinked at him.

"Okay, okay." He sat back. "I did, too. I didn't tell anybody, though. I was president of the Young Republicans at the time, so I couldn't go around telling all willynilly."

"What was the name of that woman?" I asked.

"What woman?"

"That woman. The Republican."

"Payton?"

"No, that wasn't it."

"Paintin'?"

"No... Oh, well."

We shrugged.

"I always remembered that day, though," I resumed, settling comfortably into the rocker. "No matter how much time goes by, I'll always remember walking a mile in the cold down to the Mall, hugging strangers after he said the oath. The weatherman said it would be cloudy, but the sun shined anyway. I remember that."

"We changed after that," my husband said. "I changed after that."

"We all did. That's when we got our fathers and our husbands back. That's when we killed fear and doubt. That's when we finally started believing that all things are possible."

"It was a call to do better, because we knew we were better."

I nodded, my eyes watering. I set my head back on the pillow as, onscreen, our new President shook hands with the old. She hugged her husband and children, before shaking other important hands.

I smiled, feeling the medicine course through my tired body. I closed my eyes, drifting to sleep.

"But it was just the beginning," I whispered.

Solitude

2008-06-10T16:12:00.005-04:00

Eryn held the pencil loosely between three fingers. The lead pressed the paper, indenting a small black hole in the blue line. She stared into the blank spaces on the page. She tapped the pencil on the sheet until a constellation of dots made a circle at the top of the page.

She sighed and set the pencil down. She cleared her throat and reached for the glass of water on the edge of the table. She swallowed and looked up at the kitchen light, inspecting it for bugs and the like until her retinas shrieked for mercy. She closed her eyes and lowered her head, afraid to open them to a blank page.

She belched and sighed again, finally opening her eyes. She set the glass down, smacked her idle hands together, and licked her lips. Page still blank.

Eryn slid out from the table, given the lack of space between it and the wall behind her. She made careful notes about the motion of her body as she walked a few steps, from the curl of her bare toes on the floor, to the tensing of her leg muscles, to the length her arm extended toward her computer on the opposite side of the table. Under her finger, her mouse screen was slick but tract. She rubbed the edges of the little square, still fresh after four years, unlike the middle that had worn smooth from oil and sweat from her fingers. Her joints popped quietly as she clicked the music player icon and selected a song.

She walked to the downbeat of the song, back to her side of the table, and retook her place in front of the paper. She picked up the pencil and tilted the page, ready, in case a musical note struck her the right way and words began to fall involuntarily from her hands. She struck the side of the pencil, ticking the lead inside to the beat of the high-hat drum in the music. She closed her eyes again, hoping to see the music dance as her ears swallowed it.

The scene behind her lids was fuzzy, like that of a snow globe with too much snow.

In the fog, she could make out the forms of a man, a woman, and a dance floor. The male and female shadows danced together in the dust. Gradually, silhouettes of other people appeared, lingering around the edges of the floor, their faces blotted out like on a crime show.

A shimmer of red flashed across Eryn’s vision. As the song ended, her imagination faded to black before she could question it.

Her eyes opened to the page where, now, one word sat, perched innocuously on a blue line.

Distance.

She peered at the word as if it’d appeared by magic. She inhaled. Underneath it, she added, “solitude.”

She tossed down the pencil and her shoulders relaxed, as if the pencil had weighed 10 pounds. Her eyes wandered about her kitchen as she thought.

She closed her eyes again suddenly, trying to strike the same match twice. But she still couldn’t make out the figures.

She stood up quickly, slamming the chair against the wall. She marched to the fridge and yanked the door open. She snatched up a bottle of American ale and popped off the top with the can opener. Down the hall, in the living room, she fell into the soft pillows of the couch, reached for the remote, and turned on the TV.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Love

2008-06-05T15:34:00.004-04:00

"Can you not do that?"

"Do what?"

"Flip channels like that. It makes me dizzy."

"I have to see what's on."

"Hello, it's called the TV Guide Channel."

"Yeah, but that just gives you the titles. I want to get the essence of the show."

"Oh brother. Hey, stop there! CSI!"

"This one time, I was on my way to work--"

"Yeah."

"--Minding my own business, walking down the street, when I turn the corner, and BAM. Cops, laying out the white sheet."

"No way."

"Way."

"You saw a dead body laying on the sidewalk on your way to work?"

"That's what I said."

"Did you CSI it?"

"I don't think the cops needed my help."

"Yeah. I don't like CSI Miami. I'm more a New York kind of girl. You can change it."

"I thought you didn't like it when I flipped channels."

"Eh, can't have everything. Oh wait -- What Not to Wear!"

"No!"

"Sex and the City!"

"Hell no....Yankees game!"

"Ugh, men. Although, is that Derek Jeter?... Wait, I was watching that!"

"I'll find something else. Movies, movies. Casino Royale?"

"Fine by me."

"'I'm Bond, James Bond.'"

"You wish."

"Are you going to talk the whole movie?"

"You're the one talking now!"

"Nuh-uh, you are!"

"Be quiet, you're going to miss the good part--when he falls in love."

"Women."

"Yes. You love us."

"Maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Here we go again..."

"Oh, leave me alone."

"Can you stop sighing like that?"

"I'm not sighing, I just can't breathe over your cologne."

"You're funny."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. What are you doing?"

"it's your turn to be remote commando."

"Awww, thanks. You're gonna love this episode of Sex and the City."

"Women."

Charlie

2008-06-05T10:49:00.003-04:00

Charlie whistled softly to the music streaming from his iPod. The cart of books squeaked as he pushed it along the waxed floor. He turned down an aisle and shelved a book back in its proper place. He glanced back at the cart; only three rows left. He grimaced and pushed the cart onward.

A shadow turned around a shelf and met Charlie face to face.

"Oh, excuse me."

"I'm sorry," Charlie said.

The shadow, now in full form, smiled shyly. Her dark brown hair fell around her plump face as she looked down for a moment. She raked it back and peered up into Charlie's face.

"You work here, right?" She asked.

Charlie noticed her blue eyes next. Blue like...like the ocean or the sky or something like that. "Yeah," he finally said.

"Um, this is a little random but--"

Charlie's breath stopped two inches short of his lungs. He cracked his mouth ope to let air in, but closed it quickly.

The girl giggled a little. "There's a woman...praying in the reading room. She's being kinda loud and we're all trying to study...

His lips set into a line. He sighed inside. "Okay. I'll see what I can do."

He followed her swift stride to the reading room. Students, eyebrows furrowed and lips curled, sat at tables scattered around the room. Books and papers lay strewn in front of them, but their attention lay in the back corner. Charlie walked slowly to the kneeling woman. He ducted at times, dodging her rapidfire Arabic.

"Um, excuse me...ma'am?"

She continued her prayer, ignoring Charlie, or just unable to hear him.

Charlie looked around. The cute girl's eyes nudged him. He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry but--" He yelled, just as the woman stopped. She sat up and rolled up her mat. She tucked it into her totebag by her table. She sat down at her open notes and resumed reading where she'd apparently left off.

Charlie looked around the room again. Everyone resumed reading. The cute girl shrugged and returned to her table, where both her notes and her boyfriend sat.

Charlie just blinked and left.

Reading Eve

2008-01-11T14:39:00.001-05:00

Rain slid down the windows. We sat in dim light, with lamps shining down on our open books. I sat on the floor, watching Eve, reading her as if she were my history notes.

She lay on my bed, chin propped on her fist. She scribbled in notebook once in a while. Her black hair glowed in the lamp that shined on her like a spotlight. She kicked her feet back and forth slowly. She wore shorts, despite the cold outside. Her legs were long, with wispy hairs just along her shins. Her silhouette fell on the wall, curving more at her nose and lips.

"My dad died in Vietnam," I said, hoping she would turn to face me.

Eve didn't move. "Liar."

I shrugged and smiled. "I felt like talking."

"You should be feeling like studying," she replied, eyes still focused on her textbook.

"I'm just a little distracted, is all."

The eyelashes of her shadow blinked. "Do you want some tea?"

I shrugged again, then nodded. She set her pen down and climbed off my bed. As she stepped over me to my makeshift cupboard, her perfume found its way to my nose.

