And that’s our destination.
Mick drives like a maniac,
which would be all right except
I really, really want to get high,
and smoking dope and speeding
don’t exactly go hand in hand.
I could be bitchy, and it may come
to that. But I’ll try sweet talk first.
“If you slow down a little, I’ll roll
a nice big joint. And after we smoke
it, just maybe I’ll mess around
with your nice big joint too.”
Okay, so it isn’t eloquent,
but it works.
He Slows
To right around the speed
limit as I fumble under
the seat, searching for his stash.
This slow enough for you?
Damn, I feel like an old woman.
“Ha. Sound like one too.”
Finally, pay dirt. I reach into
the baggie, extract a big bud.
Hurry up with that, would ya?
Hey, I saw you on TV tonight.
I keep crumbling dope.
“Really? You watch the news?”
No frigging way.
He snorts a half laugh.
Nah. I was channel surfing.
Ah, but of course.
“So how’d I look? Like
a movie star or what?”
He reaches for my left boob.
More like a rock star, baby.
God, he’s a player. A lousy
player. “Give me your lighter.”
Delectable smoke fills the cab.
Hey, man. You never told
me your mom was so hot.
My body stiffens and I shove
his hand away. “Shut the fuck
up.” I take a giant hit of pot.
Jeez. Pushed the wrong button,
huh? Sorry. But she is.
“Mom is not hot! She’s fucking
frigid!” Why is this bugging
me so effing much?
Okay, okay. Really sorry.
Now give me the damn doob.
Needless to Say
I don’t feel much like messing
around with Mick’s “nice big joint,”
not even after killing off the nice
big joint wrapped in a rolling paper.
Maybe after a beer or ten.
And hey, lucky me, looks
like the beer’s flowing up
here on Figueroa Mountain.
Twenty or so vehicles are parked
helter-skelter, like misaligned
zipper teeth. Some I recognize.
Some I’ve never seen before.
It’s an older crowd. Several
people graduated with Mick,
and a few last year. Not too
many my age. Fine by me.
I see enough of those people
every day at school. Who wants
to socialize with them? What
I want is to leave them in my dust.
Suddenly a familiar whine
threatens my jocular mood.
Hey, Mick! I hoped you’d be here,
even if you had to bring her along.
You guessed it. My delightful
friend, Madison. She rubs up
against Mick like a hungry cat.
Is she trying to piss me off?
And here I just got unpissed.
Two choices. Jump into the ring.
Or turn away, move on to
that really cute guy over there.
I turn to assess Mick’s reaction
to the fur-free feline at his arm.
He looks vaguely intrigued,
and totally unconcerned about me.
So fine. No use getting into
a scratchfest. I wander over
to the keg, top off a twenty-ounce
cup, and go say hi to Prince Charming.
Turns Out
He’s not particularly charming,
but at the moment, charm is not
a prerequisite. I’m not looking
for a life partner, just a good time.
“What’s up?”
His eyes, the color of creamed coffee,
hold mild interest. Not much. You
a friend of Mick’s? He tips his head
in the direction of said Mick.
“Not really.”
Hmm. Got the idea you were.
Didn’t you come together? He smiles
at the loaded question. I mean,
didn’t you arrive together?
“Doesn’t make us friends.
But yeah, we did actually.”
My turn to smile. “And we’ve
come together a few times too.”
He looks me up and down like
he’s shopping. I see. Any plans
to come together tonight?
“Nope.” I part my lips bravely.
“Not with him, anyway.”
He nods his head, stands.
How’s that beer? Need a refill?
I shrug. “Sure. Don’t suppose
you happen to have anything
stronger on you, though?”
It’s a distinct possibility. Let’s
get those refills and take a walk.
It’s stupid even to consider taking
a walk with this guy. Like I care.
I glance toward Mick, who is now
in the truck with Madison, filling
the cab with smoke. I’m so taking
a walk. With a complete stranger.
We Wander into the Woods
Sit on a big stump, slurping foamy beer.
