Disney gang for company. Maybe she is,
in fact, happy. But Mom wears sadness
like skin—tight and irreversible. Dad?
I’d say he was born pissed, but if I dig
way deep into memory, I can see him
playing with me. Laughing with Mom.
Now, all he wants is to be away from
the home he works so hard to pay for.
I slip through the front door. No balloons.
No presents. No party. No surprise.
Only silence. Happy birthday to me.
Chad
Surprises
I hate surprises.
Nothing good ever
comes from them. There
are
little ones, like finding
a spider all limp and wet in
the bottom of your glass
after you’ve gulped
the
soda. There are medium
ones, like your buddy pulling
up with a fag in his car and
it’s obvious that the
source of
the smell inside is the blunt
they’ve been sharing. Gay spit.
Creepy. And then there are giant
surprises, the ones that give you
nightmares.
Like when your mom moves
a new guy into your house
and the asshole wants to play
substitute father.
Harley
I Can’t Believe
Almost a month of summer
is gone already. Fourth of July
is in just a few days. Fireworks!
Mom doesn’t know it yet,
but we’re going to watch them
with Dad and Cassie. And Chad.
At least I hope he’ll come, too.
I’m going to wear my new blue
short shorts and red-and-white
striped tank top. I can’t believe
how good I look in them. If I
keep up the dieting and exercise,
by the time school starts I’ll be
hot. Maybe I’ll even make
the cheerleading squad, except
I think you have to be stuck-up.
I wonder if I was stuck-up,
would Chad like me better?
Seems Like Guys
Go for the conceited girls.
Don’t ask me why. Seems weird
to me. It’s not just because they’re
pretty. Some of them aren’t all that much
to look at. Cassie says it’s the way they present
themselves, like you’d have to be dense not to notice
how incredible they are. Maybe I should practice thinking
too much of myself. Maybe I already do. I mean, I know
Chad is way out of my league. But still, this little part
of me believes I can make him like me if I just can
figure out how to please him. Losing weight is
a good start. But there has to be something
more. He’s nice enough when Cassie
makes him do stuff with me. But
otherwise, he barely notices I’m there.
Dad says he’s sulky. I think he’s sultry.
Mom says I need to quit obsessing. I think
it’s better to be obsessed than to be depressed.
Brianna says things happen in their own time. (Has
she been listening to my mother?) I think pushing to get
what you want can’t be so awful. I think it’s key to success.
Maybe I’ll Talk to Gram
About it. Mom and Bri and I are going
camping with Gram and Gramps tonight.
I’ve got awesome grandparents. I mean, they’re
weird and all, but that’s why they’re awesome.
I watch Bri carefully folding clothes, just
to stuff them into a backpack. Talk about
obsessive. “Are you OCD or something?
All that stuff is gonna get messed up.”
She smiles. I know. But at least it won’t
be wrinkled when it gets messed up.
“Don’t forget sunscreen. It’s gonna be
hot at Prosser. Hopefully Gramps found
a campsite in the trees. Closer to the water
there isn’t any shade.” Bri nods, goes to
the bathroom, returns with SPF 30.
Hope this is strong enough. And I also
hope there will be boys at the lake.
My new swimsuit is really cute. See?
She holds up a flouncy bikini,
in a tropical print. “Really cute,”
I agree. “I’m waiting to lose a few
more pounds before I get a new one.”
I’ve been meaning to tell you how
great you look. Is it hard? Dieting?
“Only when I smell french fries.
It’s harder for Mom. She sneaks
M&Ms and thinks I don’t notice.
But she walks with me every morning.”
Pretty soon you’ll be running, like
my mom. Just don’t get crazy about it.
“Don’t worry. That’s not gonna happen
in a million years. Running is not my style.”
Hey, you guys! It’s Trace, calling
down the hall. Time to hit the road!
Mom Plays Chauffeur
For the hour drive to Truckee
and beyond, to Prosser Reservoir.
Bri and I sit in back, watching
the landscape morph from high desert
scrub to mountain evergreen.
When I start talking about Chad,
I notice how Mom turns up
the volume on her soft rock station.
I don’t care. That way she doesn’t
hear me tell Bri, “I think he really
likes me. At least, a little. I mean,
he doesn’t completely ignore me.