I sat up and leaned against my roommate's bed. "Is that Chanel?"

"Yeah," she answered, picking two tea bags from the box. "How'd you know?"

"My sister has it." Smells better on you, though, I thought.

She smiled. "How old is she?"

"A year younger, nineteen."

"She doesn't go here," Eve both asked and declared.

"Yeah, no, she goes to Spelman."

"Hm." She poured hot water into blue and black mugs and plunked the tea bags up and down. She left them in, the string dangling off the side. She handed me the blue mug. "You know, you shouldn't tell lies like that. About your dad."

I shrugged, taking a sip of the tea. I swallowed, and the hot water stung my throat. "I just wanted to get your attention," I confessed.

She sat back on my bed. She stared intently into her tea, jostling the bag. "You sure shrug alot," she said. "Tell me more about your sister."

I told Eve what she would want to know, that Courtney had graduated third in her high school class, and was accepted to Georgetown, Harvard, and NYU, but chose Spelman over all of them for "the experience that would most enrich her whole person." And I told her how she played soccer, tennis, and violin, and how I nearly gouged out a classmate's eyeballs for oogling her when she was in seventh grade.

"What does she look like?" Eve asked.

"Me, just shorter and with longer hair. And a girl."

"I think I would have to see her," she said. "My sister and I look nothing alike. We both took after our fathers."

"You don't have the same dad?"

She cut her eyes to mine, precise as a ruler's edge. "No."

Thunder hummed outside. Wind raked through the trees, sending rain splattering onto the window.

We sat in silence for a long moment, both of us drinking tea and me thinking about Eve.

"I bet I can read your mind," she said, setting her tea down on the floor by the bed.

"Really?" I smiled. "How?"

"I just can."

"Do it, then."

"Okay."

We stared at each other.

"You have to think about something first, duh."

I chuckled. I looked into her eyes, a brown made honey by the lamp.

"I believe you love me," she declared without a lull in her voice or a smile on her lips. "And you're not sure I feel the same way."

I blinked. I covered up my mind like a stranger had intruded on me showering. I gulped. "Do you?"

She shrugged this time, and lay back on my bed. "So that means you really do love me."

My ears grew hot in an instant. "I didn't say that."

She inhaled and exhaled visibly. "Were you going to tell me more about your sister?"

I sighed. "She's cool. You'd like her. She studies psychology. She's dating this kid from Morehouse."

"You're not gonna gouge out his eyeballs." She smiled.

"Maybe," I said. My head lightened when I saw her smile.

"I wonder if they've been...involved." She stared at the ceiling.

I'd rather not think about that, I meant to say. I could hardly think of Courtney kissing anyone, much less doing more. I wondered how many guys Eve had kissed. Or more.

"Two," she said, sitting up again.

"Huh?"

"Two. I've only ever kissed two guys."

I shrunk my eyes at her.

"I told you I could read your mind," she said.

"What makes you so sure?"

"I don't know. I just can. I can read you like a book I wrote myself."

She smiled wide, letting the words escape more easily from her lips. Her lips, which I could have lunged for at that very moment.

But she must have known that.

She shrank away, back onto my bed with her tea. "We should get back to studying," she said.

I pulled my textbook close to me. Reading history would always be easier than reading Eve.

In the Kitchen

2008-01-10T14:33:00.001-05:00

A trout flapped onto a counter as she walked by. She smiled. It always reminded her of the Real World Seattle when they threw the fish around like that.

She breathed deeply as she strolled past the fish market. The fish never overtook the scent of the ocean in her nostrils.

Ellie adjusted the grocery bags in both her hands from one ridge to another, and continued past the market, up the hill. In the distance, her mother stood on the porch. The front door was open wide behind her. As she approached, she examined her mother's face. Her lips were contorted to the side and she shrank her eyes, signs of both distress and annoyance. A red Mustang with the top down sat in the drive.

"Oh god, they're here?" She whispered, loud enough for her mother to hear.

Lynn closed her eyes and nodded.

"They're hungry, aren't they?"

Lynn nodded again.

Ellie sighed and grimaced. "Well, take these in for me and I'll go back into town for more."

"You can take them in now," Lynn said. "They're your friends. You have to greet them."

They're not actually my friends, Ellie wanted to say.

She went up the stairs and carefully stepped into the house, hoping that, if they didn't hear her come in, they would assume she was never coming back from the store, and they would leave.

Jake popped out first, from behind the kitchen door. "Ellie!"

She jumped, dropping the bag full of produce. A few apples and a head of lettuce rolled on the floor as he gave her a quick hug.

"Guys! Grub's here!" Jake snatched the other bag from her and ripped it open.

Ellie stood still. The ground shook. A stampede hummed in the distance, and arrived a few seconds later, in the form of Jake's teammates, Greg, Chad, Roy, Jim and Joe. Ellie watched with sullen eyes as they devoured the food she'd just walked three quarters of a mile to get.

Okay, maybe half mile.

She swallowed. "What are you doing here?"

Jake looked up from the cold, pre-prepared organic pizza. "You said we should come up sometime."

"When did I say that?"

"After graduation, at Lyssa's party."

Ellie's memory sucked her back to that night. The jungle juice had flowed like the music from the speakers, loud and plentiful. She'd worn a ridiculous top she'd borrowed from Lyssa, with spaghetti straps and pink sequins. When the music had started to pound in her head in the backyard, she stumbled through the house and out the front door.

The stars spun above her head like a mobile. She lowered her eyes to the grass. Dizzy, she plopped down on the stoop. She set her forehead in her hand and exhaled.

She didn't bother looking up when the gate on the side of the house opened.

"Hey." Jake's voice rang. "What are you doing out here?" His voice was so loud, pounding her eardrums.

"Just, um...breathing," she said.

He shrugged and sat down beside her. He sniffed and looked up at the sky. "Nice night," he said, nodding. He smelled of beer with the faint hint of a cigarette.

"Yeah."

Silence fell between them like an autumn leaf.

"So...what are you doing this summer? Before Cornell?" He tapped her shoulder with his.

She smiled modestly. "Going to Hampton Head, same as every summer. We have a house there."

"Really? Sweet!"

Not so loud, she thought.

She looked over at him and met his eyes by accident. She hadn't noticed that his eyes were actually more green than brown, shown in the light of the tall lamp on the street. Nor had she noticed the way a thick lock of hair would curl dangerously close to his eye. She wanted to brush it back with the tips of her fingers, to feel the coolness of his forehead.

She bit her lip and smiled instead. "Maybe you could come up sometime."

She hadn't meant it literally. Well, she had, just...

"I didn't mean all of you! Just--" She stopped herself. They all looked up at her, mouths full, waiting for the rest of the sentence. "Never mind." She shuffled her feet along the floor tiles. "I hope you don't plan to stay long."

"No way, man," Chad piped up.

"There's just this party we're hitting up," Roy said. "We'll probably end up crashing there."

"We'll have to!" Joe added. A piece of free-range turkey flew from this mouth. The guys laughed wildly and high-fived one another.

"Who's party is it?" Ellie asked.

They shrugged in unison. Ellie rolled her eyes. "Fine, don't tell me. But you owe me 75 bucks each for the food." She tossed a false grin at their stunned faces before turning on her heels.

As she marched out of the kitchen, toward her room, she decided to hold her tongue forever.

Never let them into your heart, her Gran used to say. Or your kitchen.

Interview Blues

2007-08-19T14:00:00.001-04:00

You said pleasant goodbyes to your family outside of the airport, covering up the overwhelming joy that could have sprung up in your voice at any moment. Even if it was just an interview, you crave a reason to back to your city, your Washington, DC.

In your city, you smiled smugly, feeling like Jackie O. in the hired car, buzzing along the Beltway. You stuck your tongue out at a woman driving a Camry. Haha, she can’t see you. You hoped.

You thought about the king-sized bed you were going to swim in tonight. Oh momma. You tried not to think about the number of people who’d probably had sex in it, but they change the sheets in hotels, you tell yourself. Anything is better than the twin sham you sleep in at home.

That night, the poshy restaurant you meet friends in does not help your smugness. And peer pressure prevails and you order a glass of dry white, which your new connoisseur’s buds tell you is wise, considering the humidity making your hair stand on end, and it goes well with your fancy cod dish.

