Barbara the Slut and Other People

by Lauren Holmes

  “This is very interesting,” said Martin. “Your mother has not told me about this.”

  “Te lo he dicho,” said my mom. “Pero es tan complicado y ella es tan inteligente.”

  They talked to each other in Spanish for the rest of the dinner, about me and stuff that I did when I was a kid, like one time in San Francisco when I kept catching fish and no one else caught any and they thought I could talk to animals. My mom said she knew I was going to be a doctor or a scientist. I tried to laugh at the right times but I had trouble following what they were saying.

  After dinner we said good-bye to Martin and he walked in the other direction. On the way back to the motel, my mom told me that Martin didn’t know about Grandpa or Grandma or that she had lived in the States with me and Dad. She thought he wouldn’t think she was interesting if he knew that Grandpa was rich and not Mexican, and that Grandma came from a government family and was legally Mexican, but genetically at least fifty percent Spanish, and emotionally one hundred percent white. My mom didn’t want Martin to know that she spoke English and went to Berkeley and lived in California for fourteen years and drove a Mercedes and then a Range Rover, so she told him she lived in Mexico City the whole time and drove her old VW the whole time, and I went to live with my dad in the States so I could go to a good school. My mom said the first time they met, Martin told her he loved her simple life, and she didn’t want to tell him about me at all, but then she had to because I was coming.

  When we got back to the apartment my mom kept her sandals on.

  “Baby, you’re just going to go to sleep, right? Would you mind if I went to Martin’s apartment to say good night, and I’ll come right back?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Are you just going to go to sleep?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Okay baby, you go to bed then. Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yeah.”

  My mom left and I took off my dress and put on a tank top. I washed my feet in the shower and brushed my teeth with her toothbrush. I got into bed with my book but when I put my head on the pillow it was all I could do to reach over and turn off the light before I fell asleep.

  • • •

  When I woke up it was early. The light coming into the room was white but not hot. I looked at the clock and it was seven twenty. I didn’t want to wake up my mom so I read in bed until seven forty. Then I really had to pee, so I left the room quietly and was about to turn into the bathroom when I realized there was no one on the couch.

  “Mom?” I said.

  She wasn’t in the bathroom and she wasn’t in the kitchen, and I figured she must be in the office doing an early checkout or something. I peed and put on shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs, hoping that no one would see me.

  She wasn’t in the office and she wasn’t outside the office and I didn’t see her going in or out of any of the guest rooms. I went back up to the apartment. I had a feeling she was still at Martin’s, but what if she wasn’t? I started to feel sick. I sat down in one of the chairs in the kitchen. What if something happened to her when she was walking back from Martin’s? There was this town in Maine where I went with my dad and his girlfriend a couple of summers in high school, and every year when we got there, there had just been a murder on the beach. The murders were never premeditated; they just happened because drunk people got knives, or people with knives got drunk.

  I was sure my mom was fine but my chest felt tight. I picked up my book to distract myself but I couldn’t read. I felt like I should eat something but I wasn’t hungry. Finally I did the kind of breathing my doctor taught me to help me sleep at night, where you breathe in and breathe out and you don’t think about anything else, which I now know is called meditation. It never worked that well for me but I didn’t know what else to do. I thought I should call Martin, but I didn’t have his number or know where he lived.

  Instead I called Dana from the phone in the office. I hoped it cost a million dollars.

  “Hello?” said Dana. “Lala!” I had woken her up. “Did you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “What? No. I don’t even know where she is.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know where she is. I think she’s at her boyfriend’s house. But she never came back last night.”

  “Oh my god, Lala, that’s horrible.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll be home any minute.”

  “God, I hope so,” she said. “Are you going to tell her when she gets back?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course, I’ll tell her right away.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Maybe I’ll hide in the kitchen and when she comes in I’ll jump out and shout, ‘I’m gay!’”

  “You’re being sarcastic.”

  I told Dana I had to go. Even when I found my mom, I wasn’t going to tell her. Maybe I would tell Dana that I did it and that my mom and I both cried, and my mom told me she knew all along and she loved me no matter what. I didn’t think it would count as lying because it didn’t really matter if my mom knew or not.

  I hung up and dialed my grandpa in Mexico City.

  • • •

  I heard the office door open a little after nine, and I heard my mom’s sandals on the stairs. I went into the living room as she opened the door to the apartment.

  “Baby,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

  “Where were you?” I said. I didn’t want to touch her but I gave her a hug because I wanted to feel that she was okay.

  “I stayed at Martin’s. I thought I would get back before you got up.”

  “I got up really early,” I said. “I had no idea where you were.”

  “Oh baby,” she said.

  “I thought something bad happened to you on the way back last night,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry. Let me make you something to eat.”

  She went into the kitchen and started cutting up fruit and I went into the bedroom and started packing my bag.

  When I went back to the kitchen she said, “What do you want to do today, baby? Do you want to just lie on the beach? You’re so pale.”

