that will happen, though. We’ve been Skyping,
and every conversation has been salted
with revealing factoids, peppered with laughter.
A seasoned relationship, if a fairly short one.
Ha ha. Anyway, what should I wear? He’ll be
all Goth. So I guess I’ll settle for regular jeans
and my Nirvana T-shirt. We’re going to see
Stone Temple Pilots. I should get in the mood.
I Shave
Shower, using the gingerbread-scented
soap Gram and Gramps gave me
for Christmas. Another holiday, steeped
in melancholy, with Shelby all dressed
up in green velvet and Dad passed out
drunk before dinner. Mom and I ate
prepackaged turkey slices, Stove Top
stuffing and canned corn while Shelby
hummed along with carols. Tubes feed
her. One day, I swear, I’ll host big, fancy
feasts and have ceiling-high evergreens,
decked out in colored glass ornaments,
with tons of presents swirled under
them. Everyone will be happy, and
no one will be drunk or pissed or dying.
But that won’t be this year or next,
so I dry myself off, spike my hair
and go dig up some clean underwear.
By the Time
I’ve located my folded laundry,
beneath a pile of dirty stuff,
nerves are jittering in my belly.
I know I smell great. But is how
I look good enough for someone
like Alex? What if . . . ? Ah, screw
it. This is the best I can do. Mom
has taken Shelby to swim therapy
and Dad is who-knows-where?
I leave a simple note: Gone out
with a friend. Stand by the window,
waiting for Alex to pick me up,
and as the clock approaches four,
the nerve dance has quieted some.
At least, until I see the dark-blue
Honda cruise slowly into view,
searching for the address. When
it pulls against the curb, I almost
want to puke. But that would give
me nasty breath. Instead, I go say hi.
What I Know About Him
As I open the passenger door,
bend to say hello, is this:
He is almost eighteen and
goes to Manogue, the local
Catholic high school, where
it’s even less copacetic
to be gay than it is at
Reno High. He’s on track
to graduate a semester
early and he’s grateful for
that. He lives west of the city
in Verdi, with both parents,
three sisters and one brother,
all of whom are straight.
He likes big dogs, little cats,
action movies and reality
TV. His favorite foods are
pizza, burritos and mangoes.
Mangoes Make Me Itch
So I don’t like them much, but
I’m good with the rest of his likes.
I wish we could have a dog, big
or small, but pet dander and Shelby
would be a disastrous combo.
Alex knows all about my sister.
I thought it might gross him out,
but he was totally sympathetic.
We won’t talk about her today,
though. When I open the door
and duck my head, our eyes connect
for real. “Hey.” It’s all I can think
to say. Stupid. My face flares.
But he smiles. Get in. Wow, dude.
Awesome digs. I’ve always liked
Caughlin Ranch. Verdi is a hole.
Most of it is a pretty nice hole,
but it is a low-lying valley. Still,
“A great view does not a decent
home make. But it will do, I guess.”
Not to mention, when the ice
caps melt, y’all will keep your
feet dry. One other thing about
Alex. He moved here from Texas
just three years ago. His voice
still carries a hint of honeyed
twang. It’s sexy as hell, in fact.
Jeez, who knew I liked “cowboy”?
I do know I like Alex, so I guess
it isn’t hate at first sight, at least
not on this end. I’m completely
speechless, unusual for me.
The concert starts at seven. I hear
the opening act is pretty good,
so we should get there on time.
It’s, like, a little after four.
Dinner shouldn’t take more
than an hour. What else does
he have planned? “Sounds good.”
Turns Out
What he’s got in mind is talking.
We drive to this little tucked-away
park beside the Truckee River.
It’s shaded by big old cottonwoods,
and totally deserted. We sit in the car
with the windows down, listening
to the soft heave of slow-moving water.
“I’ve lived in Reno forever, and have
never been here. How did you find it?”
My best girlfriend, Dianne, brought
me here one time when I was feeling
really down. I love this place.
I get what he means by girlfriend.
Lots of women like hanging with
gay guys. I have a best girlfriend, too.
This is the perfect location to toke
a fatty. I know he smokes weed,
want to share. “This shit is stony.”
