in mind, at least not in
my mind. It’s Monica’s
birthday. I was just thinking
cake, ice cream, and a drink
or two. Big game tomorrow.”
He smiles. I know. I’ll be
there, at least if you want
me to be. And I’ll help
clear the place out.
It’s a Grudging Exodus
But most everyone leaves
peacefully. Monica and Syrah
disappear into the kitchen
and now Gabe comes over.
He kisses me, but not on the lips.
Instead, the warmth of his mouth
caresses my forehead. I’ve got
something to tell you, but not here.
Not tonight. Not at your friend’s
birthday party. Can we talk after
your game tomorrow? Even in
the low light, an air of sadness
is evident in his beautiful eyes.
“Sure. But is everything okay?”
His nod is not at all convincing.
Nothing to worry about.
In fact, I hope you’ll be happy
for me, but that’s all I’m saying
now. He steps back. Better go.
Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be cheering
for you. He turns and walks out the door.
That Sounded Vaguely Ominous
What can he possibly want
to tell me that he thinks
it needs to wait for a more
private moment? Concern
manifests itself in a sudden
need to pee. I wander down
the hall to the bathroom,
relieve my body, if not my mind,
and when I exit, find myself
face to face with Garrett.
Feeling better? His grin
is an actual leer, and he
bumps into me. Hard.
“What are you doing here?
Didn’t you hear the cops
are on their way?”
I try to step around him.
He pushes me backward
against the wall, pins me
with his substantial bulk.
Ain’t no cops gonna bother us
now everyone else is gone.
How ’bout we have a little fun?
The alcohol on his breath
almost buckles my knees.
I look him straight in the eye.
“The last thing I want is
a little fun with you, Garrett.
Now please get out of my way.”
His eyes flash a strange
combination of anger and
amusement. Aw, come on.
You been flirting something
awful. You a cock tease?
“Flirting? With you?”
My brain scrambles to think
what I might’ve done to give
him that impression. “Garrett,
you know that’s not true.
I’ve got a girlfriend.”
Maybe, but I saw you with
that dude, too. And I watch
the way you check out guys
at school. You a switch-hitter?
He actually licks his lips.
“What I am or am not
is none of your business.
Now leave me the hell alone.”
I hold my ground, fight hard
not to look scared, but the way
I’m trembling is obvious.
Ooh. Tough girl, huh? Tough
goddamn dyke. Let’s see
if you’re into guys or girls.
Bet I could eat you better.
He pushes me sideways
and back, into a nearby
bedroom, and is on me
so suddenly I can’t react.
Next thing I know, I’m on
the bed beneath him, held
fast by the weight of his body.
“No, Garrett, no! Stop!”
But the words are trapped
by the booze-flavored drool
inside his mouth. His teeth
rake my lips and one hand
snares my hair, snaps my head
against the mattress.
Don’t fight, baby. I’ll make
you feel so good you’ll never
want a girl again. Here,
check this thing out.
His free hand unzips
his jeans, and just as I start
to panic, a familiar voice
interrupts the scene.
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Suddenly, Forcefully
Garrett is lifted into the air,
freeing me. I jump up and
away from the bed. “Gabe!”
He ignores me completely,
too busy with Garrett. What
the hell do you think you’re doing?
Garrett doesn’t back down.
What the fuck’s it to you?
I’m just breaking her in a little.
And, hey, if you want, you can
take a turn, too. A good screw
or two might flip her totally.
Gabe assesses the front
of Garrett’s pants. Breaking
her in? With what you’ve got there?
Nah, I don’t think so. What
I witnessed looked like assault.
You like forcing yourself on girls?
Garrett shakes his head. Nope.
Can’t assault the willing.
Goddamn cock teaser wanted it.
“That’s a lie! You’re the last
person on this planet I’d want
to have sex with. The last!”
Behind them, backup arrives.
Monica and Syrah in my corner,
Keith, of course, in Garrett’s.
And that makes Garrett a little
too eager to force an ugly
confrontation. He forms fists.
You really don’t want to do
that, says Gabe, pushing him
out of the bedroom, into the hall.
Monica and Syrah hustle out
of the way. Keith, who’s drunk
enough to get brave, steps closer.
