If He’s Here
He’s here, so I’m not in a hurry,
and I wait for Monica to slide into
her deliciously tight jeans.
I wish I could straight-up go over
and kiss her, but this is small-town
girls’ basketball in a small-town
high school in small-town Sonora,
California, so the most I’ll do
is lick my lips seductively (like I
know anything about seduction
beyond what Monica herself
has managed to teach me) and
invite, “Come with me? I know
it’s stupid but I’m not-quite-
hoping my dad is out there,
pretending to have watched
the game. If he is, you can help
me celebrate. If he isn’t, we can
go find something to do to make
me feel better. Unless you’ve got
plans for an after-game party?”
She laughs. Last night taught me
I’m not the party type. Except
maybe private parties with you.
We Cut Back
Through the gym,
where several people
are still milling around,
including Monica’s family.
All of them.
Mom. Dad.
Two big brothers.
One little sister.
Carolina comes jogging
up now. Hey! You guys
were awesome.
She holds up two hands
for high fives—one from
her sister and one from me.
Now the rest of the Torres
family surrounds us,
chattering half in English,
half in Spanish, happily
congratulating us. Glad
somebody’s kin cares.
Now Monica’s mom says,
Esta noche vamos a celebrar
el cumpleaños de Mónica.
Por favor, venga a cenar.
I’ve Just Been Invited
To a birthday dinner celebration
for Monica. How can I turn that down?
Maybe there will even be tamales.
“Muchas gracias. Me encantaría ir.”
Tu español es bueno, says Mrs. Torres.
Muy bueno. We will see you tonight.
We follow the family out to the parking
lot, where Syrah is leaning against her car,
flirting with Gabe, which reminds me
he and I are supposed to talk.
I think maybe you lost your boyfriend,
comments Monica, grinning broadly.
“I think that’s okay by me.” And I’m not
sure it’s all about what I saw last night.
“Who needs a boyfriend when I’ve got
you?” Did I just offer a confession? Two?
I thought you’d never figure that out.
Pero mejor tarde que nunca, ¿no?
But better late than never, yes.
Now do I have to confess to Gabe, too?
I’m Thinking That Over
When someone taps me on
the shoulder. I turn to face
the tall redhead who smiled
at me from the bleachers,
and when I do, she sways
as if momentarily dizzy.
The spiky-haired woman
beside her extends a hand
to steady her. Take it easy.
Everything’s going to be fine.
“Are you okay?”
She pulls herself together.
Oh, yes. Sorry. Are you . . .
She holds out a newspaper
clipping. It’s the story about
Gabe and me finding Hillary.
Are you Ariel Pearson?
“That would be me.”
And this . . . She points to
Dad, who’s standing behind
us in the picture. This is your
father? It says Mark Pearson.
“That’s my dad, yes.”
Mark Pearson, she repeats,
sounding totally confused.
What does this woman
want? She’s studying me
like a scientist getting
ready to dissect a frog.
I’m Maya McCabe. Does
the name sound familiar?
Her voice is a bit too eager.
“Not really, no. Should it?”
But before she can answer,
Dad and Zelda come strolling
up behind her. Guess he made
it to the game after all.
“Hey, Dad. Didn’t think you were here.”
At my greeting, Maya McCabe
spins to face Dad. Jason.
Dad’s face drains every hint
of color and his eyes narrow
into serpent-like slits. Fuck no.
“What is it, Dad? Who’s Jason?”
But it’s Maya who answers,
Jason is your father. Jason Baxter.
And I’m your mother, Casey.
Casey. The wrong-number name.
Denial
No.
“I’m Ariel Pearson.”
No.
No.
“You can’t be my mother.”
Except.
There was Dad’s reaction.
Except.
This woman has no reason to lie.
Except.
There’s something about her voice.
Except.
She looks like me.
And now it’s my turn to sway.
Why Now?
That’s what I want to know.
Why here? Why today?
But all I manage to say is,
“I don’t understand. Dad . . . ?”
Immediately, Dad pushes
between Maya and me.
Ariel, you get in your car
and leave here right now.
Don’t say another word.
Everyone moves at once.
Zelda, toward Dad.
Spiky hair, between him and Maya.
Monica, to my right.
Gabe and Syrah, who can’t help
but notice the commotion,
start across the parking lot.