You ate more quickly that usual, thinking about that bed. Oh, that bed with its fluffy 600 thread count sheets, and layers and layers of blankets, waiting for you to peel them back and insert yourself.

You wash your face, brush your teeth, remove your contact lenses—rushing, like there’s a man waiting for you in your king-sized bed.

You rip back the covers and leap in. You sink deep down into them and nestle your head between the pillows like a man in his woman’s bosom. You breathe a big, fish-and-wine scented breath of relief. Say a little prayer and turn off the light. You close your eyes.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait for sleep to come like the man you’d wished were in this huge bed with you.

You turn on your stomach. You flip to the cool side of the pillow.

Your heart is beating louder than your breathing. Each beat rattles not just your chest, but your stomach, your throat, and worst of all, your head. You wish that it would stop beating so you can sleep.

Stop beating so loudly, you quickly correct yourself.

Turn back onto your back.
Is it the faint light from the street streaming through the sheer curtains that’s keeping you awake?

No.

Perhaps too many carbs at dinner, with fish and rice?

No.

You wish you’d had another glass of wine; you wouldn’t be having this conversation with yourself if you had. You’d be melting your troubles away in slumber.

You raise your hand. In the dark, it’s big, but feminine. Your fingers are longer than you expected. But so are your stories.

You hear a voice outside. It’s a woman singing, quite well, actually. You can’t tell if she’s drunk or homeless, but at any rate, she’s good. All you can hear are the lulls of her voice, the highs and lows of her rhythm, but no perceptible words. You pretend she’s singing the gospel, telling you to hold on, be faithful, everything’s gonna be alright.

A man yells, “Girl, you can sing!” and it’s followed by giggling.

At home, you think, it would be, “Gurl, you can sang!” You wonder why some people in the South constantly dwell in the past tense. Perhaps they have no futures because they refuse to create anything in the present. Ha, you got that from your mother.

Bored, you run over questions that you could ask them in the interview, to sound engaging and intellectual, but not overly pretentious.

“In what ways will working in this position develop or enrich me professionally and personally?”

That’s goooood.

“What is the most valuable skill you have acquired in your time here?”

Also good.

“How would you describe the office atmosphere?”

Eh, that’s alright.

You hope they don’t ask about your creative writing like the last interview.

“What will you do if you’re working 100 hours a week and don’t have time to write?”

You’d smiled nonchalantly and flicked your wrist flippantly. “I’ll be fine,” you’d said. “It wouldn’t be taking anything away from me.”

You know you lyin’, your soul quipped.

Now, in that big bed, you sigh, exasperated. You’re afraid to look at the clock because it might tell you how much sleep you’re not going to get tonight.

Oh damn, you looked anyway. 2.38am and your wake up call is set for 6.30.

What can you do?

You clasp the hotel pen and notepad and choose not to be a liar any longer.

Eryn

2007-08-13T18:18:00.002-04:00

Eryn licked cherry flavor from her lips. She hoisted her bag on her shoulder, balancing her umbrella in one hand and a clove in the other. Rain softly patted the roof of the umbrella. She placed the cig at her lips and inhaled. She held the smoke in her mouth fro a long moment, setting her head on the umbrella’s cold metal handle. As she exhaled, a cold wind blew through her coat. Her skirt billowed up around her thighs. She set the clove between her lips and gathered the coat more tightly around her waist. She snatched it down from her mouth just as the heat began to rise to her nose.

As the bus approached, she took one more puff. She flicked the remainder of the cig on the ground and stomped on it. The bus stopped in front of her. She blinked as the wet doors flew open. She swallowed hard, leftover smoke on her tongue, cherry from her lips, extemporaneous rain water. She tightened her grip on the umbrella.

“Ay, you gettin’ on or what?” The driver snapped.

Eryn looked up at the man. He was much too young to be so snippy.

She nodded.

She set one foot on the stair and closed her umbrella out the door. She slid a dollar into the machine and chased it with a quarter. Every seat and much of the aisle was taken. Eryn glanced around at the elderly immigrant women, the princes of the ghetto, and single mothers who nodded off between jobs, all headed for the crust of DC.

Eryn kept her head down, avoiding the eyes of the man and woman on either side of her. She clinched her fist around a metal bar over her head as the bus pulled away. She bit her lip, trying to catch between her teeth one of the thoughts that sped around her head. Her heart slammed itself against her ribs, harder with each tick of her watch. She preferred the time drip away without her, funnel down the sewer with the rain. But instead, it puddled up around her ankles and steadily rose, threatening to drown her.

Two blocks away from her stop, her throat filled with powder. She coughed and smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

A block away, she reached over a couple of seated passengers for the stop request string. She hooked her finger on the string.

Tears swam to her eyelids as she lowered her hand without tugging the string. The bus passed the cemetery, uninterrupted.

Eryn just watched the rain slide down the window.

Elliot opened the door after two knocks. He smiled until he saw Eryn dripping water on the wood floor.

“Eryn! What’s wrong?” He asked, enveloping her in his arms and ushering her inside. He closed the door behind them.

Eryn opened her mouth to speak, but exhaled. Her breath was cool on the bend of his neck. “I tried to go, but I couldn’t…I wanted to. I tried. I tried. I tried…”

She sat down on his bed, with the white sheets and blue blanket. She’d always told him to choose different colors for his bed; white could be so exposing and blue, so impersonal.

She held her face in her hands. Tears dribbled along her fingers. Elliot handed her a glass of water and sat beside her.

“You didn’t have to go,” he said, knowing that wouldn’t make her feel better. “But it’s honorable that you tried.”

Eryn sipped the water. It lay flat on her taste buds and slid down her throat without her noticing. She blinked, leaving her eyes closed as she swallowed. She opened them slowly, leaving them lowered to the floor.

“So now what do we do?”

She shrugged.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” she sighed. Her head felt heavy.

Elliot pulled back his white sheets. He smoothed down his pillow. Eryn took off her coat and let her shoes clomp onto the floor. She curled up under his blue blanket. He joined her a few minutes later, leaving his arms to rest around her. Her eye lids had grown heavier. She burrowed her head more deeply into his pillow. It smelled of his sweat, and his sweetness.

When she uncurled her lashes, Eryn’s eyes focused on the ceiling. Elliot had managed to keep it clean, save a soot spot over the stove.

She turned over, facing Elliot, who still slept. She slipped her fingers through a few of the soft curls that framed his face, and kissed his forehead. He rustled awake beneath her lips.

“How are you feeling now?” He asked through a sleepy smile.

Eryn nodded an “okay.” She turned on her back. Outside, what was left of sunlight was fading into night. It still spat shadows of rain and rainbows on the ceiling.

She wouldn’t bother going back again.

She wondered what happened to the bodies in the ground when it rained.

She shook herself. She could never think about something like that.

She wouldn’t be going back.

Eryn lay her head on Elliot’s shoulder, wanting to lift the silence, but unable to find any words.

Shine

2007-04-11T22:31:00.001-04:00

The screen door pinged shut behind her as Bianca stepped onto the porch. Her shoes clopped on the splintering planks as she walked to the stoop. She sat down, minding the fading blue paint that chipped off the wood.

The radio propped in the open window played “God Bless the Child.” Bianca didn’t like the slow songs and blues that her momma hummed along to. She sighed, hoping the next song would be a new big band or some strapping young man sending his vocals down from up north.

Bianca looked up at the sun. It dangled in the sky, showering down and browning her skin. She closed her eyes, yearning to take it into every one of her pores, so maybe one day she’d shine just like it.

When her momma’s laugh suddenly rose to her ears over the music, Bianca turned her head. Her chin brushed the cotton strap of her yellow sundress, dabbing perspiration from her skin. She caressed a drop of sweat from the fold of her neck with her fingertip.

Her mother, Loretta, looked out toward the road through squinted eyes. She stood up straight behind the wicker chair, where Bianca’s little sister Nora sat, getting her scalp greased in the midday heat. Nora sat with her hands in her lap, palms up. She winced as Loretta parted the hair at the crown of her head, always the kinkiest bit. Nora contorted her face in the porch’s shadow, too brave to cry, and scrunched up her nose.

