by Tawni Waters
I smile, confused. “Bleaches you?”
“Yeah.” He smiles back. “Father’s afraid of germs, so he carries bleach everywhere in a little spray bottle. He bleaches tables and chairs and sofas. Everything in our house is freckled with white bleach spots. Once Father even bleached a chicken that pecked its way into our yard. Ever since then, no chicken has come near our house. He bleaches me all the time. He doesn’t mean anything bad by it. He’d bleach you, too, if you came over.”
I laugh. I like this Henry kid. “Well, remind me not to wear my best dress if I ever come to your house.”
“Don’t wear your best dress if you come to my house.” Henry grins. His teeth are too big for his face.
“Speaking of coming over,” I say, “I’m having a birthday party tomorrow. You should come. I don’t have any more invitations, but I can write down our address.”
“That’d be great,” Henry says, grinning so wide now, his face looks like it might break.
And that’s when everything goes bad. Elijah, Hannah, and Keisha come sauntering over.
“Hey, Ringworm,” Elijah says. Elijah calls Henry “Ringworm,” because apparently he got it from nursing a sick, stray dog, but like I said, who knows what’s true and what’s not?
“Hey, Ringworm,” Hannah repeats.
Sometimes when I ask Daddy if I can do something, and he says no, I say, “But so-and-so is doing it.” He says, “If so-and-so was running off a cliff, would you do it too?” Well, if Elijah was running off a cliff, Hannah would be two steps behind him. I think she has a crush on Elijah, but you can tell he’d never date her. She’s kinda fat, which he points out sometimes. Once he called her the Pillsbury Doughgirl. She looked like she wanted to cry, but she didn’t.
“Hey, Ringworm,” Keisha says too. She’s skinny and short. I think without Elijah and Hannah for friends, she’d probably be shy.
“It’s starting to sound like an echo chamber in here,” I say.
Henry doesn’t say anything, just looks down at his tray.
“We got something to show you,” Elijah says.
“Leave him alone,” I snap.
“What? We just wanna show him something,” Hannah says, all innocent. She juts out her fat hip and puts her hand on it.
“What? Your big ass?” It’s not nice, I know, but I kinda have my daddy’s temper. Elijah laughs. I glare at him. Shouldn’t he at least stick up for his friend?
“No,” Hannah says, all pissed off. She looks me over for a few seconds. People say I’m pretty, but I’m tough-looking, too. You grow up with a daddy like mine, and you get an angry way about you, a touch-me-and-you’re-dead attitude.
“This.” Elijah whips a magazine out of his backpack. It’s a Playboy. He opens it up and shows Henry a picture inside. “So, what do you think?”
“Where’d you get that, preacher boy?” I ask.
Elijah pretends he doesn’t hear me.
Henry stares at the picture for a few seconds. “That’s nice.” He looks away.
The lady in the picture has bleached blond hair. I’m pretty sure her boobs are fake. They sit oddly on her chest, round like mini basketballs. Her skin is tan, too tan. Almost orange. I like girls, and I think she’s weird-looking. I can understand why Henry is unimpressed.
Elijah isn’t pacified. “What’s wrong, Ringworm. Not interested in women?”
Henry looks back at the picture, and then he surprises everyone, including me, by barfing on Elijah’s shiny shoes, which I’m gonna guess cost more than my own, or anyone’s in this cafeteria.
“Ew!” Hannah and Keisha shriek in unison, and run away, still screaming.
“Idiot!” Elijah yells. He grabs my napkin, upending my chocolate milk onto my tray. My corn dog is swimming. So much for lunch. Elijah swipes at his shoes, but the mess on his feet just gets worse.
Looking embarrassed, Henry dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. I put my hand over his.
“Might wanna get to the bathroom and wash that off before it soaks in,” I tell Elijah. “Otherwise, you’ll never be able to wear your fancy shoes again.” My words are nice on the surface, but there’s an edge to them.
Elijah picks up on it. He narrows his eyes. “I think my daddy’s right about you.”
“Oh yeah?” My heart pounds. I wonder if his daddy knows I’m an abomination.
“He says you have a Jezebel spirit,” Elijah replies.