“Why are you here?” I demand.
Casey . . .
“My name is Ariel.”
No. It’s not. It’s Casey Baxter,
and I’m your mom. I’ve been
looking for you for fifteen years,
ever since he kidnapped you.
It was only a fluke that I found you.
It’s a lie! thunders Dad.
Don’t you listen to her.
She’ll just hurt you again.
Go, Ari . . . I’ll take care of this.
He tries to circle Spiky, but
she and Zelda form a wall
between him and Maya,
who reaches out for me.
I jerk my arm away.
“Leave me alone! What
do you want from me?”
All I want is the chance
to be your mom. Please.
Shut the fuck up, you
cheating whore, and leave
my daughter alone. Get out
of here, Ariel. I mean it.
Or what, Jason? You going
to hurt her? Does he hurt you,
Casey? Because if he does—
“Stop calling me Casey!
Who the hell do you think
you are? You can’t just show
up out of the blue, fifteen damn
years without a single word,
pretending to be my mom.
You are not my mom. A real
mom does not desert her kid
and run off with her girlfriend. . . .”
At that, Maya looks down
and Spiky sli
des an arm around
her shoulders, confirmation.
See? demands Dad. See?
She never gave a damn
about you. Only about her.
Oh, Casey. That’s not true.
I’ve never, ever stopped
loving you or searching—
“Screw you! I don’t want you
in my life. I’ve never had a mom,
and I don’t need one now!”
Goddamn it. I’m crying.
Tears stream from my puffing
eyes, down my superheated
cheeks. I must look like shit,
not that I care, because
I definitely feel like a huge
steaming mound of crap.
Leering Faces
Masks
of real people
surround me in
a wide semicircle.
I glance face to face to face.
Maya looks pummeled.
Spiky looks sad.
Zelda looks stunned.
My friends look confused.
Dad looks ready to detonate.
And when Maya lifts her eyes
from the ground,
meeting mine to beg compassion,
he does.
I will kill you, bitch!
He lunges toward her,
hands outstretched
as if seeking her neck,
and I scream, “No, Dad, stop!”
This time it’s Gabe who steps in.
Hold it right there, Mark.
You wouldn’t really hurt
her, would you? Let’s work
this out like civilized people.
Dad Looks More
Like a caged wolf.
Wary. Confused.
Bone-deep pissed.
Hatred shimmers
in his eyes.
Also fear.
And like a trapped animal,
fear makes him dangerous.
Still, he pretends courage.
Get out of my way, kid.
I ain’t afraid of you.
He steps into Gabe,
swinging wildly.
But Dad has grown
slow and is out of practice.
Gabe steps to one side
and Dad’s momentum
carries him too far forward.
He goes down on one knee
as everyone else scatters.
I don’t want to hurt you,
Mark. Don’t get up.
Dad doesn’t understand
the danger, springs to his feet.
I picture Garrett and Keith,
just last night.
“No, no, no, no, no!”
I Can’t Watch
I turn.
Run for my car.
Don’t look back.
Don’t look back.
People shout my name.
Ariel!
Casey!
Who am I?
Who am I?
“Leave me alone!”
Don’t follow me.
Don’t follow me.
What just happened?
What the fuck
just happened?
I don’t get it.
I don’t get it.
I jam the keys in
the ignition.
Start, car, start.
It does, no problem,
despite my quaking hands.
The space in front
is empty. I gun the car,
barely glancing
at the group splintering
in different directions.
Monica comes running,
waving to stop.
Dad is right on her heels.
Don’t hurt her.
Don’t hurt her.
He won’t.
Gabe won’t let him.
I drive right past.
Can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
How do I process this?
Maya McCabe.
Who is this woman
who claims to be my mom?
My mom?
Impossible.
Shows up.
At my game.
Just like that.
Materializes
out of thin air.
How the hell does that happen
after all this time?
And Casey? Who is she?
My Name
Is Ariel.
Ariel Pearson.
And my dad
is Mark Pearson.
Not Jason Baxter.
Why does Maya McCabe,
who so can’t be my mother,
let alone my mom,
insist my name is Casey?
I’ve never even met
a Casey. I can’t be one.
She’s crazy.
That’s it.
Maya McCabe is crazy.