“Here one comes,” Loretta said. “I can feel it in my fingers.”

“Which one?” Bianca’s aunt Sadie asked from the porch swing. Holding the brim of her big ivory hat, she swung easily with her big legs stretched out on the seat like ice cream cones. The flower-printed padding sunk under her weight and sprung up around her wrinkled pink dress.

Loretta titled her chin toward the dirt road. The dust parted as a Studebaker barreled down the drive.

“This one again?” Aunt Tow asked, turning down the radio behind her. In the rocking chair, she drifted back and forth next to Sadie, cooling herself with a fan she stole from a funeral home. “Boy, Lo, you sure know how to keep them loyal. Years, now, this one’s been comin’. What you be givin’ ‘em?” She laughed.

“None of ‘em can stay away too long. Good thing, too. I got bills to pay,” Loretta answered. Tow and Sadie bellowed, their laughter radiating through the heat.

“He ain’t been here since last month,” Loretta continued. “This one’s good. Easy to please.” Her sisters laughed again. “Watch this,” she said, her eyes shrinking into thin slits of brown. She adjusted her bosom and patted her hair up.

Bianca’s eyes rose to the clearing, watching the car drive up. Through the dusty windshield, the driver grinned, like he was about to eat a whole chocolate cake by himself.

Loretta pretended not to see him park, get out of the car with a bouquet of flowers, or walk up to the porch. She just stared into Nora’s hair, swiftly sliding grease along her scalp.

Bianca had seen this one lots of times, but this time, he wore fashionable two-tones, a new hat and a suit with pinstripes instead of his usual plain old black. She wondered where he bought his suits; same as she wondered if he knew about all the others who frequented her mother’s bedroom, but she would never dare to ask something like that.

“Hi, Loretta.” He announced himself, taking off his hat. He’d just been to the barber; clean shaved, with a small part trailing down the middle of his coarse hair.

Loretta didn’t answer.

“Hi,” Bianca said for her.

He glanced down at the girl. She watched his eyes dribble across her legs that were sweet and shiny from Loretta’s cocoa butter.

He let out a small chuckle. “Hi, dahlin’. You’re looking more like your mother every time I see you,” he finally said, smiling enough for Bianca to notice the gap between his teeth that she also hadn’t seen before. His eyes slid over her body again; her legs, her soft hips and breasts that were slow but sure to grow each week, and Loretta’s measuring tape proved it.

Each flower he held was different; different colors, different shapes; all whispering something unique within the folds of their petals. He looked down at them and carefully picked Bianca out a yellow one that hadn’t blossomed yet. When it did, he said, it would be the most beautiful flower this side of a rose. Tow released a snort.

“Thank you kindly,” Bianca said. Loretta winked at her approvingly.

Bianca flipped it between her fingers, watching the pedals glow in the sunlight as he stepped up onto the porch, staring at Loretta. Tow and Sadie sneered to themselves as he held the rest of the bouquet out to her.

Loretta drew her eyes up to his, blinking slowly. She still held the red plastic comb as she took the bouquet from him. She held the flowers to her chest for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The man’s eyes shined as he nodded toward the bouquet. Loretta looked down into the flowers again, more deeply. Tucked in the flurry of petals and stems was a roll of bills, enough for all of her bills for this month, the next, and maybe even the month after that.
Her lips curled to into a crescent moon smile. She slid her eyes toward the door, giving him permission to go inside, and he did so with a jubilant skip.

Nora yelped as Loretta pressed the comb down into her hair.

“Momma’ll be right back, child,” Loretta told her. “And Bianca, don’t go nowhere. Percy’ll be here soon.” Bianca nodded listlessly.

Her lips drawn up to one side, Loretta winked at Tow and Sadie before she followed the man inside the house. Her sisters released busty laughs as the screen clanged behind her.

“Lawd, we’ll be hearing the hootin’ soon,” Tow laughed, slapping her round thighs with her pudgy palms.

“Mmmmmmhmmmm,” Sadie added, her hand to her forehead.

Tow shook her head. “Wonder why this one still comes around after all these years, especially seeing as they ain’t played it too safe in the past.” Bianca looked up in time to see Tow pointing a thumb at her.

Tow rolled her eyes. “Don’t pay us no mind, child,” she said, shooing Bianca’s attention away. Bianca turned her eyes back to the yard, pretending not to listen.

“That was 16 years ago,” Sadie said. “Lo just played it like nothing happened at all and he went along with it. He don’t need to know who’s who, so long as he keeps payin’ her bills, is what she said. After all, he’s the best one to her. Do you remember those silk scarves? And that perfume? Straight from France.”

Tow shook her head. “It’s so hot, though,” she said. “I don’t know how she can take all that heat.”

“Mmmm, honey, I know!” Sadie said. “Then again, if I could get my fingers on one—one like that, too, with all that money—child, I wouldn’t mind the heat neither.”

Tow giggled. “Uh-huh, I’d be making all kinds of heat with him, enough to ‘bout bake a cake!”

They laughed boisterously at their own jokes. They talked in circles because of Nora. They tried to talk in circles around Bianca, too, but she was already familiar with them.

A prickle crawled into Bianca’s fingers, starting at her knuckles. She looked out toward the road. The air was still, but the bushes by the woods fluttered. Her eye got a flash of Michael James as he hiked out of the brush. Bianca watched him climb over branches and start for her backyard. She knew he could feel her eyes slithering up his back. He turned around. A little too tall for his age, Michael James ran in cotton shorts that he’d outgrown since last summer (His mother didn’t see any need in buying him new ones if he was just going to outgrow those by Labor Day). He drew his small pink lips into a tiny smile before he looked away again, sending icicles through Bianca’s skin.

She looked down at the flower that had wilted in the heat and lay unbloomed in her hand. Perhaps she’d gripped it too tightly, she thought. She looked back at her aunties who kept on listing and dreaming about the men they’d put their titillated fingers on if they were Loretta.

Bianca stood up and smoothed down her sundress. “I’ll be back,” she said.

“What you doin’?” Sadie’s voice trailed behind her footsteps. “You know that Percy fellow is comin’ to see you today. Your momma got it all set up. He’s probably on his way now. Where you goin’?”

“To play,” Bianca answered, smiling. She wondered why she need bother with a boy like Percy. Even if he could buy her a new dress every week like Loretta had told her, he was pushy, clumsy and thick as Loretta’s homemade pudding.

Bianca could feel Sadie shaking her head, telling her that she’s too old to play, especially with little boys like Michael James.

She wandered around the house. She found him running from tree to tree, tapping each one lightly as he passed. He stopped at a tall one and looked up into it, tilting his head back like a thirsty sunflower.

“Hey,” Bianca said.

“Hey,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothin’.”

“Wanna go inside and play?” She asked, watching dirt collect on her shoes as she dug them into an ant hole. She raised her eyes slowly. The sun leaked through the trees, spotting his smooth face and bony shoulders.

“No,” he said.

She stood still as he went back to amusing himself. He picked up a stick and flicked the trunk of a tree with it, sending loose bark flying.

"You should come in,” Bianca said, slowly walking closer to him. She reached out to touch his shoulder when he’d stopped and noticed just how much he’d grown this summer already.

He turned to look at her. “I don’t want to.”

“But I want you to. Didn’t your momma ever tell you to respect your elders?”

His cheeks were blushed from playing in the sun all day. His eyes were rings of gold and black. They blinked slowly, looking down. He nodded sullenly after a long moment. “Okay.”

Bianca slid her hand down his arm to his wrist, then captured his trembling hand in hers. She lulled him farther back into the woods, humming a song Loretta used to sing to her when she was little, much littler than Michael James. He followed her every step, over sticks and branches and bugs and poison ivy. He pulled along easily, without much fuss at all.

When they got to the old outhouse, Bianca tipped opened the broken door with her tingling fingers. She nudged him into the darkness and closed the door behind them. The air was musty and thick. Heat filled her nose. A hole in the wall let a small circle of sunlight into the outhouse, onto an inch of his shrunken shorts and pubescent legs.

Bianca’s fingers sailed across the outhouse until they met Michael James’ face. They glided down his neck, his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Eyes blind, her hands floated upwards again. She brushed the brown side of them against his lashes and his cheeks, which were now moist from the heat rising between them in the outhouse. She held his wet face in her hands. She dribbled a finger across his lips, still soft and cool from a popsicle, probably. Bianca stopped and licked his lips, swallowing remnants of cherry.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” she said.