I torch the blunt, inhale deeply,
and despite the dropped windows,
skunk-flavored smoke envelops us.
I hold out my offering, sure he’ll
accept. Instead, he says, Smells good.
Before I take it, I have to tell you
something you won’t want to hear.
But if you don’t, we can never share
anything even approaching intimacy.
He looks at me steadily, cat-green
colored eyes filled with anxiety.
I hold his gaze. “Sounds serious.”
It is. He takes a deep breath. Starts
to say something. Sucks it back in.
Finally spits out, I have HIV.
A pound of dread just tumbled into
my gut. “What?” I watch the joint
go out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He Struggles
To find the right words.
Look. When we were just talking
online, it didn’t matter, you know?
But then I started to like you. To
really like you a lot. I wanted us to
be more than web buddies. For that
to happen, I had to be honest with
you. I lost my last boyfriend because
I didn’t tell him soon enough and . . .
His voice trails out the window.
And I don’t want that to happen
with you. I know HIV is scary. It
scares the hell out of me. But I started
antiretrovirals very early. It will be
many, many years before the virus
turns to AIDS, and with new drugs
on the horizon, that might never be
a concern. For now, it’s under control.
He pulls himself up straight.
Obviously, I don’t want you to become
infected. Common sense will prevent that.
You can’t get HIV from saliva, so swapping
spit doesn’t
pose a danger. Blood and, um . . .
semen do. I mean, we could, like, share
a smoke or a drink or even a kiss without . . .
Ah, God. I sound desperate, don’t I?
I’m sorry. Just, so fucking sorry.
The weight in my gut sinks deeper.
Listen. You can tell me to screw myself
if you want. But before you decide,
let’s have dinner and go to the concert,
okay? You can’t catch it like that for sure.
Bitch-Slapped
All the way down on my knees.
What happened to a fun first date?
Still, he’s right. You can’t contract
HIV from sitting next to someone.
I know because when I decided I was gay,
I got myself tested, just in case my one
close encounter was dirty. The doctor
fed me the latest theories about infection.
Never thought I’d actually have to put
them to the test, however. Especially not
the one about saliva. I realize Alex is waiting
for me to say something. Anything.
What the hell. He’s still hot, and science
is only wrong once in a while. I torch
the blunt, take a deep drag, offer it
to him once again, this time with
knowledge. He was right. He had
to be honest with me up front. And
since he’s being straight with me,
I ask, “How did you get infected?”
Alex
Straight
I
never felt like that term
applied to me, at least not
once I realized there
was
another way to be. But homo, hetero
or somewhere in between, no
should mean absolutely not, and
never
did I say okay to my stepfather’s prick
brother, Stu. I was ten when he came
creeping. Claimed it was the way I shook
my pretty ass. I might not have said
anything
about the bleeding or the chokehold
welts around my neck—I wept over
his promise to kill my sister if I told—
but
a blood test for mono turned up
something we couldn’t ignore. Stu
passed on his HIV to his completely
queer,
but up-until-then-virgin step-nephew,
me. And I didn’t ask for it. Not at all.
Harley
I Didn’t Ask
To come from a split family.
Especially not one where the two
halves are so totally pushed apart.
I’m pretty sure Mom doesn’t
think I should love my dad.
But she’s the one who left him.
Just because she stopped
loving him, does that mean
I should, too? Okay, I do kind
of remember all the fights
they had. I was in first grade
when Mom decided she’d had
enough. And then there were
a lot of years where he hardly
ever even called to say hello.
He totally missed my birthday
a couple of times, and yeah,
that made me cry. So I sort of get
why Mom is irritated with him
wanting to step back into my life
like none of that ever happened.
She wants to protect me from
getting hurt again and I’m cool
with that. What I really can’t take,
though, is having her come
storming in and embarrass me
in front of Chad. Of any boy,
really, but especially him
because he’s, like, the only
guy even close to my age who
has ever paid me the thinnest
sliver of attention. Mom says
I’m too young to worry about
being one of the few geeky girls
left in my class who have never
been kissed. But I so do not agree.
