Then he turns to talk to Dad,
who struggles to maintain
his cool, especially when
the newspaper photographer
snaps a shot of Gabe and me.
Listen. Of course I’m proud
of Ariel. I’ve tried to raise
her right. Looks like I succeeded.
That’s really all I have to say.
Utter Garbage
But I suppose
he’s just spouting
what’s expected,
and the first thing
to come to mind
when thrust into
a situation like this.
I sure wouldn’t
know. It’s the first
time it’s happened
to me, and very
likely the last.
Both reporters
make sure our names
are spelled correctly
before returning
to their studio/
office, respectively.
At this point, Monica’s
bouncing up and down.
Now you’re famous.
Maybe it’ll rub off
on me. Oh, by the way,
I like your boyfriend.
The label’s unsettling.
Hope she doesn’t notice
my furious blush.
The News Crews Leave
Dad yanks me off to one side
with a sharp jerk of my left
arm. Why didn’t you tell me
this was going to be a circus?
Each word is punctuated
with rage. “I had no idea,
Dad. Monica thought Gabe
and I should be recognized.
It was a complete surprise.”
Yeah, well, I hate surprises. And
I have a damn hard time believing
you were clueless about all this.
Look at your clothes and makeup.
I don’t want to confide
my wardrobe choices were
meant to impress not one,
but two people who are close
to me. Instead I try, “I thought
I should look nice to visit
Hillary. It’s only respectful.”
I don’t like being lied to either, not
by my flesh and blood. Your need
for the spotlight isn’t a good thing,
and if people weren’t watching
us right now, I’d take this further.
He turns away. Get your own ride home.
Suddenly I’m Very Glad
People were watching.
Why’d he get so pissed off?
What made him think this was my idea?
How can he believe I’d flat-out lie?
I’m beginning to question Dad’s sanity.
Is he drinking more heavily than I realized?
Does he have a secret prescription pill stash?
Can dementia be creeping in early?
Or maybe I should question my own sanity.
Might I have encouraged Monica to invite TV time?
Did I leave my shoes where Dad could trip on them?
What about Santa’s sleigh knowing the way?
Was the last a total invention of my subconscious?
What wasn’t was Dad’s overreaction.
What wasn’t was Dad’s hideous anger.
I hope it’s safe to go home tonight.
Maya
Honeymoons are supposed to be memorable. Mine totally was, but not in the way most people think of. After our frill-free wedding, Jason and I went to an early dinner with Tati and Jason’s brother at Matt’s El Rancho. Killer Mexican food, which was good because my new husband started drinking margaritas right away. I was glad he put a huge burrito in his gut to absorb some of the alcohol.
I let Jason decide on the honeymoon, which he said was all he could afford. I thought about breaking into my cash stash to spring for a nice hotel room instead, but listened to Tati’s advice. “Keep that money for emergencies,” she said. “Don’t even mention it to Jason. As my grandma says, every woman needs a secret rainy-day fund, just in case.”
I don’t want to think about “just in case,” but it makes sense, especially considering Jason and I are relative strangers. For instance, his brother informed me at dinner that the reason their parents didn’t attend the ceremony was because they had committed to judging a stock show.
“None of us realized Jason had gotten serious about someone,” he said. “Shocked the hell out of me, to be honest.”
Once we finished our delicious pralines and tres leches desserts, Jason escorted me to a borrowed pickup, pulling a rented pop-up tent trailer, and off we went to McKinney Falls State Park for a long weekend of camping. The park isn’t very far from town, and it’s pretty enough, with a creek and two waterfalls and plenty of places to hike, if that’s your thing. Apparently it isn’t Jason’s.
“I get plenty of ‘hiking’ at work,” he said, setting up a couple of folding chairs. “Three days off, I want to relax. But first, how about a roll in the honeymoon hay?”
He pulled me inside the trailer, where his hands went straight to the zipper of his slacks. They were off before we hit the bed, which was roomy enough but the foam was thin and carried solid hints of the people who’d slept—not to mention rolled in the hay—in it before. That, plus the tequila-and-beans clinging to his breath, put me on the verge of nausea.
“Can we open a window?” I asked quietly. “I don’t feel so good.”
“What? Now I make you sick?” He rolled away and jammed open the window over the bed.
“Not you,” I tried. “Between the baby and the wedding excitement and the spicy food. And it smells kind of . . . stale in here.”
