by Radclyffe
I kept my head down, sprinkling chili powder on the orange Mamá had cut for me, as a boy in jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt crossed the grass. If I let my hair fall in my face I could watch him through my bangs. He was cute, the kind of cute I’d wanna do something with, and for me that was something, since guys had never “done it for me,” like my tío would say.
Wasn’t that I hated guys or anything, fish and bicycles and all that mierda. Sometimes at my old school I got behind the bleachers with one of them and let them touch my chiches, to be nice, so the other guys wouldn’t go so hard on them the next time they started up in the locker room. It wasn’t like I minded, but it was a little like letting my old babysitter, Savanna, the one in beauty school, try out her new eyeliners on me. Nice being touched, but nothing that “rings my chimes” (something else my tío says; he’s really in love with my tía, thirty-five years, so he talks about that kind of thing a lot).
The boy in the sweatshirt passed in and out of the shadows. He had dark hair, almost black, so blue eyes, of course. Every gringo in the gringo town had light hair or light eyes or both. I went back to shaking rock salt and chili powder on my orange and didn’t look up until he sat down near me in the grass.
He put his back against the tree trunk, pulled a blue water bottle out of his backpack, and drank it in one swallow. I was impressed. Couldn’t help it. Mamá had bought me a red one at the Target—all these gringas carry them, she told me—and even though I hadn’t filled it since that morning, it was still two-thirds full in my bag. Half of why Mamá got me hooked on cayenne and poblanos was to make sure I drank my water.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He took a brown bag out of his backpack and set it on the grass. “Eating lunch.”
“Here?”
“Is that a problem?”
His voice cracked a little, a quick pitch change and back like he’d gotten a cold for half a second. I couldn’t help staring, couldn’t help noticing that I couldn’t find his Adam’s apple, that his hands and feet were a little small, that he drank so much water so fast, like I’d heard guys like him ended up doing if they took testosterone.
He looked right at me, half smiled and nodded once. It was a respect kind of nod, like I’d just kicked his ass at chess or something. I’d clocked him, and he knew it. I wondered what his name had been as a girl.
“Say what you want about me,” he said. “Word of advice, though. The gay jokes, not gonna fly around here.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
“We’re so politically correct it kills us, so I’d keep it to yourself if you’ve got a problem. Trust me.”
I couldn’t help laughing at him. I always looked good and straight to anybody straight, but the other tortilleras and playos always made me. “You kidding?” I said.
He cocked his head a little, and I wondered if he was reading something in the way I wore my lipstick heavier and my hair messier than the other girls. Maybe he saw it in how I didn’t wear blush or how my nail polish was chipped five days’ worth, because straight girls never let it get like that.
Or maybe it was none of that, and he just saw in me what los playos always picked up, like a few stray threads off the same scarf. I meant to show him just those, but how he looked at me made me feel like he knew about the Danielas and Nikkis and Reynas. I’d left them behind, yes and no, because even the ones who wore baseball caps and boxers wouldn’t go out anywhere our mothers might see, not with each other, and not with lipstick girls like me either.
“Got it,” he said.
“Somebody’s gonna say something about it. Might as well be me.”
“Ever think that by saying something you’re making it worse?” He threw the empty water bottle in his backpack and pulled out another one, blue plastic, same as the first one. He drank half of it before he even ate anything.
“Thirsty?” I asked.
He finished it, threw it in his backpack, took out another one. “Always.”
He came back the next day, sat against the tree, drank his weight in water before he even touched his lunch. I watched him, not caring that the rudeness would’ve made Mamá pinch the back of my arm and tell me that good girls didn’t stare.
He finished off the second one. “Ever see a doctor for that?”
“For what?” I asked.
“Chip on your shoulder,” he said. “It’ll give you back problems if you’re not careful.”
“So will carrying around four water bottles.”
“I have to. I already fill them twice a day. If I didn’t, I’d have eight with me.”
Some wind tore through the tree, and the branches rained a few leaves. A couple of the wet ones caught in my hair and on my sweater. A laugh bubbled out of me like the fizzy off a bottle of Jarritos. Those leaves looked like peels off a gold orange.
“Am I gonna sound like a jerk if I say you’re pretty when you smile?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”
I couldn’t get rid of him after that. People stared. Could’ve been bad stares, couldn’t just been stares. Could’ve been about him, or me. Every chance I got, I stared back until they got too nervioso to keep looking.
After a week of lunches under that tree, he asked about the orange I brought every day.
“What are you putting on there?” he asked.
“It’s chili powder.” I cleared a bunch of the leaves from the grass so I could scoot a little closer. They were thick on the ground that day. “Wanna try it?”
“I’m not so good with spice,” he said. “My cousin almost finished me off with a jalapeño.”
“A jalapeño? That’s as far as you got?”
He picked one of those little wet leaves out of my bangs, tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear.
Las tortilleras did what we had to do. Living. Adapting like moths turning brown to match trees. We made jokes so nobody else could, or if they did anyway, so we could say we did first. We kissed each other in the dark like our bodies couldn’t take the light.
His hand strayed a little closer to mine in the grass until we touched different sides of the same leaf.
