I just hate when they argue.
Because it’s usually about me.
More and More Lately
It seems like Mom makes
a point of staying gone when
Daddy’s home. She golfs. Plays
tennis. Spends hours at the gym.
Sometimes she visits a friend
in Monterey. I assume a female
friend, but wouldn’t put it past Mom
to have a thing going on the side.
Pretty sure she doesn’t have a bi
side, but whatever floats her lead-
bottomed boat, as long as it means
she’s hanging out anywhere but here.
I love when it’s just Daddy and me.
Usually it’s here in SC, but once
in a while, I’ll go into the city,
spend the weekend with him there.
San Francisco has to be the most
beautiful place in the world, with
its stunning old homes, stacked
like Legos on its incredibly steep
hills. There are museums. Galleries.
The symphony and the ballet.
Daddy has taught me to appreciate
all of these things, and not give
a sideways glance at SF’s uglier
underbelly. Homeless people.
Panhandlers. Drug dealers, pimps,
and Tenderloin freaks, often only
a street or two removed from
the thriving business district
and the vibrant waterfront tourist
traffic. A city of enigmas.
I like enigmas. I mean, face
it. Semi-absent father. Absent-
for-the-moment sister. Totally
absent mother, not a whole lot
of affection, but plenty of time
all on my own, I’m a walking,
talking poster child for early
promiscuity. Aren’t I?
Well, Not Exactly
See, between the longtime local
hype about AIDS and a real-time
example of how rotten young
mothering can make a person
(Mom was only nineteen when she
had Kyra; I followed a little over three
years later), not to mention how truly
disgusting venereal diseases
look in those movies they show
you in school, I have not been
in a hurry to let just any guy
pluck the rosebud. True love first,
I’ve always said, and that has
been enough to keep me a virgin.
Up until now. I mean, technically
I’m still a virgin at fifteen.
But I’m also in love, and I’m pretty
sure Lucas loves me, too. We’ve been
skin-on-skin. I just haven’t let him
talk me into “all the way in.”
That’s Liable to Change
Any time. I’ve been holding out,
wanting to be certain that he loves
me for more than my bod. But how
can you really know that?
We’ve been together almost
a year. He’s a senior at Kirby,
the same private college prep school
that prepped Kyra for Vassar.
She was valedictorian, of course.
I take AP classes at Empire. Less
pressure. Less having to live up
to valedictorian expectations.
Lucas and I met at a Kirby honor
choir performance last spring. Kyra
sang two solos. Lucas stood in the back
row, mostly faking the words. Once
in a while he actually belted out a few
in a deep, mellow bass. I couldn’t
help but stare. And not at Kyra.
Lucas stole my attention completely.
I mean, he’s freaking beautiful.
His hair falls, a lush gold cascade,
well past his shoulders. It frames
the steep angles of his face perfectly.
His eyes are green, but almost
clear, like cool emerald pools.
You want to dive deep down
into them and swim awhile.
That first night, after the sheet
music was all stored away,
I went looking for Kyra and cookies,
not necessarily in that order.
I found her, talking with Lucas.
And for not even close to the first
time in my life, the little green
monster sank its fangs into me.
Kyra wasn’t interested in Lucas.
Her taste in men runs toward PhD
candidates (total geeks). But I
wasn’t sure Lucas knew that.
So I took dead aim at making
darn sure he did, pushing straight
in between them. “Hey, sis,” I said,
“Mom is looking for you.”
That Was Mostly a Lie
But it worked. Kyra kisses
Mom’s butt almost as much
as Mom kisses hers. She took
off with a simple, Excuse me.
I turned to Lucas. “Good
performance. You’ve got
a great voice… .” Better
eyes, but I didn’t go there.
His smile revealed major bucks
in dental work. Yeah. At least
when I can remember the words.
So … you’re Kyra’s little sister?
The “little” made me wince.
Of course, I was only fourteen
at the time. Kyra’s eighteenth
birthday was sneaking up.
Whatever. I had to play nice.
“That’s me. Kyra’s little sister.
But you can call me Whitney
if you want. It’s shorter.”
Something about the tone
of my voice tipped him off.
Ooh. Struck a nerve, huh?
Well, little sis, no worries.
He gave a long, assessing look.