That’s a good sign, right?” Like
either of us would have a clue.
She shrugs. I think I’d have to
see how he acts around you.
“You could tell? How?” Maybe
I’ll have to invite her over to Dad’s.
Bri shrugs. I know how ridiculous
Trace looks when he’s all hung
up on a girl. And Mikki? When
she even talks about Dylan,
she goes zombie-eyed. Mom
chuckles at that, so I guess she’s
been listening after all. I have
to make a quick Starbucks stop,
she says. I promised Gramps
I’d bring him some real coffee.
No drive-through here, she runs
inside, and I take the opportunity
to tell Bri, “Next time I go to Dad’s,
I’ll ask Cassie if you can come, too.”
No use upsetting Mom. And no use
asking Dad when Cassie’s in charge.
Prosser Reservoir
Is an exposed expanse of water—
snowmelt, run down the Truckee River
from Tahoe, then stored for Reno use.
This being a holiday weekend, its shores
are crowded with RVs and tents and boats.
And people. Gramps was lucky to have
found a spot beneath the big trees.
Their shade, and the breeze whispers
disturbing it, make the heat tolerable.
It is midafternoon by the time we arrive
and manage to track down my grandparents,
who live a nomadic life in the big fifth-wheel
trailer they tow around the country. Bri
has been my friend since we were still
in diapers, so she’s met them before.
Good thing, or she might just disown
me, seeing Gram in her mini muumuu,
and Gramps, with his
long gray braid
hanging most of the way down his naked
back. Remnants of their hippie days.
Mom doesn’t talk about it much, but
before moving to Reno, she grew up on
an Oregon commune. Not sure exactly
what that is except a lot of people living
together and pooling their stuff. Commie-
style, Dad told me once, with plenty
of sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll tossed in.
Don’t know how accurate that was,
and don’t really care. Gram and Gramps
are awesome. We get out of the car
and I run to give them hugs. It’s so
good to see you! says Gram. Then
she stands back. Let me look at you.
Gramps actually whistles. Wowzers.
What happened to you? Grew up
and slimmed down. What a beauty!
Beauty?
Whatever, Gramps. Lots of gossip
and settling in later, Bri and I slip
on our swimsuits and sunscreen up.
“We’re gonna take a dip before dinner,”
I tell Mom. She’s busy yakking with
Gram, but warns us to be careful,
and back in an hour. The sun starts
a slow slide behind the western hills.
Guess we didn’t need to worry
about the sunscreen, says Bri. Oh,
well. At least we smell really good.
True. Like coconut. But we’re also
greasy. We hit a little beach covered
with people. It’s a diverse crowd—too
young to walk. Too old to swim.
Too shy to take off their cover-ups.
Too proud of their assets to hide
them. I mean, some of these girls
are showing off just about everything.
So why are guys checking out Bri?
Brianna
Showing Off
Is so not my style. Maybe
that comes from too many
years watching my sister
exposing
more than she should, all
to win the attention of guys
I wouldn’t want to look at me.
Her taste leans way
too much
toward creepy. And then,
there’s my mom, who loses
weight and all of a sudden
flaunts
her assets like no mother
should. I mean, she’s almost
forty! Even if she has
the inner
desire to stay youthful
and feel attractive, why
must she dress less like
a mom and more like a
slut?
Shane
Three-Day Weekends Suck
At least, summer three-day weekends.
I like the ones that get me out of school
for an extended period. But the long
July Fourth weekend means two things.
One—Alex has to work extra hours.
And Dad doesn’t. He’s home, which
is pretty much keeping me sequestered
in my bedroom. I don’t even want to
go to the kitchen. Running into Dad
almost always leads to an argument.
When I was little, we got along pretty
well. But that was before I came out.
Before his mother got smashed
into the asphalt by a drunk driver.
Before Shelby. After that, Dad gave
up on just about everything except
his career, which has become his entire focus.
As for the rest—his home, his church,
his wife, his kids—well, we really don’t
exist, except maybe as thorns in his side.
When I Really Stop
And think about it,
it makes me more
sad than angry at him.
Used to be he had
faith, and it made
him strong. Vibrant.
When he lost God
he lost the way to
self-forgiveness and
lacking that, he will
remain broken. Crushed.