He’s cute, really cute. So what if he’s not
much for words? He reaches into his jeans
pocket, digging for treasure. Maybe I’ll dig
in there later myself. Meanwhile, I’ll content
myself with the giant fatty he lights. The pot
is the same as (or very similar to) Mick’s.
“So…” I cough out a big hit. “You and Mick
share a connection, huh?”
Something like that. He laughs. Let’s
just say we move in mutual circles.
He draws in a long, deep lungful.
I move a little closer, like I can’t quite
reach the joint. “Since we’re sharing
a hooter, can we, like, share names?”
The name’s Ty. I know who you are.
I saw you on television tonight.
If he says my mom is hot, I’ll kill him.
“Jeez, man. Did everybody just happen
to watch the fucking news tonight?”
What? Did I say something wrong?
Now he scoots closer. Looks into my
eyes. Should I apologize?
The Guy Knows How
To apologize, for sure. He reaches
across the short distance between us,
pulls me right into him, kisses me
with unexpected hunger. In the
time
it takes me to react to that, decide
whether or not to invite more,
he already has my top button
unbuttoned. His hands want
to go
under the fabric, insist on it,
in fact. I should say no. Need
to say no. “W-wait,” I try,
but no little bit of me wants
to stop
and Ty intuits all of that. He
doesn’t stop, and I don’t try
to make him. And it isn’t long
before
I throw every ounce of caution
to the nonexistent wind. With only
a fleeting thought of Mick,
I give
in to this insane desire to know
this not-quite-stranger in the most
intimate way. And so, I sacrifice
my inne
r child, give
myself away.
Kaeleigh
My Inner Child
Is sobbing, crying for her mother
to please, please come home, stay.
But she is already leaving, well before
dawn, as if to spend any more
time
here might chip her thin veneer.
Her footsteps fall subtly in the hallway,
trailed by Daddy’s heavy tread
and garbled entreaty not
to go.
The front door shuts emphatically.
I tense, count his paces. Twenty to his
own bed, twelve to mine. One, two.
Three, four. Wordlessly, I beg him not
to stop.
Five, six. Seven, eight. Please,
go back to bed. Nine, ten. Eleven,
twelve. Pause. The knob turns. Quick,
before
he can open my door, I scrunch my
eyes, will my breathing to slow.
He steps inside, creeps to my bed.
I give
a silent prayer that he’ll believe
I’m asleep, take pity, leave me
to my feigned dreams, all
the while preparing to give
myself away.
Daddy Strokes My Cheek
His touch is soft as a dandelion,
ready to release its spores.
I feel his eyes trace my silhouette,
steel myself against what will
come next. But the quilt doesn’t move.
His lips brush my forehead.
You’re so much like her, he whispers.
Why can’t I just take it all back?
He crumbles on the carpet beside
my bed. In the growing light,
I slit open my eyes, watch his face
fall into his hands. Tears stream
through the cracks between
his fingers. Why can’t I take it back?
Will you ever be able to forgive me?
Nobody answers. Not her. Not me.
Before long, Daddy’s breathing
evens, and when he starts to snore
I slide out from under the blankets,
into chill, Turkey-tainted air; tiptoe
past his sleeping form. Away.
Not a Creature Is Stirring
In the house or out, as I slide open the door,
step out into the crisp Saturday morning,
biting back sudden teeth chatter.
The entire neighborhood seems asleep,
not a single early-morning mower in sight.
But smoke trails zigzagging from chimneys
belie the idea that I’m completely alone.
Someone’s awake, despite the fact that the sun
has barely risen. I’ll be early to work.
Usually I ride my bike the mile or so to
the Lutheran home. Today I think I’ll walk,
inhaling the clean of barely dawn.
Showered, made-up, and blow-dried,
my body is almost as scrubbed as
the daybreak. So why do I feel dirty?
The Old Folks’ Home
Has a new arrival, one who has
thrown the place into an uproar.
Seems William O’Connell
is something of a ladies’ man.
He’s tall, or once was, having
lost a few inches to stoop.
And, despite his years, he’s
really quite handsome,
in an aged, Irish way.