Who the hell are you, anyway?
says Garrett, obviously fortified.
I don’t answer to pansy-ass jerk-offs.
Gabe draws himself up, maximizing
both height and menace. I’m Ariel’s
friend. Friends don’t let friends get raped.
Garrett glances at Keith, who
nods. What’re you gonna do?
asks Garrett. Take both of us on?
Yeah, dickwad, agrees Keith,
moving into position on the opposite
side of Gabe. You don’t want to do that.
Gabe Sizes Up the Situation
There are two of them,
yes. But they’re wasted,
and I think he senses
that neither is a true threat,
at least not on his own.
Still, there are two of them.
Look, I really don’t want to
hurt you, no matter how much
you deserve it. Why don’t you
tuck your teensy pecker back
into your pants and get the hell
out of here? He takes a step toward
Garrett, who’s too dense to
understand what that means,
though he does make sure his pants
are zipped. Ooh. I’m so scared.
Come and get me, asshole.
Gabe doesn’t hesitate. He swings
a fist straight into Keith’s gut,
doubling him over. That enrages
Garrett, who wades into Gabe.
That proves to be a huge mistake.
Up Close
Isn’t how you want to observe
a fistfight. Garrett manages to land
a punch or two, but this is no contest.
I’m not two feet away from Gabe.
and I can see his eyes glaze over, as
if he’s vacating this dimension.
He steps into Garrett and as I watch,
I swear he morphs into something
just this side of human, a boxing
machine, like those kids’ robots, only
full size. Bam, bam, bam! Three straight
to the face, and the sound of knuckles
connecting to flesh and the bone
beneath makes me wobble. I’ve heard
it before, only last time it was Dad’s
fist, and the person he was pounding
was a woman. Like she did then,
Garrett now lowers his hands, defeated.
And like Dad then, Gabe isn’t finished,
throwing a flurry of impressive blows
that drop Garrett all the way to the floor,
blood and snot pouring from his nose.
The coppery smell gags me, but I manage
to choke back the impending vomit.
Meanwhile, Keith has found breath
and regained some strength. Stupidly,
he ducks his head and charges Gabe,
who dances to one side. Keith loses
his balance, slips, and bashes his skull
against the wall, and Gabe advances.
“Stop!” I yell. “Enough! God, do you
want to kill them? Please, just leave
them alone. They’re finished, can’t you
see that?” I’m shriveling. Shrinking.
Folding up into myself, stumbling
backward. I’m a sniveling ten-year-old
again, pleading with someone I thought
I knew to dig down for his humanity,
find mercy, and end the carnage.
It doesn’t matter that he’s doing
this to defend me. It’s savage.
I actually feel sorry for Garrett.
Gabe stops, straightens, but when
he turns and looks at me, I find
something terrible in his eyes—
satisfaction.
He Bends Over
Careful
to avoid the bodily
fluids on the floor,
lifts Garrett to his feet
by the back of his shirt.
Never assume a stranger
is a pansy-ass jerk-off.
How about I call you a taxi?
You’re in no condition to drive.
Fuck you, shithead.
Garrett does his best
to shake it off. He points
at me. You good
with this, bitch?
Gabe leans closer.
That’s no way to talk
to a lady. I suggest you
apologize. You too,
he says to Keith,
who’s struggling
to get up on his feet.
The guys must’ve read
the pleasure factor
in Gabe’s eyes,
because both mutter
halfhearted apologies
before limping away.
Still, they refuse
to accept complete
defeat, extending middle
fingers before vanishing
into the dark of night.
Monica rushes to my side.
¿Estás bien? ¿Que pasó?
I reach for her, and
discover how badly
I’m shaking. “I’m okay,”
I lie, falling into her arms.
“Garrett thought I should prove
whether I’m into guys or girls.”
What? For real? Did he . . .?
“No, thanks to Gabe.
But he would have.
At least, I think so.”
Do you want to call the cops?
asks Gabe. You probably should.
“And tell them what?
Nothing happened?
And even if it had,
they’d write it off as drunk
kids getting carried away.”
What I Hold Very Close
Unable to share, even
with these, my best and only
friends, is that I don’t dare
call the cops.
Ever.
My dad’s programmed
that into me for as long
as I can remember.
Why?
I have no clue.