My name is Ariel.
Air. Ari.
I’ll even take Ari Fairy.
Which circles me
right back to Dad.
Mark Pearson.
Not Jason Baxter.
Right?
He couldn’t have—
wouldn’t have?—
woven my entire history
into a tapestry of lies.
I Drive
And drive, looking
in the rearview mirror,
but there’s no sign
of anyone following me.
Head spinning, I cycle
through snapshots
of my past.
All those women.
My teachers.
Ma-maw and Pops.
None of them ever called
me Casey. None
I can remember.
No, I must be Ariel.
I drive until I notice
my gas gauge registers
under a half tank.
Work tomorrow.
School all week.
I have no money
and won’t get paid
until the eighteenth.
That’s Ariel thinking.
Casey’s asking:
Work?
School?
You’re kidding, right?
Pertinent Question
Who am I kidding?
How can I go to work?
How can I go to school?
How can I play basketball,
or hang out with my friends
or fall in love or dare
to dream about my future?
How can anything
be normal again?
In fact, what’s normal?
How would I know
when I can’t even be sure
who the fuck I am?
Casey. Casey Baxter.
Are you a part of me?
Are you who I am?
“This is who I am!”
That’s what I want to yell,
but I need certainty.
I need the truth of me.
But who can I believe?
I Stop the Car
In a wide turnout,
try to decide where
to go from here.
My cell has buzzed
messages for over an hour.
I scroll through them while
I consider my next move.
Everyone wants to talk.
Dad: WE HAVE TO TALK. COME HOME RIGHT NOW.
At some point. But not yet.
From Syrah: WOW. THAT WAS WEIRD. I’M HERE IF YOU
WANT TO TALK.
Maybe later.
From Monica: LO SIENTO, NOVIA. YOU’RE STILL
COMING OVER, YEAH? YOU CAN TALK TO ME, OKAY?
I know. But not now.
And I can’t even consider
a boisterous Torres crowd
when all I want to do is fall
into bed and sleep this away.
From Gabe: AUNT ZELDA WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO
YOU. I KNOW YOU’RE UPSET. SO IS SHE.
U
pset
Yeah. I bet she is.
I get it completely.
Upset.
Confused.
In need of a giant dose
of truth.
I’ve always known
Dad was unreliable.
Self-centered.
Deceitful, yes, even that.
But there are lies,
and there are lies.
Identity isn’t something
that should be trifled with.
I can’t believe he’s been
lying about who he is
all this time.
Oh yeah, and who I am, too.
Because as much
as I’d like to blame
this on Maya’s insanity,
the name thing
somehow resonates.
Holy shit.
What if I really am
Casey Baxter?
There’s One More Message
From an unknown number,
which can only belong
to Maya McCabe, and it does:
YOUR FRIEND GAVE ME YOUR NUMBER. HOPE THAT’S
OKAY. I’M SORRY I WASN’T MORE CIRCUMSPECT. TATI
SAID I SHOULD WAIT, BUT I WAS SO EXCITED TO
HAVE FINALLY FOUND YOU I JUST COULDN’T. YOU
DON’T KNOW, CASEY, YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY KNOW
HOW HARD I’VE LOOKED FOR YOU. NOTHING I TOLD
YOU WAS A LIE. I’M SURE THIS COMES AS A SHOCK
AND AM WILLING TO GIVE YOU AS MUCH TIME AS
YOU NEED.
Friend, huh? Wonder
which so-called friend
that might have been.
Syrah, probably.
Who else would feel
the need to stick her nose
where it doesn’t belong?
And what the hell does Maya
mean, as much time as I need?
To what? Decide she is, in
fact, my mother? A blood
test can prove that.
What does it take to prove
you’re an actual mom?
Where Do I Go Now?
Not home. Not ready
to listen to Dad’s bullshit
excuses and lies.
How could he do
this to me?
How can I ever believe
a single word
he utters again?
Not going to Syrah’s
or Monica’s.
What would I say?
Hey, don’t sweat it.
(Santa please . . . )
Everything’s cool.
Nothing’s changed.
Oh, except
don’t forget
to call me Casey.
Can I just keep being
Ariel instead?
I’ll go to Zelda’s.
We have something
in common: betrayal.
The GTO
Is nowhere in sight.