He rolled over again, coaxed me backward into the heat of his body, and that did feel good, especially with the cool breeze now blowing over our skin, raising goose bumps and soothing my upset stomach. He trailed his hand down over the small hill of my belly. Gently. Lovingly. “What will we name him?”
“Don’t be mad, but I think it’s a girl.”
“Nope. Can’t be.”
“Well, we’d better pick a name that will work for either one, just in case. And if it is a girl, will you love her as much as if she was a boy?”
He hesitated, but then said, “Well, sure.”
We kicked a lot of names around. Alex. Jamie. Avery. Riley. Emory. Ryan. But finally we settled on Casey. If it’s a boy, Casey David. If it’s a girl, which it is, Casey Nicole. Strong, and feminine. It makes me happy.
What pleased me that evening was feeling like Jason and I had discussed something important, and come to a mutual decision. It struck me how few conversations of real importance I’d shared with him—or anyone, straight from struggling high school student to wife and soon-to-be mother. Does that make me an actual adult, despite being just seventeen?
The rest of the weekend was pretty cool. I even talked Jason into hiking, and decided I liked camping okay. Except for the stinky mattress. He dropped me off Sunday evening at home and drove back to Fort Hood, where we’re waiting for an affordable house big enough to suit a family of three.
Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to stay out of my mother’s way. If she was cold before, she’s a corpse now—frigid, hard, unmoving. She did agree to let me live here until I move or she does, and her plans are to go end of this month. April. Spring. New lives beginning.
Yesterday, Tati and I drove to Houston for the Astros-Rockies game she bought tickets to for my birthday. I was pretty excited because the day before the Astros had routed the Rockies, 15–2. But that must’ve used up their home run allotment for the week, because they lost 5–3.
Still, I got to spend the whole day with Tati, gorging on junk food and soda, things I never enjoy at home and am supposed to limit now. I figured one day wouldn’t make me or the baby fat. And Tat
i, of course, couldn’t care less.
“These are the best hot dogs I’ve ever had!” she said, and she must’ve meant it, because she ate three over the course of the afternoon. I limited myself to two. Plus a soft pretzel, peanuts, and an ice cream bar.
Apparently, something I ate made Casey happy, because bottom of the ninth, while Tati and I yelled at our team to get it together, there was a stuttering movement inside me. At first I thought it must be hot-dog gas, but then it happened again, and I knew my baby was saying hello to me, and to Tati, and to the Astros, despite their dismal performance.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed.
“Hey, it’s just a game,” Tati said.
“No. Put your hand right there and wait.” I guided her to a spot just beneath my belly button.
It didn’t take long. “Holy shit,” she said. “It’s alive.”
We laughed and laughed.
Pretty sure Casey was giggling, too.
Ariel
Life Just Got Weird
Good weird, but still . . .
I’ve no idea how to react.
So, the other day, post-TV
and newspaper interviews,
I asked Charles, aka
Mr. Grantham, aka Hillary’s
dad, if we could visit her,
and despite a tepid protest
from the nurse on duty,
Charles’s insistence paid off.
Gabe and I were allowed
a couple of bedside minutes.
Guess pulling strings isn’t hard
when you’re an important
politician, someone with a name
people recognize. Or maybe
it’s more about the clout of money.
Either way, we got to say hi.
Hillary Looked Awful
Her skin was the color of chalk
on a blackboard. Mostly gray.
Tubes threaded into her arm
delivered some sort of fluid
sustenance—mostly sugar
water would be my guess,
but what do I know, except
for what I’ve seen on TV shows?
Regardless, when she opened
her eyes, which were shut
against the glare or maybe
to invite unconsciousness,
she smiled. Ariel. Thank you.
Her eyes didn’t seem focused,
so I wasn’t sure why she was
thanking me. “For what, Hillary?”
But she didn’t hesitate. For
taking care of Niagara. That
horse means everything to me.
She’s, like, my best friend.
That sounds stupid, I know,
but if something bad would’ve
happened to her . . .
It didn’t sound stupid at all.
I understand not having friends,
and relying on the next best thing.
Then Her Attention Turned
Toward Gabe, and that was when
I realized that whatever liquid
her IV pumped was supplying her
with more than sugar. Major painkillers
were involved. Oh. I remember
you. Except, I don’t know you.
Except I think I should. You were
there, weren’t you? Who . . .
I’m Gabe, and I’m Ariel’s friend.
