squads probably start the party
earlier and keep it going well
after the game ends. Maybe
Heather and I have something
in common, after all.
But Leigh wouldn’t go near
the stuff, would she? Secrets
between lesbians?
Hunter’s still fussing
for attention. I go over
and take Leigh’s hand,
making sure to turn my back
to Heather. I look into
my sister’s eyes—bright
aqua, no sign of the monster
there. “Sorry. I must be
premenstrual. Come on.
I’ll introduce you to Hunter.”
I pull Leigh’s hand, then turn
back to Heather. Close
assessment of her violet-blue
eyes yields no definitive answers,
though her pupils do look dilated.
I force a wide smile.
“Guess you can come too.”
Heather takes her own
measurements, which apparently
must tally. Why not?
I lead the way to the living
room, where the setting sun
paints spectacular colors
on the west-facing window.
Hunter’s awake, waving
his chubby fists at whatever
real or imagined air fairies
have caught his eye.
When he sees me, he smiles
his great, toothless smile.
“Hey, Sweetie,” I croon.
“Meet your Auntie Leigh
and your…” [Uncle Heather].
The rest of my sentence sticks
around that idea. It takes all
my willpower (and you know
how much of that there is)
not to laugh out loud.
Heather shoots me a look
laced with understanding
as Leigh picks up Hunter.
She gives him a big kiss,
folds him into her arms
like she used to caress Jake
when he was a baby. Oh, Heather.
Isn’t he adorable? she asks.
Heather gives Hunter a top
to bottom assessment, something
like how a scientist checks out
his pet lab animal. Then she pokes
my eyes with hers. Uh-huh, she says.
He must resemble his father.
Oh Yeah, That Bites
In more ways than one. I have to admit Hunter
does look an awful lot like Brendan. I hate to
think just how much. But only two people know
the truth about Hunter’s paternity—Chase and
me. When Mom asked, I told her I wasn’t sure.
The “Father” line
on Hunter’s birth
certificate claims:
Unknown. One
day, I know, he’ll
ask about his dad. I’ll lie to him, too.
Better I look like a sleep-around
slut than he should ever find out
he is the by-product of rape.
Anyway, Leigh
doesn’t know, so
Heather doesn’t
either. She did
mean to wound
me with her jab,
but not mortally.
I decide to let
it drop. At least
for a little while.
For the Next Few Hours
Heather and I pretend
cordiality, amidst watching
Mom cook; Jake show off
his soccer trophies; and
watching Leigh play with Hunter, who
is happy to have company.
Which most definitely
stimulates not a small
amount of guilt in me.
Since my Stockton trip,
I must admit, I’ve spent
minimal time with him.
When my buzz starts
to wear off, I find an
excuse to sneak off
to my car, grab a toke,
maintain the very sharp
edge I’d honed earlier.
When I return, sucking
a mint, Heather smiles
the kind of smile that
says she might be just
the tiniest bit envious.
File that away for later use.
I actually almost think
about offering her a whiff.
But what if I’m wrong?
What if all she wants
is to double dunk me
in a reservoir of shit?
And anyway, on this
trip outside I made
a striking observation—
there is a most definite
dent in my stash, in
not quite two weeks.
Dinner Tonight
Is interesting, to say
the least. Mom made
a huge ham, scalloped
potatoes, broccoli, rolls,
with apple pie and ice
cream for dessert.
Jake keeps the small talk
rolling: Freshman English
is just plain boring…think
I’m too short to play basketball…
Maryann Slocum is such a
hot babe… I’ve heard it all.
But Leigh hasn’t. She
keeps prodding him for
details, and when he
turns red and quits giving
them, Mom is happy to
fill in the details she knows.
Heather and I pick at
our plates, hoping no
one will notice. But
Scott does. Something
wrong with the ham?
he asks, drawing much
too much attention away
from Jake and toward us.
“Nope. It’s great,” I say.
“I just ate too much while
we were cooking.” The
explanation seems to work.
Heather chooses to flirt.
It’s delicious, she cons,
batting her thick lashes,
but I’m trying to lose
a few pounds. Sure, off
an already flawless figure.
Will someone please tell
her she’s crazy? pleads
Leigh. Then things get
really creepy, when she
turns to Heather. You’re
perfect, exactly as you are.
Mom and Scott roll
with it. And it sails
completely over Jake’s
head. Mouth stuffed
with cheesy potatoes,
he mumbles something
that sounds vaguely like
Perfect doesn’t cover it.
He’s in high school
already. How can he be
so dense? And has no one
told him about Leigh before?
[You tell him.] Luckily
Hunter starts fussing,
before I can volunteer
the information. Wrong
time, wrong place, much
to Bree’s chagrin.
Leigh jumps up to pacify
the baby while Heather
goes to stick her finger
down her throat and puke
up the few calories that
have managed to make
it past her lips. Scott
gets up to read the paper.
Mom and Jake go to
do the dishes. Lucky me.
I wander outside to do
you know exactly what.
I Won’t Even Try
To sleep tonight.
I’ve spent all day
climbing
to anxious heights,
me and my buddy
the glass monster,
reaching
for a better buzz,
a taller head, one
more little whiff
(what could it hurt?),
finally cresting
steep cliffs of speed,
rising above mundane,
towering over ordinary.
No sense of fear,
I sit in my room,
sketching beneath
pale lamplight.
No sense of foreboding,
I listen to Leigh
and Heather giggling
behind the too-thin
walls, doing
whatever
girlfriends do. At
last, they fall silent.
I immerse myself
in charcoal portraiture,
not even stressing about
the fact that it might
be a while before I have
time to sketch again,
or that I have most
definitely embarked on
a major bender.