Scrubbed of hope or
dreams. Poor Dad,
like many so-called
Christians, believes
I’m the one in need
of salvation. But I never
turned my back on faith,
and I know God hasn’t
written me off, either.
He’s too damn tenacious.
One of the Guys
I was talking to online for a while—Jess—
lives in some Bible Belt hellhole.
Once, we started talking about jacking
ourselves out of the closet. I told him
my mom took a day or two to accept
my declaration, but that my dad pretty
much slammed the figurative door
in my face. “He doesn’t want to talk
about it,” I said. “Or talk to me at all.”
Jess said, When I crumbled and “confessed
my unnatural sin,” as my daddy called
it, Mama claimed it was Satan
who “put the homosexual inside of me,”
and if I only prayed hard enough,
God would most certainly cure me.
Okay, Nevada Methodists have
nothing on Mississippi Southern
Baptists. Dad might think being gay
is a sin, but he sees it more as a sign
of human weakness, not Satanic
interference. At least, I don’t think
he does. I figure it’s between me
and the Big Guy upstairs. We used
to go to church a lot, and I never heard
one word to make me think I’m some
sort of abomination. If God is in fact
responsible for creating me, He made
me just how He wants me. And if He
loves every bit of his handiwork, He loves
me. And if all that is nothing more than
mythology, what harm is there in
believing the stories, anyway? When
I pray—or meditate, or consider
the universe, whatever you want to call
it—I find comfort. Self-acceptance.
Understanding, at least in some world.
One Thing
God might prefer I do without
is porn. It presents a warped
view of sex. That’s what I’ve
realized post–plenty of viewing.
Weirdly, after a while, porn actually
gets kind of boring. Ditto jerking
off. I think I’m ready to take
the plunge and go for the real deal.
With Alex. Because another thing
I’ve decided through a lot of
meditation, in fact, is that life
is all about chances. You might
be safer not taking any. But
playing it totally safe means
you’re only existing. Not living.
I want to live. Want to emerge
from the virtual hell of my room,
into the heaven just outside my door.
Okay, More Like
Just outside my front door, as opposed
to my bedroom door—the one that leads
into the hallway that is currently
a conduit into my parents’ own hell.
They are fighting, a relatively rare thing,
mostly because Dad isn’t around enough
to make it common. Their voices keep
lifting higher. Louder. Sharper. I tune in.
Stop it! Just stop, Marissa. Every fucking
time some new treatment comes along,
you get your hopes up. I used to let you
get mine up too, but not
anymore.
Arguing about Shelby. Wonderful.
Does Dad even get that if I can hear
him, she can, too? I can tell Mom is
trying to defuse his anger, talking about
maintaining hope. But he is steadfast
in his hopelessness. Look, even if that
new drug turns out to be a cure,
Shelby’s not a good candidate for
treatment. You know that as well as
I do. If it’s still experimental, they’ll
look for kids with the best chances
of improvement. They need poster
children, to keep the funding coming.
All true. But why destroy Mom’s hope?
A short pause, and I hear her now.
That’s not going to make things better.
Oh, shit. I bet he’s drinking. I step
into the hall, smell alcohol, hanging
thick as incense. God, it’s not even ten a.m.
Dad disappears into the kitchen. Mom
follows as far as the doorway. Did you
fucking hear me? I said—
Enough!
I slam my bedroom door behind
me. “Everyone between here and
Reno can hear you, Mom. If the two
of you have to fight, can you keep
it between you?” I move her to one
side, look into the kitchen to see
Dad pour a big, deep tumbler of amber
liquid. Whiskey of some kind.
“Seriously, Dad. Mom’s right. What’s
wrong with you?” He mutters an inane
reply about burdens too heavy to bear.
“Yeah, well, life pretty much sucks
and then you d—” Stop, man. Don’t
make it any more real than it already is.
I move closer to Mom. “What’s the point
of arguing? He wants to wallow.”
I don’t understand why he—
“Not so hard to figure out. It’s all
about guilt.” I pull her into the living
room, lower my voice. “He’s a coward,
and he hates being one. That’s all.”
In a Ten-Second Span
She goes from being taut with anger
to whipping-cream-soft from sadness.
I wish I could see her happy for once.
Would it make her happy to know
I think I’ve fallen in love? “Hey, Mom.
Guess what. I met someone, and . . .”
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