“But—”

“You know, most boys your age would be lucky to be doing this now, especially with an older woman.”

His face softened beneath her palms like her momma’s silk night gowns. His lips became as supple and docile as cookie dough. His body turned to clay between her tickling digits.

When she was done, Bianca smoothed down her sundress. Michael James’ zipper buzzed in the darkness. Bianca licked her lips as she opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. She felt the heat subside in a moment against her flesh.

Michael James stepped out behind her, stroking his hairless arm nervously. “What do I tell my momma?” He asked, staring at the damp ground.

“Nothing,” Bianca sighed.

She walked away, hoping they didn’t smell like the outhouse. She raised her fingertips to her nose. They just smelled like Michael James and cherry popsicle. The tingle was gone. She held her fingers to her lips as she walked around the house, up to the porch. Percy still hadn’t gotten there. Bianca sat back down on the stoop as Tow turned up the radio to cover the hootin’ that had just begun inside.

Today

2007-01-19T19:55:00.002-05:00

*Pardon this digression from my usual fiction, but it was pressing me, and I had to let it out.

You thought it was just the cold. Perhaps the medicine shivering through your bloodstream made you feel this way.

You feel cracked, fragile, like you could come undone easily. You don't mean 'mentally', you mean physically, as if your skin could unravel right off your bones.

You're subdued today, but you don't take comfort or rest in the slow pace of your heartbeat. You know its not you to feel this way.

You almost ask a man for his number, but you don't, by better judgement, wondering what you would really be calling for.

You want his arms around you, engulfing you in his shadow for hours, days, years. You want to lay your head on his chest, breathe in his cologne, let his heartbeat become yours, because, after all, it is yours.

You want to sigh in sweet relief when he whispers that he'll make it all better. His hug has made it all better.

You felt fatherless today.

You haven't felt this way in a long, long time. You remember always feeling this way years ago, this emptiness that lurked in your heart, causing you to fill your head. Today it was in your stomach, your chest, your throat, but it wouldn't escape through a cough.

You liken it to hearing his voice in the distance, slamming out of the back door, running, following it into an open field -- so many ways to turn, but you're walled in a two-by-two foot block. He's not there, but you heard his voice, so you will wait for him. You sit amongst the weeds, the lilacs, and the daffodils that grow high over your head after time. You wait alone, laying down on a bed of dandelions, not crying out...yet.

You don't want validation; your life speaks for itself. You just want that other piece of the puzzle, a piece not fit in artificially, but the natural bit whose departure has left you breathless since.

Coffee Breath

2006-08-27T20:26:00.001-04:00

“I’m coming to terms with the fact that my mouth hates me.”

He giggled behind his coffee mug.

“What?”

Charlie set the cup down and licked his pink lips. “Look at you. You’re beautiful and you know it. If I didn’t know you, I’d call you a snob. But you have the most fillings of anyone I have ever met.” He laughed aloud, open, jubilant, showing his teeth that were perfect by nature, even in spite of his coffee breath.

“Not funny,” I mumbled.

I shifted my gaze out the window. The illuminated sign of the coffeehouse across the street arrested my glance. I slid around, uneasy in my chair. I cradled my mug of cappuccino.
The owner of our old favorite coffeehouse slumped out the door. She leaned on the glass pane, lit a cigarette, and dialed on her mobile; clearly, no one was in today.

I looked at Charlie’s double espresso, wondering if it tasted as good as my cap, better than our old coffeehouse. Charlie sipped freely, swallowed in his leather jacket imported by his Florentine love, or whatever you wanted to call her.

I gazed back out at the old shop. The owner finished her call, pressing the off button violently. She shrank her eyes, looking out on the street, onto the shop across the street, right at me. Or at least that’s how it looked to me. She took a last long puff on her fag and hissed the smoke out through her flat lips. She plunked the filter onto the ground and placed her hands on her more than ample hips. With one last tut to the street, she shuffled back inside.

I sat back up from my sunken pose in my chair. I sipped. Life changed, I decided. Not in that moment, but in general. I drank in the present while it was still warm in my cup and smothered in foam.

Digging

2006-07-14T21:29:00.001-04:00

Tap. Tap. Click.

No.

She cranks the wheel and slams it to its original position on the left side of the page. The blank paper stares back at her. She wonders why a blank page haunts more than anything else in the world.

She wraps her arms around her middle, her chemise clinging to her softened skin. She turns in her chair and looks over her shoulder. He slept so sweetly in the lamplight, undisturbed, with his arms still out, cradling her outline in the sheets.

She turns back to the typewriter slowly. The blank paper looms over her head now, darkening her aura. She stands from the oak desk, glowering at the typewriter through misty eyes as she backs away. She tiptoes around the bed. He doesn’t stir.

She takes the lift down and walks outside, ignoring the midnight guard’s wanton stares at her silk chemise. She wanders out the door.

The air is cold tonight. She embraces herself against the breeze as the hair on her arms begins to rise. She floats into the garden. The grass is damp and spiky on her bare feet. She steps around slowly, humming no tune in particular, something she made up. She glances up at the sky, squinting past the feathery clouds, wishing she could see just one star through the city’s lights.

She looks down at the foliage. The flowers are tucked in for the night, she thinks, but they’ll blossom in the morning.

Biting her lip gently, she raises her gown, as if it’s long enough to brush the dirt that now collects on her calloused heels. She steps in the middle of the vegetation. The soil is cool on her soles, soft between her curled toes. Like a grape harvester, she walks around the garden, planting herself wherever she’ll fit. She stops in a pleasant spot by a rose bush.

The metal gate to the garden squeals open. She looks up.

He smiles, more concerned than charmed when he’d awakened and found her here.

“What are you doing out here?”

She looks back down at the soil, deepening herself in it, sowing her talent.

“Digging.”

You Write About Leaves

2006-06-13T18:20:00.001-04:00

You’ve found the perfect corner, the perfect chair that swallows your curves in its ample crevices. You look down at your notebook. The blank page looks back at you, sticking out its tongue, taunting you. You flick your pencil, rattling the lead inside. You make up a song because you can’t make up a story.

You’d really like a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Coffee that sends balmy kisses down your throat, to the space between your breasts. You’d send the fag’s smoke to lilt in the air, swirling as hearts or circles.

You laugh at yourself. You’re so silly.

He heard you laugh. You feel him staring at you; not like a pork chop, but a chocolate cupcake, with wonder, delight, and distance. You look up in time to miss his glance. He’s back in his book, slim chance of returning.

You decide that you have to get his attention. You will get his attention.

You cough.

You clear your throat.

You sneeze. Loud.

You sigh.

You gaze out the window, hoping to appear unconcerned and hard to get, but you become entranced by the sight of autumn’s leaves skipping across the pavement and encircling one another in a ritual mating dance.

You write about leaves. Leaves, leaving, what’s left.

Your page is almost full. You stick your tongue out at it; revenge, ha ha.

You look up, wondering if he’ll laugh again. But he’s left. Just something else to write about, you think.

Seduction

2006-06-13T18:10:00.001-04:00

The scent of coffee dances through the cracked window. She hardly notices it, though, as she sits in front of the television, making messy love to a chocolate bar. The scent finally seduces her, tickling her nostrils until she bows to its commands. Smiling, she lifts herself from the couch that she’d bought herself, and floats into her bedroom.

Like the scent told her, she’d treat herself nice tonight, just her and joe. She flags through her hangers, wondering what he’d fancy to see her in. Her favorite black dress, the silk one with the feminine ruffles along the sleeveless seams, falls from its hanger as if by fate. She catches it before it hits the carpet. She laces it on in a hurry, untucking her raven locks from its leeching grasp. She slips on her shoes, wondering if the outfit is “too much.” Of course it is, just for joe, but who cares?

She turns off the television as she exits her flat. She locks her door behind her. On the street, the scent is stronger, lulling her along on a satin leash. Where would she meet joe tonight? She picks a hotel downtown. She strides in, in love with herself, in love with love. The lift takes her to the roof terrace bar, where a gentleman greets her and offers her a table. She smiles again. At her table, she asks for joe and he comes immediately. As he slides down the twists of her throat, she looks out at the skyline, its size, its people, its dreams.