  “That’s because I thought you got murdered,” I said.

  “Oh Lala, are you really that upset about it? I wouldn’t have left you if I knew you would worry, but you’re a big girl, I thought you’d be fine.”

  “I wasn’t fine,” I said. “I think I might go to Grandpa’s.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Then you can hang out with Martin as much as you want.”

  “I only saw him when you were sleeping, baby. I didn’t think you would care.”

  “And at dinner. And you said you were coming right back.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I won’t see him again while you’re here. I’ll take you to Acapulco. We’ll go to the beach and we’ll go see the cliff divers.”

  “I told Grandpa I was coming.”

  “You called him?” She started to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was mad.”

  She cried and cried and I looked at the ceiling.

  Finally I felt too bad and said, “Maybe we can go to Acapulco before I leave.”

  She looked up. “Yeah?”

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s on the way.”

  She cried harder for a few seconds and then she slowed down and her breathing went back to normal and after a minute she stood up and went to the sink and splashed her face with water.

  “Should we go now?” she said. “We might make it to see the divers at noon.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “If we wear bathing suits we can go to the beach after. You can go in the water there.”

  “Okay.”

  “I should bring that Victoria’s Secret underwear. Those beaches are full of rich Mexica
ns. I could charge a lot more. I could make a killing.”

  “Great,” I said. I could tell that this had been the plan all along. “Grandpa would help you, you know.”

  “That is such a smart idea, Lala. I don’t know why I never thought of that.”

  “Fine,” I said, stung.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was mean.”

  We put on our suits and got ready to go.

  “Should I bring my bag?” I said.

  “It’s up to you,” she said.

  “I can always bring it back here,” I said.

  “Right,” she said, and gave me a weak smile.

  We took the bus to Acapulco, and when we got there we bought juices and walked up to the Quebrada. I wheeled my suitcase and my mom carried her bags of underwear. When we got to the entrance she bought tickets, and we went in and found a spot at the wall. We could already see the divers on top of the cliff, in the bright sun. Below them, the cliff went down at an angle, and it looked like when they dove they were going to hit the rock.

  “Martin and I came to see them at night,” she said. “They dive with torches, and we met some of those boys. Some of them are pretty cute.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’re going to meet such a cute boy, you’ll see. I didn’t meet your dad until the end of college.”

  It felt like I was either going to tell my mom in the next minute, or my mouth was going to do it for me. My heart started to pound.

  “I don’t want to meet a boy,” I said.

  “Oh I know, baby, all you want to do is your research. But that will change.”

  “No, Mama, I want to meet girls. I like girls.”

  “Oh,” she said. Her eyebrows went up. “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had no idea,” she said.

  “Really?” I said. “You never wondered about it?”

  “No,” she said.

  I waited for her to say something and then I decided to help her because I didn’t want to be mad at her.

  “Now you’re supposed to say that you love me no matter what,” I said.

  “Oh, baby,” she said, “of course I love you no matter what.” She pulled me into her shoulder and held me tight. “Of course I love you no matter what.”

  After a minute she said, “Are you going to tell your dad?”

  “He knows,” I said.

  “Oh really?” she said. “How did he take that news?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Huh,” she said.

  “Why wouldn’t he?” I said.

  “I don’t know, he can be so rigid.”

  “He’s been really good,” I said.

  Now there were more divers on top of the cliff and they stood in a circle and put their arms around each other and their heads down.

  “When did you tell him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “High school.”

  “Oh my god. Lala. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It didn’t seem urgent.”

  “Why are you telling me now?” She sounded mad.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There’s this girl and she thought I should tell you.”

  “You didn’t want to tell me?”

  “No, I did, I wanted you to know.”

  Now one of the boys was climbing down the cliff, and he stopped and stood. The people around us cheered, and he flew off the cliff, his back arched and his arms spread like eagle wings.

  “I wish you told me when you told your dad.”

  “You weren’t there,” I said.

  The diver entered the water with a high splash.

  “You came to visit,” she said.

  “I don’t know, Mom.”

  She looked away and I could hear her breathing. “Lala, you are breaking my heart,” she said. She didn’t look at me. “I’ll meet you outside.” She walked up the stairs and I stayed and watched the cliff. The boys prayed and dove forward and backward and did flips and double flips. Right after they jumped they were still in front of the sun for a split second, and then they rushed into the water. At the beginning I had been worried about them, but now it seemed less real, like they were on automatic or something, or like I was watching them from very far away. From very far away I watched them jump off the cliff one or two at a time, and finally three at a time.

  • • •

  My mom was waiting outside the entrance for me. We walked back down to the Zócalo without talking. When we got there she said, “I guess you have to get on that bus, huh? If you want to get to the city before dark.”

  “You could come to Grandpa’s,” I said.

  “You know I can’t,” she said.

  “I don’t really understand why not.”