You measure up okay. Besides …
He lowered his voice. Just between
you and me, your sister’s a bitch.
O-M-G! No one, and I mean no
one, had ever told me that before.
I studied his face, trying to find
a hint of insincerity. Couldn’t.
Something sparked between us.
Maybe it was as simple as him
thinking my sister was a bitch.
Sharing my opinion. Something
others rarely do. And not only
sharing it, but not being afraid to
voice such an unpopular sentiment.
“Just between you and me, I agree.”
Okay, Very Likely
He saw how much I needed
to hear that, and maybe he figured
it might be a way into my panties,
and maybe it will lead to that eventually.
Maybe even soon. I’m not really sure
how or why I’ve held out this long,
except that protecting my virginity
is one thing I can accomplish
all on my own. Won’t give it away
too cheaply. Not even to Lucas,
whose touch simply electrifies me.
That night, as the reception broke up
and we started toward our families,
our hands touched. The energy
was pure magic. He felt it too,
turned back to me immediately.
His smile was lupine. Ravenous.
I needed to get to know this guy,
and so when he said, Uh … don’t
suppose you’d give me your number?
I recited it once. Repeated it.
Asked him to repeat it to me,
a feat that he managed easily.
H
e remembered it too.
It Kind of Surprised Me
When he called a couple of days
later. Not sure why. I guess it’s
because I always set myself up
for disappointment. Not that time.
Hey, he said, it’s Lucas, from
Kirby…. Like I wouldn’t have
remembered! I was thinking about
a day trip to Big Sur. Interested?
Like I wouldn’t have been!
But I didn’t want him to know
my temp had just flared well over
one-oh-one. “Uh, maybe. When?”
I don’t suppose you could, like,
ditch school tomorrow? At
my long pause, he laughed. Okay.
How about Saturday, then?
That gave me two whole days
to make up a believable excuse.
No way would Mom let me go
to Big Sur with a guy I just met.
Okay, she wouldn’t have let me
go with any guy. Not that I cared.
Getting away with stuff was a well-
loved hobby. And even if it wasn’t,
I would have done just about
anything to spend the day with
someone who made me feel
important. Pretty, maybe. Alive.
Believe it or not, my mom made
it easy. I’m playing golf with Cyn
tomorrow, she told me on Friday.
And we’re doing dinner afterward.
You’ll be okay here alone, right?
She barely even heard my ramble
about going over to Trish’s for
he day. Great. I’ll be home late.
Just like that, my Saturday had
opened up. And, very much like
my wandering mother, I was oh-
so-ready to go out and play.
We Played That Saturday
Lucas’s silver Eclipse Spyder
seemed to maneuver those
Highway 1 curves all by itself.
Good thing, considering how
buzzed we got. Okay, it wasn’t
the first time I’d smoked weed,
but I’d rarely smoked myself
so close to outer space before.
Finally Lucas pulled well off
the road, parked. C’mon.
I want to show you something.
He took my hand, led me along
a narrow trail to a steep rock
wall. No way could you climb
up from the front, but around back,
little ledges allowed access to the top.
Despite the residual morning mist,
the view of the crest-and-crash
Pacific literally stole my breath
away. “Insane,” I managed.
We sat, lost in our buzz and the roar
of the sea, and when he slipped
his arm around my shoulder, it
felt right. No, better than right.
It felt necessary. He wanted
to kiss me, I knew that. And
I wanted to let him, but I was
afraid I’d look like an idiot.
I’d only ever kissed two other
guys, in an eighth-grade game
of Truth or Dare. Not real kisses.
Not even real practice kisses.
Still, when he touched my face,
it rotated easily toward his. And
when our eyes locked, I dove into
those emerald pools and our first
kiss was an effortless float.
All the love I’d ever thirsted
for swelled, symphonic. Finally,
too soon, he pulled away. Wow.
A Man of Few Words
Most definitely, but I didn’t
need words then. I needed
another kiss, which he gave
me, and another. And another.
Without asking for more. Even
though by the end of that make-out
session, my body was saying, “Please,
more.” And it has many times since.
A few days ago Daddy was in the city,
and Mom was off at some fashion
show. I asked Lucas to come over.
We were making out hot and heavy.
He started to unbutton my blouse.