Tears form in her eyes, licking her lashes and threatening to plummet onto her face. Joe is gone, the scent is gone. She is alone again. She orders a glass of chardonnay and lights a clove, biting her lip as she gawks out at the sky in its shimmering velvet. She can’t fall in love with the wine. It hasn’t seduced her like joe. But even he isn’t real.

Cheating

2006-05-30T07:11:00.001-04:00

Scarlet burst through my door before I could even stand up to open it.

“Leigh, she’s locked herself in the bathroom—with a knife!”

“What?”

The color had seeped from Scarlet’s face, not that there was a lot of color that could escape. Wide open, her eyes sunk into their pale sockets, almost trembling in fear themselves. She whipped around on her heels and I followed, leaving my door open.

“Wait, she did what?” I scratched my head, my hair coarse under my fingers, like sand.

“She came in from her date, soaking wet from the rain,” Scarlet started, her hands shaking to steady her voice. “She was mumbling something. Next thing I know, she’s grabbed the boom box and a knife and locked herself in the bathroom.”

We turned the corner at the end of the hall and entered Scarlet’s room quietly. Scarlet stood at the door, afraid to go anywhere near the prisoner. I shook my head at her and tiptoed to the bathroom door. I pressed my ear to it, praying that silence wouldn’t reverberate back, signaling the worse.

Instead, Billie Holiday’s voice rose through the layers of wood, followed sullenly by Nira’s rhythmic moans.

“…I’ll be seeing you, in all the familiar places…”

Nira wailed the words as if they were saving her life.

I tapped on the door.

"Nira, darling, it’s Leigh,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she tweeted in a voice so close to her own, it was almost credible. Until she released a crying squeal that said otherwise.

“Will you open the door, lovely? I want to talk to you.”

“No, that’s alright. I don’t really feel much like talking. That’s why Billie’s in here with me.”

The music got louder as she turned up the volume.

“…in that small café…the chestnut trees…the wishing well…”

“That’s not telling me anything, Nira.”

“Keep listening!”

I rolled my eyes. I looked back at Scarlet, who’d ventured closer to the bathroom, but still kept her distance. Sitting on her desk, she fidgeted with her stapler, her eyes still manic with wonder. I turned back to the door.

“Nira, darling, is it true you have a knife in there, too?”

“Yes,” she declared over whining jazz horns.

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“Not sure yet.” She turned the music up a little louder.

I sighed, exasperated.

“Are you planning to hurt yourself?”

“Don’t know.”

“Can you come out so we can talk?”

"No, I said, Billie’s talking!”

I shook my head again, this time backing away from the door.

“…I’ll find you in the morning sun…”

“Okay, I’m leaving,” I said, approaching the door.

"You can’t leave me here!” Scarlet hissed in a whisper. “I don’t know what to do with her!”

“Neither do I! I give. Just make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid. If she does, just clean it up.”

“…I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you!” Nira/Billie howled as I exited the room.

On the other side of the bathroom door, Nira sat on the floor beside the toilet, her knees up to her chin. She held the tips of the knife between her index fingers. She watched her reflection blink back at her in the blade. Drops of rain water trickled down her spiral follicles, splashing onto her dress and the bathroom floor.

Scarlet sure knew how to clean a knife to its finest brilliance, she thought.

Nira kicked her feet up on the opposite wall, leaning back as she stared at herself. She listened to her own breathing as Billie trilled “God Bless the Child.”

“…momma may have, papa may have, but God bless the child that’s got her own, that’s got her own…” Nira sang in the knife mirror.

An odd smile found itself on her face, which had turned pink from crying. She lowered the knife, setting it on the floor. She closed her eyes and rested her wet head on the wall.

“…You can help yourself, but don’t take too much,” she hummed in the shadow of her eyelids. “Momma may have, papa may have, but God bless the child that’s got her own…”

Nira repeated the words again, deviating from the music’s trail. She opened her eyes and peered down at the knife again. She picked it up. She held it between her palms, this time pricking herself deep on her right hand. As blood urinated a path of red down her wrist, she stared into her hazel eyes in the knife, wondering where their brilliance had gone.

Boom Town

2006-05-25T11:08:00.001-04:00

It was Thursday night when a certain “boom” rang out on a quiet suburban street in Connecticut.

Mrs. Liberman shot up in bed.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Her husband turned over, speaking into his pillow.

“That sound. That ‘boom.’”

“Probably nothing.”

“Won’t you go check?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Helen, its 3 a.m. Go to sleep.”

“Fred, I’m frightened. Please check.”

“It's probably nothing, Helen. Now go to sleep.”

Silent now, she sat with her knees drawn up to her chin. She clutched the covers and pulled them up to her nose, solely revealing wide eyes and a head full of pink rollers. Her teeth chattered.

“It might not be ‘nothing.’ I don’t know why you’re so trusting. Not everyone or everything is out for your good.”

“Are you threatening me, Helen?”

“Of course not. Don’t be silly at a time like this. Why you can’t be my husband and protect me?”

“You only need protection from yourself and that imagination of yours. I can’t help you there.”

Mrs. Liberman sighed heavily.

“Fine. If we die tonight, it’s all your fault.”

“If you don’t go to sleep right now, I might kill you myself.”

Her eyes darted left. Her husband lay beside her, eyes closed and hands beneath his pillow.

Mrs. Liberman sunk back down into the sheets. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling and minding Fred’s hands til dawn.

The Mystery of Moonlight

2006-05-22T08:17:00.002-04:00

The phonograph crackled in the corner, thickening Billie Holiday’s voice to a husky slur as she crooned from the grooves of the black disk.

Jules flipped one of her long red curls over her smooth, white shoulder. She still caressed her whiskey glass, unable to drink it because of its strength. Her fingers slipped along the sides of the icy glass, swirling the water into circles.

Black stared at her intently over his glass of brandy. He leaned in toward her, fiddling with his tie.

“So where—”

“I don’t know why you want to bother with asking me that again,” Jules interrupted. “I’ve already said I don’t know anything about it.”

Black tipped his fedora back, away from his brows with his forefinger. “You were last one who saw him, doll face. All signals point to you.”

Jules swiveled on her stool to face Reginald Black, perhaps the best P.I. in Chicago. She crossed her legs under her red sequined dress. She touched her forehead lightly with her moist fingers, finally cooling off from the spotlights from her earlier performance. They always got too hot as she crooned to the room full of sailors and madams at the Moonlight Club.

Now she just wanted to go home. She and Black sat in the deserted club, almost alone after it had closed for the night. A busboy mopped the floor and stacked the chairs high in the back of the club as they talked.

“Look, Dizzy’s been missing for three days now, Red. I need you to tell me where he is.”

“Do I look like I would know?” Her brown eyes arrested his baby blues. “Do I look like a murderer?”

“You look murderous in that dress,” Black replied, groping her sequined breasts with his eyes only.

Jules giggled softly, that country girl laugh that hadn’t changed with her big move to the city. “Is that a compliment?”

“Couldn’t have been more complete.”

Black slammed back the rest of his brandy. He swallowed hard and quietly gasped for breath, his throat burning from the drink’s touch.

“I haven’t see him, Black,” Jules whispered, gawking up into his eyes. “I’m just as worried as you are.”

He hadn’t noticed how big, how soft her eyes were until now. From nowhere rose the desire to press her crimson lips to his, to caress her as she did her full glass of whiskey. He sighed. Maybe she was telling the truth. He stood.

“Fine, Red, I believe you.”

He pulled his fedora back down to his brow and started for the door with cool, thoughtless strides that exhaled audacity. At the knob, he turned back to Jules. She was standing now, stiff, by the bar, her hands together as if pleading for mercy. Her eyes sang in her voice’s silence.

“Call me if you hear anything,” Black said.

She nodded and he winked at her. He opened the door and stepped outside Moonlight, shrouded in an endless mystery.

The Carltons

2006-05-22T07:17:00.002-04:00

“Ellington, please pass the corn,” Ms. Carlton requested, touching her pearl necklace femininely. The necklace’s creamy color melted beautifully with her chocolate skin.