All I know is it’s near
the top of his rules
list, just below
“Don’t question me.”
Ever.
Once, when he left me
with Ma-maw and Pops,
he drilled into me
that should flashing red
and blue lights ever appear
on the horizon,
I was to dash out into
the alfalfa fields.
Hide.
I never had to do that.
Never had to deal
with law enforcement
one way or another.
Somehow, Dad’s managed
to avoid any kind
of run-in, too.
How?
Sheer luck,
I suppose. I know
he’s done things in the past
that should’ve
resulted in some kind
of punitive measures.
Rhonda’s emerald ring,
for instance.
Pawned.
If tonight
had resulted in actual
penetration—rape—
would I feel differently
and report it?
Excellent
question.
Monica Holds Me Close
Until I finally stop quivering.
Then, heedless of spectators,
she reaches up and kisses me
so sweetly I momentarily forget
the ugliness I’m mere minutes
beyond. She wraps me in love,
the residual fear and outrage.
Gabe looks vaguely uncomfortable
at our emotional exchange.
Syrah is her usual underwhelmed
self. She ignores us, rushes over to Gabe.
Wow! You were amazing! The words
escape in a rush of breath. I’ve never
seen anything like that. Hey, wanna
be my bodyguard? Then, totally as
an afterthought, Oh, and are you
okay? Giddy, that’s how she sounds.
Gabe blushes crimson. Other than
sore knuckles, I’m fine. At least one
of them has granite-strength bones.
He looks down. Sorry about your floor.
Hey, no problem, gushes Syrah.
That’s why they invented paper
towels and cleanser. It’s gross, though.
She goes to find the necessary items.
I push away from Monica, swallow
my disgust at the bodily fluids
pooled on the tile. What I really
want to do is crawl into a corner
and sleep so I won’t think about
the images solidifying in my mind,
resurrected by visions of Garrett’s
and Keith’s faces. Blood gushing.
Snot dripping. Bruises resembling
thunderheads rearing up. A woman,
dropped down on her knees, sobbing
apologies for “inviting” my dad’s abuse.
I can see her broken face clearly.
But I don’t remember her name.
Funny How the Brain
Manages damage control,
conveniently curtaining
windows that overlook
certain footpaths into the past.
I try to keep the shades drawn.
&
nbsp; Monica notices, however.
She moves closer again,
a drift of solace, claims
her place at my side.
Estás bien, novia? No te ves
tan bien. You look a little sick.
“I’m queasy,” I admit.
“I’m not real good with blood,
and watching someone get
pummeled is more than
I can take. I mean, I’ve seen
random guys involved
in altercations, but never
that close. I didn’t realize
how brutal it is.”
I’m s-sorry, sputters Gabe.
I couldn’t see another way out.
“No. It’s okay. Not your fault,
and not like they didn’t deserve it,
especially Garrett. But where did
you learn to fight like that?
That wasn’t, like, amateur night.”
Where I grew up you either
decided to be a tough guy
or you let the tough guys
take you down. I chose to be
strong, and Dad encouraged
me to learn to box. He put in
extra hours to pay for gym
time and a trainer, even.
Golden Gloves could’ve been
my ticket out. I worked all
the way up to state, and would’ve
been a finalist except
Dad’s accident made that
impossible. My dream died
along with him, but hey,
at least I’m still here.
“You could go back to it,
couldn’t you?” I ask, even
though the idea of regularly
beating people up makes me
even more nauseous than
the mess on Syrah’s floor.
Don’t think so. I have to get
real about life some time,
and with Mom coming home
at some point soon, now
is probably the right time.
Sounds Way Too Adult
As does cleaning up the mess
on the floor, and when Syrah
returns with the supplies,
Gabe volunteers for the job.
I don’t offer to help, don’t dare
get too close or I’ll only add
to the ugly puddle on the tile.
At least they managed to miss
the carpet. There’s that, I guess.
Instead, I start tidying tables
and countertops, tossing cups
and cans, some with cigarette
butts floating inside. Monica
joins in the effort. “Why are people
so gross?” I ask, only to make
conversation. No answer really
required, Monica shrugs in reply.
Parties bring out the bad in some
and the worst in others. You sure
you don’t want to report Garrett?