I let him. And when he unzipped
my jeans, I helped him help me
out of them. Snared by the heat
of his kiss, I barely noticed when
he slipped out of his own Levis.
Skin urgent against skin, only
panties and boxers between us,
I was ready to shed that final thin
barrier, allow him access to the most
private part of me, when familiar faces
floated past the window. Not-quite busted!
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
Faces
I wear many faces,
some way too old
to fit the girl glued
to the back of them.
I
keep my faces in a box,
stashed inside of me.
It’s murky in there,
overcast with feelings I
don’t
allow anyone to see.
Not that anyone cares
enough to go looking.
No one wants to
know
what bothers me. Too
hung up on their own
problems. Sometimes
I think I have to see
the real
Ginger, so I open
the box, search inside.
But no matter how hard
I look, I can’t find
me.
Ginger
SOP
Standard operating procedure.
Iris is yelling again. At the phone.
At the guy on the other end.
At what he’s done to her world—
her totally messed-up, totally self-
centered piece of the universe.
Wish she would just shut the fuck
up. Hang up. Forget Hal or Bill
or Joe or Frank or whatever this
one’s name is. I can’t remember
them all. Only a couple of names,
a face or two. A few other body
parts I’ll never be able to forget.
All because of Iris’s “womanly
needs.” That’s what she calls
her overinflated sex drive. Why
can’t she stop thinking about
herself and act like a mom?
She could start by letting us call
her Mom. But, no, she insists on
Iris. Says it makes her feel pretty.
Not sure she was ever really
pretty, but if she was, too
many babies and too much
hard living has sucked her dry.
Too much, too many. That
describes Iris pretty damn well.
Too much booze. Too many
smokes. Way too many
pills. Speed. Downers.
Everything in between. Any-
thing to shut off and shut
up what’s left of her brain.
A Door Slams
Guess she’s done on the phone.
Done with another Mr. Wrong.
Thirty seconds, she’ll be in here,
crying. Wanting me to say, “Don’t
cry, Iris. Everything will be okay.”
And, you know, maybe it will.
“Okay” is all in how you look at
things. Compared to some bum
on the street, or some starving
kid in Africa, we’re okay, living
with our grandma, who manages
to feed Iris and us six kids.
Six kids, five different fathers.
Only Maryann and I share one,
not that we know one damn thing
about him, except he’s an army
lifer who gave us his face (neither
of us takes after our mother) and his
last name. Guess Iris actually
married him. Wonder if she
ever officially unmarried him.
Yes, no, or maybe so, the other
kids—Porter, Honey, Pepper,
and Sandy—all have different
fathers, but share the same last
name. Belcher, just like Gram’s.
Our first names come courtesy
of Iris’s infatuation with ancient
black-and-white TV reruns. Ginger
and Mary Ann were characters on
Gilligan’s Island. Porter and
Sandy were on a show about
a dolphin named Flipper. Pepper
was Police Woman, and Honey
West was a private investigator,
cop, or other woman-in-danger.
Anyway, we’ve been at Gram’s
place in California for seven months,
eating every day, sleeping warm.
But I don’t know how long it will
last. Iris gets along with her mother
about how she gets along with her men.
Thirty Seconds Is Up
Iris doesn’t bother to knock.
She slaps against the door,
pushes her way into the room
that I share with Mary Ann, Honey,
and Pepper. Four girls, two
beds. Luckily, only I’m here now.
Iris tosses herself across my bed,
lands facedown against rumpled
blankets. Bastard! Why are they all
such bastards? She sobs, and her
body shakes like she’s got the DTs.
Like she’d ever suffer through detox.
I should feel sorry for her, I guess.
But I don’t. I can’t. She makes
me sick. Maybe because I know
I could turn out just like her. No way
to dig myself out of this grave for
the living. No way I’ve found yet.
I try to dig up a little sympathy.
“He wasn’t such a great guy
anyway, Iris.” He was nasty.
But she doesn’t think so. No one’s
p-perf-fect. I thought we
were doing just f-f-fine.
Anger punches me suddenly,
hard, little blows to the gut.
“Maybe he found out how you
make your … uh … living.
Not many guys will put up
with someone who screws
other guys for money. And if
they do, then all they’re after
is free booze and an easy lay.”
She jerks upright, grabs me
by the shoulders, shakes till
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