“Sure, darling.” Mr. Carlton passed her the porcelain bowl, trimmed with golden-laced flowers. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and cleared his throat. “Shall we say grace?”

Mrs. Carlton smiled a yes. I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I folded my hands in my lap, unsure of what else to do with them, until another hand reached across my leg. Smiling slyly, I opened an eye. Elliot grinned, his hand out, waiting for mine. I slipped my hand into his, lightly enough to not come off desperate, firmly enough to get the point across.

“Gracious God in Heaven,” Mr. Carlton started, “bless this food, the cook—”

Mrs. Carlton cleared her throat.

“—and the company.”

Elliot squeezed my hand.

“Amen.”

“Amen!”

We all lifted our heads and passed the identical plates and bowls of food back and forth, until heaping piles of hot, roasted vegetables and wheat rolls decked our plates. Mrs. Carlton had made spinach quiche, with cheese instead of eggs, as Elliot had requested for me. I dug in eagerly.

“So, Miss Audrey, what do you study?”

I looked up from the quiche. Mrs. Carlton stared at me with wide eyes, thirsty for my reply.

“Finance,” I said. “I plan to go into investment banking.”

“Whoa-ho-ho!” Mr. Carlton released, dropping his fork in shock. “We’ve got a smart one on our hands. Keep this one, Elliot.”

Elliot giggled softly in his deep voice, the same jubilant sound he’d make in the bend of my neck after candlelit dinners or in the back of jazz theatres. He smiled at his family, flashing teeth that cost as much as a new car.

“Sure will,” he grinned.

I smiled through thin lips; blushed, actually, though it wasn’t visible. I looked back down at my plate, where my quiche still sizzled slightly, beckoning my fork to pierce it.

“How did you two meet?” Mrs. Carlton inquired as I cut into the quiche.

“Psychology class,” I said.

“Social psychology, to be exact,” Elliot finished. “We did a project about attraction and, lo and behold, it worked!” He pecked my cheek.

His parents giggled identical laughs. I let out a smaller one.

“So, how—” Mrs. Carlton began again. My stomach rumbled. I had to beat her if I ever wanted to eat.

“How did you meet?” I forced, shoving a forkful of quiche between my lips as soon as the sentence parted them.

The elder Carltons glanced at one another, replacing their grins with satisfied half-smiles.

“Ellen worked at the performing arts center,” Mr. Carlton said.

“And Ellington played in the orchestra,” Mrs. Carlton resumed.

“Sax,” Elliot declared, filling in his spot in the script that they must have told a thousand times.

I nodded, my mouth still full of breathtaking quiche. The cheese melted into the crevices of my mouth and the spinach lay submissive on my tongue, missing my teeth by miles. It must have taken her years to make this, I thought.

“And then she said, ‘Sir, that’s for seeing eye dogs!’”

The Carltons laughed together at Mr. Carlton’s line. I chuckled, pretending to have heard the story. They all sighed as the wind left their laughter, and resumed eating.

I swallowed. “This quiche is incredible, Mrs. Carlton. It must have taken ages to make.”

Her lips spread into a long line that could have been interpreted as a hint of a smile. “Yes, dear. Not all us girls can be investment bankers, can we?”

I blinked at her, twice, in fact. I looked down awkwardly and began eating again, more vigorously, to replace the words that I had lost at her statement.

“So Audrey, are you a Democrat?” Mr. Carlton’s voice tweeted.

"What?"

He smiled as I looked up, like a mask against offensiveness.

“Um, well, I don’t really consign to either party—”

“Good, Elliot! She can be groomed! A great Republican she’ll make!”

Elliot chuckled. He turned to me. “Dad’s president of the Black Republicans Association.”

“Lifelong members, the Carltons are. We always have been, since 1865. Always will be.” Mr. Carlton beamed, as if he’d just won the Nobel Prize for modesty.

“Oh, how ‘bout that!” I said, trapped behind a fake smile that wouldn’t set me free.

“She can be in whatever party she’d like,” Elliot said. “I’d like her regardless.”

They all released that giggle, curtly.

“So what do your parents do?” Misses poked at her pearl earring as she spoke. I glanced at her plate; still full. Perhaps that’s how she’d maintained her slim figure. Only having one child and interrogating dinner guests.

I took a large bite of quiche, just as she finished the sentence. I chewed slowly, smiling shortly, hoping she’d forget what she’d just asked. But she nodded back at me, waiting for my jaws to relinquish my worth for her son.

Swallow.

“My mother is a homemaker,” I invented.

Architects make homes. While my mother built skyscrapers, it was possible that someone lived in one.

“And my father is a railway engineer.”

So he just happened to take a random train, abandoning my mother and me fifteen years ago. Same diff.

My false smile took me prisoner again, sealing my statements as true to the Carltons.

“Wow!” Mrs. Carlton’s eyes widened upon hearing about my blessed family. They even sparkled, outshining the Tiffany diamond that Mr. Carlton picked out himself twenty-one years ago. She turned to her husband. “She’s from good blood,” she declared. “She’ll make a great Carlton.”

I sat, mouth empty and soul escaped, as Ellen, Ellington, and Elliot Carlton’s identical grins branded me as one of their own.

Midnight at the Oasis

2006-05-21T18:27:00.001-04:00

She was awakened by a cat. The mewing that had suddenly turned into a roar sent her lashes fluttering open effortlessly. She sat up in the bed, draped in Elliot’s crisp white sheets (he refused to sleep on anything of any other color). She stuck her toe out from the sheet, wiggling it in the chilly night air. The breeze from the fan rustled the linens and licked her foot. She giggled lightly. Elliot simmered from his sleep. Through squinted eyes, he made out the delicate outline of her face, soft lips, feathery lashes. He closed his eyes and slid close to her. He laid his head in her lap, his arms about her waist. She hummed as he rested against her. She stroked the curls on his head, leaning back on the wall. She closed her eyes, resting on the wallpaper that she knew her hair would stain.

The wind from the fan danced from her toes to her face, kissing every inch of the side of her body through the sheet. It hummed her favorite tune, that of summers in the city as a child, of popsicles on the beach, of water bottles in the car on road trips in college, of ice that Elliot would slide down her back, to her thighs. She lost herself the hum of the fan, thirsting for days past. As the breeze rotated, shunning her face like an absent lover, her eyes opened. She blinked as she glanced around Elliot’s studio, the posters, stained couch, dinosaur mugs in the kitchen. She gazed at the clock, whose red glow quickened the pace of her heart. 12.03. Time to go to Midnight.

Barbeque

2006-05-21T18:15:00.002-04:00

I squirmed in my spot on one of the roots of the largest tree in Cousin Pip’s suburban backyard. Great aunt Annie sat next to me in a plastic lawn chair that had grown soft in the heat and crooked under the weight of her buxom body.

Annie’s cane slumped over, skimmed the plastic chair, and hit my leg. It kissed my thigh and left drops of sweat on my skin like leopard spots. Annie yawned. She reached deep into her bosom and pulled out an ancient handkerchief. She dabbed her lip with it.

“Sure is hot today,” she said in her low, husky voice. Each of her words was heavily scented with her Southern geography.

The anchor of my mom’s side of the family, Annie had lived in Virginia all of her life and never had any intentions of leaving, even when my grandmother found affordable housing up north fifty years ago. At 79 now, the only place Annie would voluntarily move to was the Pearly Gates.

I gave her an obligatory nod of consensus about the heat as I looked up at the tree, whose leaves hadn’t rustled with a breeze in hours. I peeled the cane’s wooden handle off of my leg and lay it down on a root next to me. A stream of sweat trailed down the back of my neck, tickling my flesh like the absent wind. I slapped it away, smearing the moisture into my skin.

I tapped my foot on the root and dug into the dirt with the tip of my shoe, wishing I’d gone with my mother to pick up more sodas from the store. She’d volunteered to go awfully quickly and practically sprinted to the car before I knew what had happened. It’d been her idea to come to the barbeque; it was her idea to come to Virginia. My father and I were perfectly happy living near my grandmother in New York, but eight years ago my mother decided to move down south, closer to the rest of her family. “Closer to her roots” was how she put it, as she packed up my childhood in a cardboard box labeled “Shadie’s Things.” Dad never got accustomed to Virginia and headed back to New York on the next plane out of Richmond. Now Mom had fled the barbeque, unjustly leaving me to my own devices.