I’d Say
It’s because I’m too fat—I pretty
much resemble a pot-bellied piglet—
but that can’t be it. Bri looks great
in skinny jeans, and guys always
check her out. But so far none
of them have kissed her, not even
at boy-girl parties because whenever
we play Truth or Dare she always
chooses truth. I always choose dare,
but the wildest thing anyone has
dared me to do to a boy was to lick
his big toe. Everyone else was making
out like crazy, though. Bri and I sat
there watching, half-fascinated, half-
grossed-out that people could tongue-jab
so obviously in public. I don’t know
what it makes me, but I really want
to try it. And I really want guys to
stare at me the way they stare at Bri.
So even though I’m mad at Mom
for pretty much yelling at me in
front of Chad, I need her help.
“How do I lose weight, Mom?”
She could shed a few pounds, too,
but I don’t say that, and I’m pretty
sure she doesn’t think so. Fewer
calories, more exercise. Too basic
to work, right? I look into the skinny
visor mirror. I think what I need
are laxatives or diet pills, but I’m very
sure she won’t go for that. Exercise?
“Would you help me? Please?”
She chances taking her eyes off
the highway to give me a concerned
look. Of course. But why are you
worried about it, all of a sudden?
I can’t tell her it’s about wanting
Chad to like me, but I can admit,
“I want to wear skinny jeans, like
Brianna does. They’re the style.”
Which Somehow Launches Us
Into a whole conversation about
Chad, anyway. It’s like she knew.
I try not to mention too much
about Dad and Cassie, because
I can see how just saying their names
and talking about Dad moving back
to Reno makes her feel bad. I mostly
think it’s awesome because when
I go visit Dad, Chad will be there,
too. And he’s just so cute and he’s
really nice. And he doesn’t have
a girlfriend. I didn’t ask him, of course.
Cassie told me. I thought I was going
to hate her, but she’s pretty sweet.
I don’t mention that, either. “I’m on
a diet as of today. Can we stop at the store
and get healthy food? ’Cause you buy
too much junk food, and you know me.
I can’t say no to chips and soda.
And I really think we ought to go
organic because I read something
about how additives can cause you
to gain weight. . . .” I glance over
at Mom, who’s nodding her head,
but I’m not really sure she’s listening.
I love Mom, but I swear sometimes
she lives on another planet, or maybe
a comet—all ice and gas and deserted
except for her and me. Doesn’t she get
lonely? I mean, I can’t always be there
for her. “Hey, Mom?” I wait for the words
to slice through the silence. “Don’t you ever
get lonely? For a boyfriend, I mean.” After
a long second or two, she responds,
Harley, honey, for the most part men
are more trouble than they’re worth.
Lame
Not only cliché, but it can’t be
the truth, or why would every
girl in the world (okay, except
for lesbians) work so hard
to attract guys? There must be
something to all the hype.
“But what about sex? Don’t
you like it? Are you . . .”
What’s the word I’m looking
for? The one that means cold?
Oh, yeah. “Are you frigid?”
Ha. That got her attention!
She kind of sputters. Wha-wha?
Did your father tell you that?
Because I am most definitely
not frigid, missy! I like sex
just fine, only not with some
selfish prick who is all about
pleasing himself and not worried
at all about satisfying his partner!
Way TMI!
“Whoa! Wait a second, Mom.
Dad never said anything like that.
He doesn’t really talk about you.
I was just wondering. And I’m sort
of worried about you. Pretty much
all you do is work.” Her shoulders
slump and she sighs. That’s not
exactly true. I go out once in a while.
And I do lots of stuff with you.
“Big whoop. Doing things with me
or Brianna’s mom isn’t like hooking
up with someone you’re in love with.”
Believe it or not, it hasn’t been all
that long. You don’t know everything,
munchkin. And the problem with falling
in love is falling back out of it again,
usually because you’ve fallen in love
with a lie. That happens as often as not.
Munchkin!
She hasn’t called me that since
I was a little girl. I hated it then,
and I hate it worse now. Why not
just call me Oompa Loompa?
I think about what she said
and how bitter she sounded.
What don’t I know? Has she
fallen in love recently, and
back out again? No. I’d know.
She couldn’t keep something
that big from me, right? Darn it.
That’s going to bug me now.
“Hey, Mom. If you did fall
in love, you’d tell me, wouldn’t
you?” She says of course, but