I ran my finger over the sliced orange. It shined with sugar and juice, shimmered with those little flecks of chili powder. I spread it over my mouth and kissed him, his breath catching at the heat and bite of those few bits of chili powder and rock salt shared between our mouths, sparse like stars over cities. It might’ve made him want more one day. I couldn’t leave him thinking jalapeños were all there was. He had to know that la especia came in as many kinds as girls.
He kissed me back, taking the spice of my lips and tongue. They stared. Or I think they did. I don’t know for sure. I didn’t look back.
Graduation
Brighton Bennett
The night before graduation had a special feel to it.
The fun of senior week was over. The raunchy, alcohol-filled nights at the bars and overactive daytime activities with friends had been replaced by the arrival of parents and the necessity to take showers and be presentable in public.
After the parents had been deposited at hotels in town, the fun began. The corner of campus that housed all the upperclassman dorms hummed with energy. Balcony doors had been thrown open in every unit while laughter and music floated from apartment to apartment.
Rachel and her roommates made their way through the building, chatting as they headed toward a second-floor apartment party. The girls who lived there were known for their ability to throw a rager, and welcomed Rachel’s group with hugs and smiles.
“Come in! Can you believe how hot it is? There’s beer in the kitchen. It’s freezing cold, promise!”
The apartment was already full of people, and everyone was trying to suck the marrow out of the last night of college while escaping the oppressing heat of early June. Rachel went straight to the kitchen, getting a beer for herself and passing the cans out to her friends. As acquaintances wandered in and out, starting con
versations and telling stories, she relaxed into the atmosphere. It felt good to get one last round of social calls in, to feel like she had left her mark on people. She shared her grad school plans with anyone who asked, and dutifully enquired about other people’s post-graduation activities.
A half hour into the fun, her roommate Angela appeared. She tugged on Rachel’s elbow and leaned in to whisper something in her ear.
“Emmerson’s here. She’s on the balcony.”
Rachel was surprised. It was rare to run into Emmerson at an apartment party. She tossed the information around in her head, unsure of what to do with it. Rachel had made peace with Emmerson two years earlier—did she really want to risk diving in again? Yet even as she mulled it over, her feet walked her through the apartment toward the balcony. The humidity hit as soon as she slid the doors open, the cold of the apartment sealing off behind her.
Emmerson stood alone, gazing up at the stars. She was dressed like she always was: a pretty dress and pumps, a string of pearls around her neck. Rachel had seen her dressed like that a hundred times, lugging a giant tote bag around campus and looking perfectly presentable.
“Hey, Em.”
Emmerson turned, a large smile on her face.
“Rachel. I thought you might show up.”
Her voice was melodic, and a little deeper than usual, tinged with alcohol. Rachel was immediately swept back in time, remembering what else made Emmerson’s voice husky.
“Are you here by yourself?”
“No, Heather’s inside. Playing beer pong or something.”
Rachel stepped farther onto the balcony to lean against the railing, their elbows brushing minutely. She nodded at the information, mentally grouping people together. Heather, Emmerson’s best friend, was in the same sorority as one of the girls who lived in the apartment.
“You look nice.”
“Thanks. There was a…thing. With the trustees. Like a dinner thing.”
As she stood there, smiling at Emmerson, Rachel was struck with all that had happened between them. All that had happened for each of them.
It was amazing, what a person could accomplish in four years—what one student could do on a small college campus. Rachel had watched from up close, and then afar, as Emmerson had transformed from a somewhat shy, uninvolved freshman to the most widely recognized name on campus.
Student body president. Vice president of the senior class. Resident advisor. Frequent appearances in the student newspaper through interviews or editorials. Honors student. Tutor.
The list went on and on and on.
There was no doubt about it; Emmerson was the darling of the college’s administration, with a hand in every jar. She had a weekly appointment with the president, got coffee with the deans, made presentations to the board of trustees, and attended nearly every academic and student life social event that the college held.
People were often surprised when they found out about Rachel’s connection to Emmerson Andrews. As a four-year cross-country runner, Rachel had avoided most of the student clubs and ran in a completely different social circle than Emmerson. Their interests and ambitions were miles apart, and they had practically nothing in common.
But Rachel did know Emmerson Andrews. She had known her better than anyone, at one point.
They had met on move-in day their freshman year, assigned to the same suite and living two doors down from each other. Rachel had instantly been attracted to Emmerson’s easy laugh and infectious smile. Emmerson had seemed equally drawn to Rachel’s quirky sense of humor and direct way of interacting. They had become best friends and constant companions, creating a happy little world in their suite that had spilled over to encompass a select few.
Then, after the Thanksgiving break, something changed. It hadn’t felt as relaxed when they lay in bed together, talking about nonsense and avoiding homework. There had been a curious tension present when they hung out in the school’s coffee shop, whiling away the hours between classes. An odd amount of eye contact had developed when they went to the library, staring at each other over Emmerson’s political science textbooks and Rachel’s anthropology readings.
Their friendship had evolved into something else entirely, filling each of them with an ache to constantly be closer. Maybe they had both known what was happening. Or maybe it had truly caught them by surprise. Rachel wasn’t sure. She only remembered the feeling of absolute joy when Emmerson had leaned over one day and brushed their lips together.
