Be Straight with Me

by Emily Dalton

  Her hair is jet-black.

  She’s got an unsettling tone of indifference in her voice.

  She’s distant and inaccessible in a way I don’t quite understand.

  Helpful words come out of her mouth,

  but her tone and demeanor don’t seem to match up.

  She drinks often and a lot.

  She always seems to be at the center of the party,

  like a little dark-haired ringleader conducting the revelry

  with a jug of Carlo Rossi hanging off one finger.

  She’s one of the best, most hardworking housekeepers.

  She’s always staying late in the laundry room

  or offering to help out on the miscellaneous jobs

  no one else wants to do.

  She plays Adele and Avett Brothers songs out loud on her phone

  and wears crop tops during work,

  neither of which is allowed,

  but she gets away with it because she works so hard.

  Val loves little kids and refers to them as “boodles.”

  She has bizarre nicknames for almost all of the upper management,

  like Paula, the breakfast chef, who she refers to as “DJ Paula D.”

  She often speaks in a squeaky, high-pitched voice

  and uses made-up words to express her emotions,

  like “ah-gew!” and “derpa derpa!”

  and her laugh is as infectious as her dance moves.

  While Val can be quiet and reserved at times,

  her true self is silly, kind, and a little bit rambunctious.

  She can make me laugh the same way Max can.

  She refers to boobs as “Grand Tetons,”

  and whenever she looks at herself in a mirror,

  she’ll always say, to no one in particular,

  “Ooh, who dat babe?”

  She loves to dance and becomes obsessed

  with any song I play for her

  that makes her want to put on her cowboy boots

  and stomp around the bar in town.

  A FRIEND WHO IS A GIRL

  On an afternoon in late June,

  Val and I get off work early

  and take some beers down

  to the pond and go fly-fishing.

  The walk from our staff cabin

  takes about fifteen minutes down

  a winding dirt road and doesn’t provide nearly

  enough time to explain my love life

  when she asks, but I try.

  As I tell her about you,

  fishing rod propped over my shoulder,

  Val listens intently, warmly:

  nodding, laughing, questioning, comforting

  at all the right moments.

  In the rowboat on the pond,

  we crack open the PBRs,

  and I tell her all about my

  three boyfriends from high school—

  how Franklin was nerdy but made me laugh

  until my stomach hurt,

  how Ryan was a rebellious guitar-playing

  pothead who threatened to kill himself

  when I broke up with him, and how

  Simon was a popular pretty-boy jock with

  an unusual affinity for mushy-gushy romance.

  On the walk back, Val tells me

  about the guys she’s been with—

  not many and nothing serious—and how

  it’s hard for her to trust people

  because of her parents’ messy divorce.

  What I mistook at first

  for indifference in Val

  is actually gentle, patient compassion—

  the kind that makes me feel hopeful

  that I’ve just made a new lifelong friend.

  We didn’t catch any fish today, but

  it was a perfect afternoon of fishing.

  GIRLS ARE CONFUSING

  Val shows affection through

  innocuous physical contact—

  a hand on the shoulder,

  a soft pat on the back, that kind of thing.

  And if she knows someone well enough,

  she’ll sometimes sneak-attack with a “salmon slap,”

  a flat hand slapping between the thighs like a fish.

  For most of the summer, Val’s been having a thing

  with one of the older fishing guides,

  but after a night of drinking,

  she’ll often find her way into my bed

  and snuggle into my side.

  On certain occasions,

  at a rowdy barn party,

  or in the backseat on a ride

  home from the bars in town,

  Val will pull my face close to hers

  and kiss me with tongue.

  It’s playful

  and ends in hysterical laughter,

  never escalating

  like it did with us . . .

  But sometimes I wonder

  why she seems so aggressive,

  almost as if she’s mad at me.

  BOYS ARE TERRIBLE

  On a Saturday morning in late July

  my eyes open, and my thoughts

  stagger and crash into each other

  where am i

  i don’t know

  what happened last night . . .

  why am i naked

  why am i fully

  naked

  The underside of the bunk above me—

  a faded blue mattress—sags

  between crooked wooden slats;

  the dark green polyester rug is littered

  with a month’s worth of clinging dirt and hay;

  and a dreadful pile of inside-out clothes

  is abandoned next to the bed.

  I jerk my head to face the musty body lying

  next to me under this gross, scratchy red blanket.