But I Have
And not only that, but in
hindsight it probably wasn’t a great
time for me to jump back
into the arms of the monster.
Not that there is a good time
to do that, and damn it all, you
know what they say about hindsight.
I mean, when I went to Stockton,
there were no plans for Hunter’s
baptism, and a visit from my dad
was completely implausible,
especially at the exact same time
Leigh finally decided to schedule
one, after many distant months.
Throw in a bulimic lesbian
cheerleader with an aversion
to me, my dad’s latest girlfriend,
a little brother with a major crush,
parents intent on a perfect weekend,
a pending new job, and what is left
of an eight ball of incredible speed,
and just about anything can happen.
And if Bree has her warped way,
just about anything will.
It Is Late Friday Afternoon
When my dad pulls into our driveway,
no call to warn us of his imminent
arrival. Up till now, the day
has been relatively uneventful
except for a quick exchange
between Heather and me.
I noticed your light was on
this morning around three,
she says. Up all night, huh?
I shrug. “A lot of it.
Something about the bedsprings
creaking next door.”
We left it at that and went on
about our business. Which is
a good thing. Sleep-deprived, brain
sizzling on yet another toke, my
thought processes are jumbled.
I’m not a worthy opponent.
The plan is a birthday dinner
at our favorite Italian bistro.
But dinner for six (plus room
for an infant seat) becomes suddenly
complicated when Dad’s “new” ‘98
Montero wheezes up the driveway.
Otto barks, announcing a stranger’s
arrival. Dad sits in his car a good
long while, no doubt ascertaining
his safety. Truth be told, Otto—
a hundred-pound black sable German
shepherd—would probably eat
Dad for lunch. I know he’d love
to take a big bite out of Dad’s new
girlfriend, Linda Sue.
But locked safely away behind
six-foot chain-link, he won’t
get the chance. Poor dog.
Once the two of them decide
Otto can’t scale the fence,
Dad and Linda Sue slither
from the SUV. They stand
in the driveway, checking out
the view and ogling the house.
Five minutes of no sound
but barking, five final minutes
of peace before certain chaos.
Jake Jumps to His Feet
Runs to the window. Who
the heck is that?
Mom joins him. Can you
believe he didn’t have
the decency to call?
He? Who he? insists Jake.
Will someone please tell me?
Scott starts toward the door.
Did you think he would
suddenly learn manners?
Jake’s face flares, cranberry
red over freckles. Ahem! Who…?
Heather peeks over Jake’s
head. I don’t know, but he sure
looks like a shark out of water.
Fine! I’ll just go ask him
myself! Jake follows Scott
out the door. I glance in
Leigh’s direction. Her face
is white as fresh fallen snow.
Oh my god, she says. He’s so
old, so…so…decrepit.
I Have to Admit
He looks faded,
travel-worn, threadbare.
High.
I can tell,
without getting close,
that he’s sweating
speed.
Linda Sue doesn’t look
the part of a serious
meth user. Only serious
pursuit
of my dad (don’t ask
me why—who can say
what evil pheromones
must have been at work!)
could have dropped
her into his personal
hell
and kept her there,
smoldering at his side.
True love, between
a fairy and a troll,
bent on
proving he still has
what it takes to attract
someone ten years younger.
And both, at this moment,
look on the verge of
crashing.
Okay, That’s Bad
Even totally glazed, I know
Dad will be asking to share
what’s left of my stash,
which makes me angry. Pissed.
Relieved. Some deep down straight
part of me wants to shake the monster.
Maybe I can if I quit right now.
I’ll worry about it later. Right
now I’m worried about Leigh,
whose eyes are wide with emotion—
a strange mix of hate, love, and apathy.
If Mom is smart, she won’t let Dad
inside. But ever the hostess, Mom
would be hard-pressed to dismiss
even a troll and his fairy
without first offering refreshments.
As they all start toward the door,
Leigh’s body language changes
from curious to volatile. Every
inch of her tenses like a cheetah,
ready to pounce. Heather notices,
goes over to Leigh, strokes her hair,
kisses her lightly on the mouth.
Don’t take the offensive.
Don’t give away your power.
Except for the Kiss Thing
My respect for Heather
swells. I instruct myself
to remember that advice
whenever I happen to sense
confrontation, or feel the
urge to turn tail and run.
Today confrontation
is immediate, the instant
Dad lurches through
the front door. Hi, honey,
I’m home. The joke falters.
And then he catches sight
of Leigh. Oh my God.
It can’t be my little Layla.
You really grew into
a beauty…. He pauses,
waiting for
some response.
Nothing. Can I have a hug?
Out come Leigh’s claws.
I don’t hug strangers.
Who the hell are you?
Her face contorts, a
subconscious effort to
make itself less beautiful.
It fails. I steel myself
for a lob of curses, but
Heather refuses to let
the verbal battle begin.
She walks over to Dad,
extends a hand, and tries
(obviously so) not to inhale
too deeply. I can smell
Dad from across the room.
The girl is brave. Really
brave. Hello, Mr. Snow. I’m
Leigh’s partner, Heather.
Dad checks her out too
long. The cheerleader
facade has him completely
confused. Uh. Oh, yeah,
right. Partner, huh?
Well, knock me over with a feather.
I told you once before
my dad was the King
of Cliché. And when
it comes to tact, I’m
pretty sure it isn’t listed
in his internal dictionary.
Linda Sue
Stands next to Dad, mouse
brown hair hanging in long
knobby ropes well past her
shoulders. Somewhere beneath
a thick sheet of makeup hides
a quite pretty woman.
After a silent minute or two
it becomes clear Dad isn’t
much for introductions either.
Finally his new attachment
says, Hello. I’m Linda Sue.
Sorry to barge in on you—
Dad interrupts, in a majorly
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