I think I’m supposed to have my feelings hurt, but I have no idea what he’s talking about. Jezebel was the queen who killed all God’s prophets in the Bible. I don’t know what a Jezebel spirit is though. I must have missed that sermon. “Sounds like a cool band name,” I say. “Barnaby, please welcome Jezebel Spirit!”
Henry still looks kinda sick, but he laughs anyway.
“It’s not funny!” Elijah screeches like a girl. “It’s when a woman doesn’t know her place!”
“My place? Like where I live?” It’s fun to rile him.
“You were born as a helpmeet for man!”
“Is a helpmeet like a swap meet?” I ask innocently.
Elijah breathes heavy. “I hope you end up like Jezebel, eaten by dogs.” He finally leaves, taking his stupid porn with him.
Elijah doesn’t know it, but that zinger hits home. I was bitten by a German shepherd when I was two. I’m still scared of dogs. Touching a tiny scar on my lip, I turn toward Henry. “You okay?” I ask. His eyes are misty behind his glasses. Everyone is looking at us. This incident isn’t going to help his reputation one bit.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“Hey,” I say, really quiet, so no one but him can hear me. “It’s okay if you don’t like girls. I don’t like boys.”
He stares at me, and then speaks so softly I have to get closer to hear him. “My stomach hurt when I saw the magazine girl’s sharp nipples. They looked like arrows.” Then he adds. “But I don’t think that makes me gay. I don’t like boys, either. Naked people, in general, hold no interest for me.”
“Well, that’s okay too,” I say.
The lunch ladies come over with mops and a bucket, all pissed off because Henry puked on their clean floor. They say stuff to each other in Spanish, and even though I’m still in my first year of language classes, and I’m not very good, I know what they’re saying isn’t nice. The lunchroom has been silent since Henry puked, but now everyone starts talking again. The fun is over.
I smile at Henry. “That was pretty cool.”
Henry grins back. “You think?”
“Hell, yeah,” I say. “It’s about time someone put him in his place. Maybe vomit is your superpower.”
Henry laughs and adjusts his glasses. “Bwwwaaahaaahaaa!” he says with his best sinister laugh.
I grin. Henry is funny. “So anyway, will you still come to my party?”
“Will Hannah and Keisha be there?”
“No way.”
“Elijah?”
“I pretty much had to invite him. He’s the preacher’s kid, but don’t worry,” I say. “Elijah messes with you, I’ll punch him in the face.”
Henry looks up at me and smiles. “All right,” he says.
And that is how I end up with a genuine Indian coming to my birthday.
CHAPTER 5
DADDY IS PISSED WHEN HE finds out I’ve invited a “heathen” to my party, but Momma says, in her sweet, sex-me-up voice, “For God’s sake, it’s her birthday. Don’t spoil it.” Then she kisses Daddy’s cheek. They go upstairs, and I can hear the grunting. I try not to picture what they’re doing, but I can’t help it. It makes me sick. When they come back, Daddy seems happy and doesn’t say anything more about Henry except, “I don’t like it, but I suppose you had to invite everyone just to be fair.”
I don’t mention I didn’t invite Hannah and Keisha.
“I heard you invited Elijah,” Daddy says.
“You told me I had to.”
“Good,” he says. He puts his hand on my shoulder and winks at me. Then
he sweeps his finger along the edge of the frosting bowl, which Momma is holding. She slaps playfully at his hand. “You! Stop it!” she says, but she doesn’t mean it, and Daddy chuckles.
“If you need me, I’ll be in the barn.”
The door slams behind him. Friday. It’s Friday. I’m having my very first real birthday party. Momma and Daddy usually just do a family dinner, but Daddy said sweet sixteen was special. It’s not the first time Daddy’s done something special for me. I’m his rosebud, and he makes sure I know it. Buys me presents. Dolls when I was little, now dresses. He never buys Iggy anything. This party is the biggest present he’s ever given me. And really, the only one I’ve ever liked. I’m so excited, I can’t stop dancing around, the way Momma does when she listens to her Ethel Merman. Not because of the cake or the streamers or even the presents. Because of her. Xylia will be at my house tonight. We’ll smile at each other and talk about smart things. Her papers are always on the bulletin boards with nice words at the top. Excellent. Fantastic. And once, Wondrous. That’s the perfect word for her. “Wondrous.”