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  We walked to the bus stop and when she saw the bus coming she hugged me.

  “Bye baby,” she said.

  “Bye Mama,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll come to the States.”

  “Okay.” I hugged her again. “I love you,” I said.

  “I love you too,” she said and kissed me.

  I took the bus to the bus terminal and then waited for the bus to Mexico City. I was really tired. When the bus came I sat in my seat and closed my eyes. I imagined my mom on the beach, kneeling on rich people’s towels, telling them that the “See you tonight” underwear was her daughter’s favorite.

  WEEKEND WITH BETH, KELLY, MUSCLE, AND PAMMY

  They say men and women can’t be friends. Because men will always want to have sex with women, even if we say we don’t. We might even think we don’t, but if we see the wrong body part in the wrong way, it will be over. Our penises will end us. But I think there’s a loophole. If the man in question already had sex with the woman in question and was so drunk that he doesn’t remember it. Or he only remembers it enough to know that it was not good. And then the man becomes friends with the woman, and because he has no memory of her vagina, he doesn’t think of her as having one. That’s what’s up with me and my friend Beth. I don’t want to sleep with her even though everyone, meaning my sister, Kelly, thinks I do.

  I’m also not gay. Which everyone, still meaning my sister, also thinks. That’s not why I don’t want to sleep with Beth. I’m attracted to women. I’m not attracted to men. But for a straight guy in New York City, I’m not doing such a good job. For a tall guy with almost all of my hair, I am not doing such a good job. I did great in high school. I did fine in the beginning of college. I did horrible later in college and after that I took a break. I’ve been trying to make a comeback since I got to New York. But New York is weird. And I live with my sister. And back to my sister, the point is she says I have issues. I’m sure I do, just not the lying to myself kind, or the gay kind.

  • • •

  I met Beth the first night of college. We got wasted and had sex. I did two things wrong. Apparently I laughed when she told me to lick her pussy. In my defense, I probably just laughed because I had never heard something like that come out of a girl’s mouth. And I had never done that before. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t. It’s probably better that I didn’t take my maiden voyage into that salty sea when I was blackout drunk. It turns out that I like it very much, but I found that out too late for Beth. I found that out with Tiffany, which was the other thing I did wrong. When we woke up in the morning, I saw Beth’s roommate sleeping in her bed, looking like half Playboy Bunny, half cross-country runner. Which is exactly my type. So I said, “Who’s that?” And that was Tiffany.

  Beth, on the other hand, wasn’t my type. I could see that she was attractive. But I was not attracted to her. At least not when I was sober and had a better sense of how tall she was. I’m six one in shoes but Beth is six two, barefoot. And that morning when I stood up and asked who the blond angel in the other bed was, Beth stood up and told me to get the fuck out. I looked up at her and tried to rearrange my brain. Then I followe
d her instructions and got the fuck out.

  You know the rest of that story. I dated Tiffany. The ratio of times I went down on her to times she went down on me was ten to one. Beth forgave me. We got to be friends. We thought it was funny that we fucked. I was glad I didn’t remember it. Tiffany cheated on me with four different guys. A new guy each semester, sophomore and junior years. I never would have found out except I met the guy from spring semester junior year. It was an Italian guy she was fucking in study abroad. I visited her there, in Florence, and we ran into him. Something was lost in translation and he thought I was her brother. He asked if I was as flexible as she was and he laughed. At first I thought it was some kind of compliment. Then I realized something was wrong. When it dawned on me what it was, I punched him in the face and broke his jaw and I told Tiffany I hoped she choked on his dick and died. Either that, or I cried in front of Tiffany and Luca the Italian stallion, and Tiffany broke up with me and put me in a cab to the airport with some napkins. I forget exactly what happened. I honestly thought we were going to get married. That’s how fucking stupid I was.

  By that time Tiffany and Beth weren’t friends anymore. According to Beth, Tiffany was a motherfucking cunt. According to Tiffany, Beth was volatile and had no filter. Tiffany may have been a cheating whore but she was very polite. It drove her nuts that Beth said “pussy” and “retard” and told the chair of the biology department that her biology professor was the worst teacher she had ever had and demanded to know if he even had a PhD. I liked that Beth was rude. It was funny. And her referring to her own vagina as her pussy was disgusting and part of what made our friendship possible.

  When we graduated Beth and I got an apartment together in town. I had been offered a job at the college’s development office. None of my other friends were staying around. My two best friends fled the country, one to China to teach English and the other to Haiti to be some kind of hero. Beth wanted to stay in town to keep her suspiciously lucrative job at a pizza place. She worked three days a week and she was rich. I asked her more than once if she was sure they were only selling pizza. She said of course they were only selling pizza, expensive pizza. She took home two to three hundred dollars on a regular night, and she always wanted more shifts. One of the girls who worked six days a week drove a brand-new Mercedes and apparently slept with a Yankees player.