Be Straight with Me
Page 1
Be Straight with Me copyright © 2020 by Emily E. Dalton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
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ISBN: 978-1-5248-6244-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020931551
Excerpt(s) from Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka, translated by James Stern and Elisabeth Duckworth, edited by Erich Heller and Jurgen Born, translation copyright © 1937, 1956, renewed 1965, 1984 by Penguin Random House LLC. Used by permission of Schocken Books, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Excerpt(s) from “A Strange Beautiful Woman” in Mama’s Promises by Marilyn Nelson, copyright © 1985 by Marilyn Nelson Waniek. Used by permission of LSU Press. All rights reserved.
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A Note on the Text
Memories—like reflections in a mirror—appear differently depending on who is looking. I have reflected on this story as honestly as possible and portrayed the events to the best of my memory.
Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved.
This
book is
dedicated to
the understanding
that we all exist along
the same spectrum—
however far one end
may be from
the other.
But
mostly
to the ones
who are still afraid,
or misinformed,
or in denial about
what it means
to land
somewhere
in the middle.
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree—
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
— Emily Brontë, “Love and Friendship”
Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly,
for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.
— Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
SOPHOMORE SEPTEMBER
Your call echoes over a warm
end-of-summer breeze
that shakes the leafy branches
of the elms and maples
lining the sidewalk.
“Hey! You girls blaze?”
Joanna and I are trudging up
the big hill on College Street
on our way back to Milliken
after a brief stint at a house party.
The soccer team had blasted
Katy Perry songs and danced
around shirtless on their roof
until Public Safety yelled at them.
(At a small private college
like Middlebury,
you can get away with a lot
if you only
do a little
at a time).
Soggy half-smoked cigars were
disemboweling in the kitchen sink,
underclassmen were passed out
on chairs in the living room,
and everything was sticky.
We left fifteen minutes after arriving.
And now, your shadowed silhouette
grows larger as it approaches up the hill.
Broad shoulders, loose-fitting clothes,
and the swaggering gait of a young guy.
Mostly in shadow but vaguely familiar—
your round, lightly freckled face,
half of it covered in a short, thick beard,
the waves of dirty blond hair
under a black and red snapback.
Months later, I’ll connect the dots . . .
how one night in the
winter of freshman year
we happened to be waiting
for the same campus shuttle
in the dark, cold vestibule
on Adirondack Circle.
It was me,
Dave from across the hall,
Dave’s friend Douglas,
and you—
Max Willard.
We played Kill Fuck Marry,
and something about you
rubbed me the wrong way,
so I chose to kill you.
Little did I know that minutes earlier,
when Dave and Douglas and everyone else
had left the pregame in my room
to go catch the ride,
you’d lingered behind
and stolen a twenty-dollar bill off my desk,
because you saw me at a party once
and thought I looked like
“a snarly bitch.”
But right now, I don’t recognize you.
I have no idea
that your name is Max
or that you’re the same year as me
or why the faint familiarity of your face is
giving me a tentative, queasy feeling.
I don’t remember that
I once wanted you dead.
As you stand there in front of us,
your cuffed khakis clashing with your jean jacket
in a way that almost seems intentional,
the nearly full moon casts
a filter of gray light
over your skin,
giving you
a ghostly glow.
And I don’t know it yet,
but every fall to come
will make me think of you.
REFLECTIONS: FIRST GRADE
I’m the youngest
and the only blonde
in a family of redheads.
“Now where did this one come from?”
“One of these is certainly not like the others!”
I know
I wasn’t adopted
but sometimes
it feels that way.
SOPHOMORE SEPTEMBER, CONTINUED
Under the gray moonlight,
on the big hill on College Street,
you tell us you heard
that we like to smoke weed,
and you’re always on
the lookout for
“chill girls who smoke weed.”
Joanna invites you back to our dorm,
and as we walk, you and Jo go back
and forth naming people you know,
while I can’t decide whether I feel
less awkward walking in silence
beside you or in front of you.
When we get to Milliken,
Bobby Garthon, a football bro
who lives down the hall,
is yelling drunkenly up
to a fifth-floor window.
He doesn’t have any shoes on . . .
and I’m happy because
his strange presence
makes me feel less like the odd girl out.
“Never mind, fuckface!
Jo is here to save the day,”
he shouts up at the window,
slurring his words.
Bobby fist-bumps you,
decides he’s going to join us,
and then falls asleep sitting up
on the end of Joanna’s bed.
We’re about to smoke
our miniature bong, Miss Cleo,
when you pull out a pipe
that looks like
a grimy
glass
dildo.
You call it the Steam Roller.
Which is appropriate,
because that’s what you do
with your blunt confidence
as you take over our space
and ignore every word I try to say.
I open the window just to feel
like I’m contributing something.
You goad Bobby to wake up.
With a dopey smile on his face,
eyes closed, he goes, “Shh, shhh,”
and slumps his head on his shoulder.
“Wait,” you say, “do you guys even know him?”
“He lives down the hall from us,” I reply.
You don’t respond to me.
You turn your attention to Joanna,
who asks in return how you know Bobby Garthon.
“Oh, me and Bobby-boy go way back.”
You explain how you went to high school together
at an all-boys Catholic school.
“Sure did,” you say, making an irreverent
sign of the cross. “The Lord is my shepherd.”
Still, you aren’t really talking to me—
more to Joanna—so I try to look
as bored with you
as you already seem to be
with me.