It’s 4:44 when I glance at the clock, which feels lucky. Guests will arrive at five. Momma’s flouncing around the kitchen in her apron, putting sausage on the homemade pizzas and frosting things. When Momma finishes, she gives me the bowl, and I lick it, thinking about all the times in my life she’s made me cakes. Sometimes Momma can be all right, even when she’s drunk. I’m so full of joy and anticipation, I throw my arms around her waist. “Thanks, Momma.”
She hugs me back. “It’s a special day, baby. You’re sweet sixteen. Never been kissed.” She pulls away from me, her hands still on my shoulders, a gleam in her eye. “You haven’t, right?”
“Haven’t what?”
“Been kissed?”
I feel myself blushing. “No. Why would I?”
She laughs. “Oh, Mara. Boys aren’t so bad.” She takes my hand, pulls me to the table, and sits down. I don’t join her. Finally she pats the chair beside her. My belly fills with cold dread. This is going to be like the time she told me how babies were made when I was twelve. She called boy parts “manhoods.” It sounded like the hood on a boy’s coat. She said the manhood would be ugly and scary at first, but it wouldn’t hurt too much, and after a while, I’d grow to like it. I ran out of the room crying.
She pats the chair beside her again. “Sit down.”
Reluctantly I do. The chair feels harder than usual.
“So, who is he?” she asks.
“Who is who?” I look at my hands. Why are my fingernails always so dirty? I should take care to make them pretty. Xylia’s nails are always painted red.
“You know,” Momma says. “You’ve been walking around mooning all day. You look just like I did when I fell in love with . . . your daddy.” She brushes my hair from my forehead.
“I’m not in love.”
“Oh, Mara. You can tell me. I’m your mother, for God’s sake. Who is it? Elijah Winchell?”
“That pimply freak?” I yank my hand away. “No way.”
Momma laughs again, as if I have just told a great joke. “Fine then,” she says. “Keep it a secret.”
I can smell the sweet frosting from my cake, which sits at the center of the table. Sweet Sixteen! it says. For a second I wish I could tell her. I wish I could say, “Momma, I think I’m in love with Xylia,” but I know what will happen if I do. She’ll cry, and then Daddy will come in and ask why. Momma will try to protect me, but at some point she’ll get drunk, and the whole sad story will come tumbling out. Daddy will get that ugly look in his eyes, the one he got when he went after Iggy with that two-by-four, the one he must’ve had when he beat that gay man in the bar. Even though I’m the only family member Daddy has never hit, he’ll have no mercy for me. And I’ll end up brain damaged like Iggy. Or worse. If Daddy finds out what I am, chances are I’ll end up dead.
“I’m not in love with anyone,” I say, glaring at Momma. “You think I wanna end up stuck in some hellhole marriage like you?”
It’s too mean, and I know it as soon as the words come out of my mouth. Momma looks like I just slapped her. After a moment she stands. “Well, in any case,” she says, smoothing her apron, “your daddy and me will take a walk after the party starts. He thinks you’re sweet on Elijah. He wants you two to have a little time alone.” She walks to the stove and starts stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. I watch her for a minute, hating myself for making her sad, trying to find the words to make it up to her.
“I’m sorry, Momma,” I finally say. I walk up behind her and put my arm around her waist. “It’s not your fault Daddy’s the way he is.”
She smiles her fake smile she gets when she wants to cry. “Imagine my little girl, a preacher’s wife.” The doorbell rings, and I don’t care anymore that she thinks I love Elijah. I straighten the front of my yellow dress. I almost never wear dresses, but I spruced up, since Xylia always does. My heart pounds her name. Xylia. Xylia. Xylia.
I open the door. It’s Elijah. It’s sorta like expecting a kitten for Christmas and getting a box of dog shit. He holds a fancy present with red wrapping paper and white ribbons.
“Oh, hey, Elijah. Come on in.”
He smiles. “Don’t mind if I do.” He presses the box into my hands and sweeps past me.
“Momma!” I shout. “What do I do with the presents?”
“Just put them on the table by the door,” Momma calls back.