It had tilted her world. They had held hands and stepped forward together, secure in the trust their friendship had created.
Tentatively, they had explored. Explored the feelings and emotions and what the pressure of Rachel’s lips could do when Emmerson lay splayed on her back in her dorm bed, hands tightly clutching the sheets and neck arched up toward the ceiling, the glow in the dark plastic stars unavailable for viewing as her eyes scrunched shut in ecstasy. They had explored the way that Rachel’s toes curled when Emmerson slid a finger inside, and the exquisite feeling of falling asleep in each other’s arms, spent and exhausted, or demurely covered up and snuggled as Emmerson’s roommate snored across the room.
Their world had been new and ripe for exploration.
There had been words spoken, perhaps too early, of love and forever and always. A life had been planned out, but the realistic mechanics needed to lay such plans had been blissfully ignored. They had believed that the world was theirs for the taking, with nothing else needed but to reach out and grab.
“Ray.”
Rachel was startled out of her thoughts by Emmerson’s soft smile, as if her once-lover knew exactly where her thoughts had been, as if Emmerson were reluctant to pull Rachel from the past.
“Sorry. Went to Mars for a minute.”
They hadn’t been alone together in over two years. Every so often there had been opportunities to catch up, when they would run into each other at the coffee shop, or when Rachel would end up behind Emerson in the line at the mailroom. On those occasions, they would ask generic questions, designed to be polite.
Rachel didn’t often delve deep into memories of her time with Emmerson, but sometimes she allowed herself to remember the fun they’d had. In the winter they had bundled up to go sledding near the athletic fields with their dorm mates, returning completely soaked and red-faced from laughter and the cold. They had walked hand in hand to and from the library, always stopping under the magnolia tree on the quad for a quick embrace. In the spring, they had taken ice cream cones from the cafeteria to lay on the lawn outside their dorm, kissing away any stray droplets of sweetness. On hot nights in the freshman girls’ dorm, they had lain around in undershirts and underwear, their hair wet from a shared shower. Toward the end of the term, they had taken to playing table tennis in the student lounge late at night, avoiding writing papers and doubling over in laughter at Emmerson’s abysmal hand-eye coordination.
It had been a charmed semester—the happiest that either of them had ever had.
And, like most freshman romances, it didn’t last.
Rachel had been too impatient, Emmerson too headstrong. Separated for the summer and divided by time zones, they had fallen into the heart-wrenching habit of fighting over the phone about stupid things, resentment building.
Upon their return to campus for sophomore year, Emmerson had begun to involve herself in more activities, constantly busy. Rachel had started to spend a lot more time with the girls on the cross-country team. She hadn’t liked being “penciled in,” and Emmerson hadn’t liked being left out of the bond that the athletes had. As they grew apart, the fighting had increased.
By the time they returned from Thanksgiving break, it was over.
Devastatingly, unbelievably over.
It had been tough for Rachel to move on, believing at the time that she would never be able to love again—the dramatics of a twenty-year-old. Other girls had held no appeal.
That feeling had dissipated, and there had been other girls s
ince Emmerson. Delightful, wonderful women who had drifted into and out of Rachel’s life—and bed—teaching her about love and lust and everything that fell between.
As she stared at Emmerson in the soft light from the street lamp, Rachel realized that the first love was impossible to forget. Emmerson seemed to read her mind.
“Do you ever think about what would have happened if I hadn’t been such a crazy bitch?”
Rachel laughed at the question. “Come on. You weren’t that bad.”
Emmerson’s glance was knowing, and she shook her head a little, simultaneously swirling the liquid in her cup around. Vodka cranberry, if Rachel were to guess.
“I was terrible. A snotty little princess, I’m sure.”
“You really weren’t so bad.”
Emmerson’s gaze turned serious, the change making her look eighteen, not twenty-two, as if there was a distinct difference.
“I should have tried harder. Or something.”
Her voice was soft, and pained, but the words were deliberate, as if she were used to tossing them around in her head often enough to become accustomed to them. Rachel felt the initial assault of emotion that accompanied reminiscing, but it subsided as quickly as it appeared. Hurt over Emmerson was long finished.
“There was nothing you could have done. Nothing that either of us could have done.”
It had taken a year after their breakup for Rachel to understand that. The realization that sometimes people simply grow apart had been difficult for her to accept, but she had eventually understood. She had learned when to walk away with grace and an upbeat attitude.
“I miss you sometimes. Sorry, can I say that?”
A whimsical smile formed on Rachel’s lips. Emmerson was always so proper, so correct. So formal, even.
“Yeah. You can say that.”
“Good. Because I do. I…think about you sometimes.”
Rachel moved her hand over, covering Emmerson’s where it rested on the railing.
“I miss you too, sometimes.”
She squeezed Emmerson’s hand, enjoying the touch. The last physical contact between them had been their sophomore year, when they had been in the midst of breaking up. It felt good to touch Emmerson again. For a moment, she actually felt like a grown-up—acknowledging their past while nodding at the present.