I know this has an effect because,
when I ask whether you were close with Bobby,
for the first time all night,
you actually look at me.
You share that you had only one friend
in high school, Pete,
and that Pete
was the only black kid
and you were the only gay kid.
You raise your eyebrows at me,
and I think you might have noticed
how that last bit of information
just caught me off guard.
Up until then, I couldn’t really tell.
We smoke the Steam Roller some more,
Miss Cleo sits on my desk ignored,
and then it’s time for you to go.
You begin belting out,
“Ri-ISE and shi-INE
and give God that glory, Garthy!”
Finally, Bobby opens his eyes.
He shakes his head like a wet dog
and follows you out of the room.
As I close the door behind you,
I hear you in the hallway
trying to get Bobby to harmonize with you,
singing,
“Our God is an awesome God!”
REFLECTIONS: FIFTH GRADE
The song “All the Things She Said” by t.A.T.u.
has everybody at school gossiping.
It’s about two girls . . .
kissing.
My worst fears are confirmed:
girls can be gay.
FRIENDS BY DEFAULT
The next day, I walk into my room and find
you and Jo sprawled on the carpet
watching Major Lazer music videos.
Those first few weeks,
you and I tolerate each other
because we don’t seem to have a choice.
You like Jo much more than you like me,
but I’m her roommate,
and you live all the way down
the big hill in the German House,
so you’re always in our room.
By October, we’re hanging out almost every day.
We’re friends, I guess . . .
Still, we rarely spend time together
if Joanna isn’t there.
You’re starting to feel
like our third roommate,
but I’m still feeling
like the third wheel.
REFLECTIONS: SIXTH GRADE
Mom dries my hair
with a blow dryer,
my stupid blonde curls
burned away by hot air.
Now I feel girly and cute
for the family picture,
and at school,
everyone’s telling me
that Steve Girard
has a crush on me!
YOU INVITE US TO WATCH THE REAL WORLD PREMIERE
I’m not ready yet.
I just got out of the shower.
Joanna doesn’t mind, but
you mock me in a nasally voice,
“I’m Emily, and I have wet hair and glasses.”
You don’t know that I hate my hair,
my unruly blonde frizz that needs straightening.
You don’t know that I used to walk around campus
blind—barely able to see a friend’s face ten feet away.
I was afraid to wear my glasses in public
and still hadn’t learned how to put in my contacts.
But tonight I leave my dorm
with wet hair and glasses.
When we arrive at the watch party,
you settle into a spot on the floor
at the center of the room. There are
about twenty kids, all laughing and shouting
at the TV screen.
Someone hands you a bottle of tequila.
You open it with a huff of impatience.
I begin to notice that everyone
crammed in this small dorm room
is equally as absorbed by your
every move as they are
by the roommates claiming beds
in the Real World house.
In fact, everyone is here
much more for you
than for the show.
All of this comes together for me
as I sit here quietly on the edge of a bed
with Joanna, among dozens of your closest friends,
watching as they reach out and hug you
and shake your shoulder
and laugh with you.
I know this season of The Real World
is particularly significant at Middlebury
because someone who graduated last year is on it.
But I’ve forgotten
that you dated that someone—
Chris, the hot gay senior—
when we were freshmen.
Your first real boyfriend and
your first great heartbreak.
This crowded room of sophomores
is your own personal support group,
here to offer company, condolence, and tequila
as you watch your ex-boyfriend
go to clubs and parties and
hook up with random people
on reality television.
Sitting here in the corner
with my wet hair and glasses,
I look around the room
in envious awe.
These are the friends
who knew you last year,
the ones who accepted you
with open arms
when you came out to them.
They were there for you
during your first real relationship with a man
and your subsequent heartbreak,
all before I even knew you.
Every time Chris comes on-screen,
you take a pull from
the bottle of tequila,
and everyone laughs, and so do you,
but your eyes never leave the TV.
Toward the end of the episode,
Kayla, a girl with alopecia,
gets up to leave early for a night class.
She says her goodbyes.
As she steps over bodies on the floor,
you call out to her,
“Baldy! Are you leaving?”
For a moment, my brain and my ears debate,
Did he really just say that? How drunk is he?
My eyes dart to Kayla’s face,
but she barely bats an eye,
laughing, making her way over to you
for a hug goodbye
as if you called her a name as benign as
“sweetie” or “honey.”
No one seems concerned, and now
it’s clear you call her this all the time.
Maybe you aren’t spewing crude language
for the sake of entertainment.
Maybe you aren’t penetrating insecurities
and crossing lines
just for a reaction.
Maybe you’re pointing out our quirks—
the things that make us unique—
to help us own them . . .
All of us, piled on twin beds
and sprawled across the floor,
are here laughing and bonding because you decided
to own your very public heartbreak.
I’m sitting here with my wet hair and my glasses,
wondering whether there was an unspoken message
in your mockery of me earlier.
Perhaps,
when you teased me
what you meant was,
“I’m Emily, and I have wet hair and glasses . . .
and I foolishly think I’m less beautiful for it.”
REFLECTIONS: NINTH GRADE
It’s the first year of high school
and the first year
that I’m the last sibling
left in the house
alone
with Mom and Dad.
I dye my hair once
and then I can’t stop:
bleach blonde
yellow blonde
dirty blonde
light brown
dark brown
red
and all the muddled colors in between.
Just a few short hours
of lathering and rinsing,
a squirt of ammonia here,
a squeeze of hydrogen peroxide there . . .
and my roots disappear