  Through the dim morning light, I see

  the ruddy complexion and the dark stubble,

  and I begin to realize what I’ve done.

  Henry is one of those guys on the staff

  that all the girls know to stay away from.

  He’s a wrangler

  who tried to flirt with Val

  at the beginning of the summer.

  I thought I hated him, so

  how the hell did I get here?

  I’m late for Saturday turnovers.

  I’ve blacked out before but NEVER like this,

  and as I frantically collect my clothes,

  Henry rubs his eyes and tells me

  he doesn’t remember anything either.

  I want to scream and throw things at him

  until he does remember what happened—

  until he gives me an explanation for why

  I woke up naked in his bed—

  but I have to get out of there

  because I’m already so late for work.

  I run back to my bunk, through the

  backyards of the staff cabins, and

  I think I’m going to throw up.

  For the next few days,

  I can barely bring myself to look at Henry

  let alone demand more answers from him.

  He might not have more answers.

  And even if he does, then what?

  I just take his word?

  And now Val is buying me

  a pregnancy test because

  I messed up

  my birth control pills

  and Laura is sacrificing

  a day off to drive me four hours to the nearest

  Planned Parenthood for STD tests and

  why
/>
  am

  I

  so

  stupid?

  MY HEART IS POUNDING

  and my hands are shaking

  with nerves as I dial your number.

  It’s ringing, and

  an uncomfortable nostalgia

  passes through me.

  I wish I was calling

  to tell you what happened

  as my best friend

  and nothing more,

  but instead, I’m bracing myself

  for disbelief, anger, and

  accusations of betrayal.

  When you answer,

  I choke on air, realizing I’ve been

  holding my breath

  since I picked up the phone.

  I explain everything about Henry

  in short, panicked breaths.

  After I’ve finished talking,

  there’s silence on your end.

  It’s broken by a deep exhale.

  “God, Emily. That really sucks.”

  I hang my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

  Before I can respond, you speak again.

  “I wish I could be there with you.”

  And even when I admit to you that

  I have no way of knowing whether I was

  an unconscious drunk girl or

  an insane, blacked-out drunk girl,

  you comfort me and make me laugh.

  “We’ve all seen Sexy Emily

  trying to do her Sexy Face . . .”

  I pause and take a deep breath,

  unsure how to pivot from worries

  of sleeping with Henry to worries

  of sleeping with you.

  “I was wondering whether you would

  do me a huge favor . . .

  and go get tested, too.”

  The moment I ask it,

  I regret it—

  turning this whole thing

  around on you, who’s done

  nothing wrong, while I’m here,

  being reckless, screwing up,

  and basing irrational fear

  on a stereotype.

  But in your answer, your tone

  is gentle and understanding in a way

  that makes me deeply grateful

  for how well you know me.

  “I can definitely do that for you, Em.

  I love you, okay?”

  And my heart swells and hurts,

  because I’m suddenly and intensely

  missing you more

  than I have all summer

  and now

  I’m falling in love with you

  all over again,

  as a best friend

  and as everything else.

  FOUR DAYS BEFORE I LEAVE FOR PRAGUE

  On one of my last nights, Val and I splurge

  on a bottle of champagne

  and sit in the window frame

  of the old barn hayloft,

  drinking to negative test results

  and a great summer.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving me this week,”

  Val squeals, half hugging me.

  I lean into her, and she tugs my ponytail.

  Aside from my mother and sister, I’ve never felt

  so comfortable being affectionate

  with another female.

  I take a swig and tug her ponytail in return.

  She’s staring back at me in a way

  that makes me hasten to look away

  and say something else.

  “Are you going to take my bed when I’m gone?” I ask.

  She takes a big pull and leans back.

  “No. That’s so depressing. But

  Madeline said I could stay in her bed . . .”

  She glances sidelong at me,

  and for a quick moment,

  I wonder

  whether I’m supposed to feel jealous.

  PRAGUE METRONOME

  I’m in Prague

  standing near the water in Old Town.

  I look up and see it for the first time—

  the giant Metronome up on the hill

  —across the Vltava River,

  an enormous red pendulum anchored to

  a bionic steel-grated triangle, swinging lazily

  from one side to the other and back again.

  I cross the bridge and ascend the stone staircase,

  which stretches down the hill like two massive arms

  cradling a bushel of evergreens.