Come over here, m’darlin’,
he invites, to no one woman
in particular. I’m thinking
you’re in need of a bit of male
companionship. His offer is met
with a chorus of giggles.
Ah yes, it’s a breakfast
to go down in the history
of the Lutheran home, one
to be retold in whispered tales,
passed around by these good
(if lonely) ladies. Only Greta
seems unimpressed.
Who does the man believe
he is? Sean Connery? Now
there’s an Irishman worthy
of consideration, she jokes.
Unlike some of the home’s guests,
William is completely ambulatory.
In fact, he gets around so well,
I have to wonder why he’s here,
flitting from woman to woman
like a horny hummingbird.
I watch, amused, until it’s time
to clear the dishes. And that’s
when he finally catches sight of me.
Ah, such a sweet young rose.
Who might I be addressing,
my lovely little flower?
For no discernible reason,
my arms sprout goose bumps
and my forehead leaks sweat.
I start to say “Kaeleigh,” but my
mouth clamps tight around my answer,
squeezes shut around my name.
Memory Strikes Suddenly
Chokes me. Strangles me.
It was dark in my room.
Very dark.
Someone had closed the curtain.
I was small. Maybe nine.
Mommy wasn’t home.
But Daddy was.
He lurched through my door.
That scared me. But why?
He’d never hurt me before.
Only touched me lovingly.
Like any Daddy.
Why did I catch my breath,
hold it, as if
I might never breathe again?
Why did my heart feel
like a race-car engine?
Daddy must have heard it.
Don’t be afraid, little flower.
It’s only me.
And almost instantly, Daddy
made everything seem just fine.
Even when it wasn’t.
I Didn’t Panic Then
But here in the dining room,
terror inflates inside me
like a flame in a breeze.
Especially when William
echoes, Won’t you tell me
your name, little flower?
Blood rushes from my face
to who-knows-where, and I feel
weightless, helpless, a cloud
in a cold, trembling sky.
Just as I think I’ll turn and run,
or worse, keel completely over,
dearest Greta takes hold of me,
props me up with the force of her.
Kaeleigh seems to have taken
ill, William. You and she can
chat later. She guides me away.
Will you come to my room for a while?
It’s a question, not a directive,
and for that I am grateful.
Unlike Everyone Else
In my life, Greta knows when
to stay silent. She sits me down
in a chair by the window,
settles into a rocker, opposite me.
Then all she does is rock.
I stare out over the fog-shrouded
valley. The gray gulps me into
it, infiltrates my brain. Sad.
Will I ever find a way beyond
this sad? Tears puddle my eyes.
I let them fall, like how they
feel, then come to my senses.
“S-sorry,” I sniffle, not sure
why, except it’s lame to cry,
like it’s ever done any good.
Sorry? What for? Greta asks. You’ve
got some powerful demons, girl,
but I’ve got a few of my own.
Already told you I’m a good listener.
Talk to me when you’re ready.
I Want to Talk
But I’m not really sure
what I can ta
lk about. Daddy?
Not ever. Mom? Definitely not now.
The campaign is much too close to call.
Raeanne? How I miss her, miss how
close we once were? Miss
the sisters we used to
be, before…
Nope. Can’t crack open
that particular history book.
Other family members, inexplicably
unable or unwilling to be a part of my
life? Ian? Uh-huh. OMG! Greta is
undeniably right. Some very
intense demons have so
got hold of me.
I Go Over to Her
Wrap my arms around her
neck. “Thank you. But I’m
okay.” Of course she knows
it’s a lie.
Greta, who patiently
waits for my confession,
can see demons hip-hopping
in my eyes.
She deserves a better answer.
“Maybe someday we can
trade stories, okay? But
I’m on foot today.
Better go.”
Be safe, is her reply, and again
I realize I only feel secure here.
Passing William in the hall,
I give his shoulder an easy
poke.
“Name’s Kaeleigh. Gotta go.
Be good.” He offers the usual
Always, then turns his attention
to a couple of older ladies. Better
them
than me, and their giggles
mean they agree. I step
out
the door, into lengthening
afternoon, carry my demons