As I’m doing so, I hear a voice. “Hi,” it says, like music.
I spin, and there she is, wearing these cool jeans with holes in them and a tube top with a long, black jacket. High heels. She looks like a rock star.
“Hi, Xylia.” I can hardly get the words out, my throat is clamped so tight.
She’s holding a handful of wildflowers. “I didn’t have money for a present, so I picked these for you,” she says. She sounds embarrassed.
Jesus Christ. This is the first time I have ever taken the name of the Lord in vain, even inside my head, but Xylia picked me flowers. I will press them into my favorite book, the one with the poem about the Highwayman, and save them forever.
I take them. “Thank you so much. It’s the prettiest thing I ever got.” It sounds stupid, but I mean it.
“Nice outfit,” Elijah says, sneaking up behind me, ruining my perfect moment. “You look hot, Xylia.”
Xylia looks as annoyed as I feel. “Thanks,” she says curtly.
“If you’re hungry, there are snacks in here,” Momma calls from the kitchen. “Come and get ’em.” Elijah barrels down the hall, a dog hearing a dinner bell, but Xylia and I walk slower.
“I really do like the flowers,” I say. There seem to be hundreds of them. An explosion of color, like fireworks.
“I tried to get at least one of every kind,” she says back. She has a little freckle underneath her right eye. It makes me love her more.
“They’re beautiful. And Elijah was right. Your outfit is cool.” I’m searching for things to say, so that by the end of this conversation, she and I are fast friends. We stop walking and stand there in the hallway, under the head of the deer that Daddy killed a few years back.
“Thanks. This is the way everyone dresses in San Francisco.”
I look down at my yellow dress, which seems stupid and old-fashioned now. “This is the way everyone dresses here.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” she says. “Kinda retro. This whole town is retro. It’s like I stepped into a time warp or something.”
Just then a bunch of people stream through the door, all bearing gifts, and that’s the end of our private conversation. Henry arrives, and I give him a weird, little hug, to make him feel more comfortable.
“Hey, Henry,” I say. “I’m glad you could come.”
“Me too.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose.
“Do you know Xylia?” I ask.
“No,” Xylia answers. “We’ve never met.” She holds out her hand. “Xylia Brown.”
H
enry takes it in both of his and shakes it emphatically. His eyes light up. I’m not sure I like it. “Henry Begay.”
“Henry’s new this year too,” I say, hoping Xylia will look at me. She doesn’t.
“So where’d you come from?” Xylia asks.
“My father and I moved here from the reservation,” Henry says. “You?”
“San Francisco.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there,” Henry says. “I’ve seen pictures of that red bridge.”
“It’s exquisite,” Xylia says. “When you drive over it at sunset, it feels like you’re flying.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say.
Xylia turns to me. “It is. Maybe I’ll take you there someday.”
I almost fall over dead, I’m so happy.
In the kitchen, Momma turns on the radio. “Married, buried,” Kurt Cobain starts to sing, and I think he’s got a point. Everyone wants to know where to put the presents, and I tell them. Everyone wants to know where the food is, and I show them. They gobble up the pizza so fast, it’s like a swarm of locusts descending on a field. They talk loud and make dirty jokes and flirt, and all of that is just background noise, because for me, the only one in the world right now is Xylia. My chest burns. I want to touch her so much it hurts.
By the time I’m done showing everyone where everything is, Henry and Xylia are sitting in the corner of the living room, chatting and eating chips. She laughs at something he says, and I get a little jealous. She probably likes Henry, not me. I mean, for God’s sake. Not every girl is like me. I’m almost too shy to talk to her again, but I know that two hours from now she’ll be gone, and she may never sit in my house again. Time opens doors once, then it slams them shut forever. So I muster all the bravery I can. “Hey, wanna see my room?” I ask them. I wish I could only ask Xylia, but I don’t see how without hurting Henry’s feelings.
“Sure,” Xylia says.
“Sure,” Henry echoes.
I take them upstairs. I cleaned my room for the first time in like ten years, so it looks pretty good.
“Wow,” Xylia says, glancing at my books tucked into their shelves and my wood carvings on the dresser and my drawings hung up everywhere.