  The Metronome sits on a gigantic concrete pedestal.

  A huge skatepark extends all the way

  to the trees hundreds of yards back.

  Skaters swoop and grind,

  their wheels echoing over the concrete pavilion.

  Now I’m close enough to touch the timekeeper,

  but its arm is no longer moving.

  I sit on the cement wall directly under

  the big bright red metronome,

  dangling my feet over the edge.

  I move back and forth through

  my thoughts and memories,

  searching for answers,

  or at least the right questions.

  I gaze out over the city with a visceral clarity,

  as though I’m Emerson’s transparent eyeball,

  focusing in on one of the best shots it’s ever captured.

  The evening sky reflects the colors of hot coals on the river.

  Arched baroque viaducts rise regally out of the water.

  Gothic spires stretch heavenward,

  puncturing the clouds like pokers in the embers.

  And green pine branch silhouettes brush

  the bottom corners of the horizon.

  At the top of my periphery,

  a power line hangs over the hill on which I sit,

  slack with hundreds of tossed sneakers.

  It’s nice to imagine the lives

  that were lived in each pair—

  how each pair had once been new,

  never worn or walked in,

  and how many different steps

  they had all taken before finally

  coming to rest, tangled like bolas

  around the power line in Letná Park.

  I think I’m falling in love

  with the contradictions

  of this postmodern wasteland vantage

  rising up over the skyline of Prague

  on the crest of this big hill.

  I look down at my feet and make a vow

  to throw my ratty old black Converse sneakers

  up with all the rest of the decaying footwear

  hanging in effigy over the power line.

  I love my ratty old Converse sneakers

  more than any other pair of shoes I’ve ever owned.

  They’re ripping at the seams,

  stained with red paint,

  tattered, and smelly—

  but they’re still wearable,

  and they still fit me perfectly,

  so I can’t bring myself

  to get rid of them.

  Until I first looked up and saw

  the line of tossed shoes at the Metronome,

  I had intended to keep them forever.

  FROM PRAGUE TO BERLIN

  It’s only five hours by bus to visit you.

  I lean my head against the window and admire

  the horizon, glowing bright pink with sunset.

  Just a few hours later,

  my heart is racing, and I can barely keep

  the dopey smile off my face as I
step off

  the bus and scan the empty lot.

  We spot each other under

  the fluorescent street lamps

  and both quicken our paces.

  I’m pleasantly surprised when

  you immediately go in for the kiss.

  On the U-Bahn back to your apartment

  we cuddle into each other, talking and laughing, and

  this is the first time since arriving

  in Europe two weeks ago

  that I truly feel at ease.

  The next day, I’m standing in front

  of Fernsehturm Berlin—the tall, skinny TV Tower

  constructed in 1960s communist Germany

  as one big middle finger to the cathedral-dominated skyline.

  Legend has it, when the sun hits the dome

  at the top of the Telespargel

  (TV-asparagus, as it is comically called),

  the light creates the shape of a cross,

  otherwise known as “the Pope’s Revenge.”

  I do the classic

  Let me stand here and do this

  so it looks like I’m touching the tip!

  while you and your roommates,

  Olivia and Charlotte, laugh

  at how off I am with my aim.

  Then we get on a boat that takes us

  down the Spree River.

  The tour is in German, so you whisper

  brief translations to me

  as we sail through the city

  holding hands, newly in love

  and newly in Europe.

  AT NIGHT

  We take some Molly

  and spend most of the evening

  getting lost on trains, ending up

  at the food stands lining the bridge above Alexanderplatz.

  Olivia and Charlotte devour döner kebabs

  while we buy lollipops from a Rasta man

  who’s laughing at our massive pupils.

  As we leave the food stands and walk

  along the overpass, you and I fall behind

  the girls and into our giggle world—

  extra giggly tonight.

  It’s a wasted night,

  a wasted tax on our melting brains,

  and a waste of a lot of train-ride fare,

  but somehow you make the trash

  feel like treasure.

  As we get closer to your apartment,

  just a few more blocks,

  you make a casual comment

  about spending the rest of our lives together.

  This makes me smile.

  “So we’re not going to sleep

  with other people then, right?”

  The stutter in your step and the look on your face

  throw me into slow motion, an unraveling

  that fast-forwards and rewinds in all directions.