I glanced around the yard, searching for someone, something, anything interesting.

In the middle of the yard, my mother’s first cousins, Pip and Bill, brothers, ten years apart in age, prepared the grill again after a round of hotdogs had finished. The fire burned low as Bill, a tall, dark man with a round tummy, poked the charcoal rocks with a stick he’d hacked off a tree. He stood back and jabbed swiftly, shielding his voluptuous mustache with his unusually hairy arm.

Pip, much lighter in color and skinnier than his older brother from years of cigarette smoking, judged the size of the flame. He held a can of lighter fluid to his flat chest and curled his lip in curiosity.

“A lil’ more?” Pip asked, holding up the can. Bill nodded. Pip spewed the piss yellow fluid on the charcoal. They watched jubilantly as an Olympic flame rose between the grill’s grates.

“Be careful,” Bill’s wife Diane called from the kitchen window as Bill started poking at the fire again. He brushed her off with a nod and a smirk.

My eyes slid left, to where the children were playing on Pip’s rusty old swing set. All four of his children were grown up now, so the only use the set got was during the annual summer cook out. Aunt Tammy’s son, Joaquin, climbed up the ladder, his eyes shining. He lay down on his stomach and stretched his arms in front of him like Superman.

“Wheeee!” He screamed as he slid down. But he stopped abruptly, right in the middle. Bewildered, he looked around and started crying. He tried to crawl down the rest of the way, but he couldn’t move since his shirt was trapped on a sharp line of rust. Aunt Tammy took her time walking to him. She ripped him off the slide and set him down on the ground, where he ran off immediately.

By the picnic table, under a dogwood tree, Cousin Benjamin cradled his wife’s hand in his. Susan—his fourth wife in five years—squinched up her face in displeasure of the heat. She was fairly pretty, with short black hair and slanting brown eyes. Her plunging tank top revealed that her babies would never go hungry and her tapered ankle jeans obeyed her body’s many sinews. Must have been a struggle to get those on this morning, I thought.

Susan whined about the heat to Ben, demanding that they go inside the house or her makeup would melt and send her face sliding onto the grass. Ben just smiled, but not particularly at Susan. I traced his grin across the yard to Julia, a friend of Aunt Tammy’s from church who’d come along to the cook out to pick up any young, family-oriented, single man she could scrape off Pip’s yard. She might stand a chance, I thought. Ben would be flirting with some other woman—probably wife number five—before the coleslaw could start to melt.

Closer to the house, Tia Juanita stalked about barefoot, holding her pregnant tummy over her flower-print mu-mu dress. She spat strands of her long hair out of her mouth as she muttered in Spanish to Tammy, cursing the hellish heat.

After years of Juanita’s living with Aunt Tammy’s family as a servant, last year, Tammy claimed that Juanita was actually her long lost sister by several marriages and removals. But we all knew that it was just that Juanita had come horribly close to being deported and Tammy didn’t want to give her up. Juanita married an immigrant man shortly after the debacle, but Tammy wouldn’t allow him to move into her house so Juanita wouldn’t get distracted from her duties. Tammy almost bit her tongue through when he moved down the street eight months ago.

An uneven scream rang out from the grill. I whipped my head around and watched as the flame reached high, much higher than Bill had expected. Small streams of smoke danced from his singed eyebrows as he furrowed them at Pip, who just laughed. Diane walked out of the house to Bill, shaking her head, mumbling, “Now, didn’t I tell you?”

From a significant distance away from the flame, Pip showered the grill with more lighter fluid and flailed a breaded catfish toward the fire. He missed, and the fish flopped onto the grass.

I smirked and shook my head, trying to calculate what the odds were of my being adopted from a wealthy family on the West Coast, who owned a mansion, a dog and blazing mutual funds.

“Don’t do that, Shadie,” Annie hissed at me suddenly.

I looked up at her, squinting as the sun reached my eyes through the branches of the tree. “Do what?”

“Think that way about your family,” she replied, hosing down the ripples of her neck with her hankie. “They might be all you have one day.”

I raised an eyebrow at old Aunt Annie. What exactly did she know? She hadn’t seen much of the world outside of Virginia.

I looked out at my family again, trying to measure similarities, wondering how it was possible that they had all been so normal to me when I was a child. University couldn’t have changed me this much.

I closed my eyes and whisked sweat from the bridge of my nose. I opened them and jumped; Cousin Benjamin posed before me.

“Hellll-lo, Shades,” he said, pursing his lips.

“Hi, Ben,” I replied curtly. I leaned over on the root to look around him, searching for Susan.

Benjamin leaned against the side of the tree, attempting debonairness, until his sweaty palm slipped off the bark. He stumbled, tripping over another of the tree’s long roots. He feigned a chuckle as he straightened himself up. I looked up at him, following his lanky legs, up to his wire neck. He smiled down at me, reminiscent of those strange men that children are instructed to promptly run away from and my psychology texts dissect for personality disorders.

“So,” he continued nonchalantly. He crossed his arms and very carefully rested his shoulder on the trunk. “I see puberty has treated you well. How old are you now?”

“Eighteen.”

“Oh, legal are you? You seein’ anybody?” His bushy eyebrows jumped up and down disturbingly behind his Malcolm X glasses.

I blinked at him, wondering where he’d gotten the audacity to pull this one.

“Yes,” I stated with the confidence of a martyr. “He’s a soldier, actually.”

Not a total lie. A guy I’d liked in high school who’d joined the army came to see me at university one day last year. He took me to a movie and deflowered me in my dorm afterwards. I hadn’t seen him since, but no one needed to know that.

“He’s away now,” I continued, “but we might get married when he gets back.”

Benjamin raised his hands as if surrendering in a robbery. “Okay, okay,” he said. He turned to walk away, but looked back at me first. “Let me know if that doesn’t work out.”

With an exaggerated wink, he waltzed away like a pimp in one of those seventies movies. Until he tripped on a stray branch.

I sighed and shook my head again, but stopped quickly, remembering Aunt Annie’s chide.

“It’s okay,” Annie said, looking down at me. “He actually is a jackass. I’m ashamed to call him my nephew.” She smiled, but made sure to not show any of her dentures. I giggled.

I looked up at the sky, trying to match its clear blue with the color of ocean water, neither of which I’d seen in a while, especially not at school where life itself dims to grey. I followed the sun’s rays from the sky, watching as they scattered around the backyard, encircling my family.

At the picnic table, Aunt Tammy braided Tia Juanita’s long hair into an endless French braid. They sang baladas softly to entertain Juanita’s unborn while Julia tossed a ball with Joaquin, advertising her own maternal instincts if any single, family-oriented men were watching.

Cousin Pip soaked piles of paper towels in the drink cooler. Bill held an icy can of beer to his brows with one hand and raised the other to the sky as Diane prayed to Jesus that his eyebrows grow back quickly. I wondered where he’d gotten the beer. I really could have gone for a cold one, but no one in the family drank, for religious reasons, of course. I’d learned to justify alcohol with the concept of moderation and other valid arguments.

“Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine, wasn’t it?” I’d teased my mother as we drove back home from my university earlier this summer. Mom just laughed. She had to agree with me.

Benjamin sat with Susan at the picnic table, slathering her hotdog with slightly melted coleslaw. Susan smiled pleasantly, stroking Benjamin’s thick, curly hair behind his ear and adjusting his glasses. I hoped she knew what she was in for. I also wondered if wife number five would be anything like her.

Standing, I picked up Aunt Annie’s cane and handed it to her. “I think the hotdogs are done,” I announced, smiling.

Annie grinned a toothless smile back at me as she grasped the cane. She struggled up from her chair, leaning on the cane with the confidence she’d have in a brick wall. I held her arm and limped along side her, suddenly hungry for Cousin Pip’s famous fried catfish. I’d save some for my mom; she would want some eventually.

Introducing...

2006-05-21T18:05:00.000-04:00

I've finally caved to the insufferable boredom of the English countryside and began a blog. Vous êtes ici. C'est tout...

*All works here are ©2006 by V. W. Young