Yes, I was there, too. Ariel sent me
to find you while she reasoned with
“Well, that’s not exactly true,”
I argue. “But we can talk about it
when you’re better. We just came
to say we care about you.” So. Weird.
Strange enough she barely knew
how to respond, especially with
that feel-good drip. I . . . uh . . . really?
She about choked on the last word.
For whatever reason, “Of course”
fell out of my mouth, and I still
don’t really understand why.
Is it because she looked so fragile?
Fragile
I’m Feeling That Way
Now, in fact, and it has everything
to do with my growing confusion.
I’m being yanked in two directions,
and either way I go offers conflict.
To my left, Gabe.
Soft-spoken.
Smart.
Funny.
To my right, Monica.
Opinionated.
Smart-ass.
Hilarious.
Left.
Ambition.
Loyalty.
Patience.
Right.
Talent.
Honesty.
Comfort.
Left.
Boy.
Right.
Girl.
The Last Comparison
Means the least, honestly,
and I’m more and more sure
about that, though I still haven’t
given in to the growing desire
to go all the way either way.
I want to.
I’m scared to.
Because it would
feel like commitment.
Maybe I don’t want to choose,
and I’m not talking about left
or right. I’m talking about Gabe
or Monica. I don’t think I’m allowed
to have both.
I hear people talk.
I know how they feel
about “someone like me.”
There’s no such thing as “bi.”
That means they’ll fuck anything.
They’re . . . (depending on who’s
talking) straight or gay, and going
through a phase
or in total denial.
They’re full of shit.
They’re mentally ill.
These Sentiments
Bother me
not because I think
they’re wrong,
but because I worry
they might be
right, in whatever ways.
What if
• my brain is in serious
need of rewiring?
• I’m totally topped off
with manure?
• I’m straight—or gay—
and keep denying that
obvious fact?
• all I really want to do
is screw indiscriminately?
• there’s no such thing as bi?
All I Know
For sure is I’m totally distracted
from the things I should be thinking
about—schoolwork, teamwork—
while trying to figure this stuff out,
not to mention keeping Dad in total
darkness about this major change in me.
Paying attention in my classes today
was a losing battle. Mr. Santos called
me on it, too, in third-period Spanish.
Señorita Pearson. ¿Dónde estás?
Por favor, únete a nosotros aquí
en el planeta tierra. Or, roughly
translated, Miss Pearson. Where
are you? Please join us here
on planet earth. Which, of course,
tore everyone else out of their
personal stupors, busting them
up like they weren’t just as guilty,
though I doubt their thoughts had
strayed anywhere close to mine.
Then again, I can’t be certain. Maybe
every single person in that class
is an oversexed full-of-shit lunatic.
One of the Hardest Things
About my left/right dilemma
is balancing spending time with
Monica and Gabe. I love being
with both, but not in the same
space. The right/left day I tried
was one of the strangest ever.
I mean, they attempted to be nice
to each other, but the narrow
stream of jealousy that flowed
between them burgeoned into a
regular river before the afternoon
was through, and I’m afraid
the fault was mostly mine.
I tried not to flirt, which probably
made it even more obvious that
I really wanted to. After we left
the hospital, first we went for
burgers, and it wasn’t so bad
while all of us were stuffing
our faces. Then we decided
to play tourist and walk around
downtown Sonora. It’s mostly
just shops and places to eat,
but the fun was supposed to be
the company, and it was for a while.
Then stupid me, walking between
them, I slipped one of my hands
into Monica’s, the other into
Gabe’s, and all I could do as
we strolled along the sidewalk
was compare the two. Size.
Softness. Texture. The weight
of the pressure each applied.
Monica’s fingers felt like eels—
smooth and cool and slender.
Gabe’s were more like sausages—
plump and warm and dimpled,
and they gripped mine tightly.
Securely. That’s it. He made
me feel safe. Monica kept
slipping hers up and down,
in and out of mine, the way
a little child might. Playful.
That’s right. She’s my one
true source of fun. I love her.
I do. And the screwed-up thing
is I think I’m falling hard
for Gabe, too. Is there such
a thing as promiscuous love,
or does it only apply to sex?
My Brain’s Relentless
It really needs to stop processing
anything other than basketball drills
at the moment, and all it does is argue
with me. Earth to Pearson! yells
Coach Booker, echoing Mr. Santos,
only in English. You’ve made that shot
a hundred times. Yank your head out
of your butt, would you, please?
It takes force of will, but I do as