I’ve lost en entire day. I scribble the date and time on a sticky note. The postcard Shira gave me is propped up next to the terrarium, waiting for a more permanent location. Problem is deciding which way to stick it. Poem or picture side up?
A knock on my bedroom door.
“Kyle, sweetheart? It’s almost noon.” The door cracks open and Mom walks in, decked out in her church clothes. At least she doesn’t wake me up for the services anymore. Definitely not in the mood for more doomsday rhetoric, and speeches about sin and repentance.
“Oh my Lord, what happened?” She rushes over, fussing over my face.
“Nothing, Mom. Just a nosebleed.”
“Let me check.” She goes into nurse mode, pinching my septum and feeling my eye sockets. Her touch is gentler on the left where the scars have made pockets of warped flesh under my eye.
“Told you.”
She disappears into the bathroom and returns with a cold, wet cloth and presses it to my face.
“How are you doing?” Mom sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes etched with concern as I dab at the scabs on my face. Her gaze drifts to the terrarium where my vinegaroons are enjoying their breakfast, and she shudders. She never liked my pets.
“I’m coping.”
Mom seems about to ask something else, but she catches her bottom lip between her teeth. She’s sporting more gray hair now, and deeper lines around her eyes and mouth.
“I met a girl,” I say. As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to kick myself.
Delight registers on her face. “Are we going to meet this girl?”
“Maybe. I’m going with her to the dance.”
“I’m so happy for you, Kyle.” She kisses my forehead. “Get cleaned up, you smell like cheese.” Her nose wrinkles. “I’ve got the day off so I made pancakes.” Mom pretty much skips out of my room and down the stairs. I lean out the door, listening. She’s telling Dad I met a girl.
Groaning, I haul myself into the shower. The smell of burrito is still stuck in my nostrils. My hair is greasy from a night at Black Paw, but that shouldn’t be part of this reality… The room tilts on its axis and I’m falling.
Dust and blood in my mouth. Early morning sunlight streaming through the stunted mesquite that hangs over the Dumpsters outside Black Paw.
Another reality shift. They never used to happen if I was awake. Something’s changing.
I stagger to my feet and head back into the restaurant, fumbling with the keys. Coughing up blood and sand, I rinse and spit several times. There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t hurt. The TV in the corner, usually tuned to ESPN so Hector can watch the game at work, shuffles through channels until it settles on a news broadcast.
Saturday, June 30. My lost day found.
I turn up the volume.
“The planet many are calling Obscura is set to reach its perigee around the Fourth of July. Given the hysteria with which some doomsday groups have responded to the appearance of this planet, scientists are hesitant to speculate on what the planet being at its closest point to Earth could mean for us over the holiday. Interference from the mysterious visitor has so far been limited to transmission interruptions, although some claim Obscura is having an effect on our climate, gravitational field, and even on our perception of time itself. Despite these anomalies, it seems extremely unlikely at this stage that Obscura will cause an extinction level event on Earth. We cross now to Professor Langley at the California Institute of Technology…”
The picture shudders, dissolving into snowy static, and I’m sucked backward.
My fork clatters to the floor, splattering my sneakers with strawberry jam.
“You’re in your own world today,” Mom says, stirring her coffee.
Wet hair on the back of my neck, and clean clothes. I’m also more than halfway through a plate of pancakes and don’t remember any of it. Dad eyes me over the top of the newspaper, but says nothing.
I retrieve my fork and mop up the mess with my napkin. My hands are shaking. It’s Sunday again.
“Mom, would you take me out to Garry’s today?”
“Again, why?” Mom gives Dad a worried look. Again?
“Off to see that Indian girl?” Dad asks, also still in church clothes. At least they’re doing something together, unlike those otherworld parents who have avoidance down to an art.
“She’s only half
Navajo, and why does that matter?” Why did Mom say
again
? I’m starting to feel a little cheated by this world hopping.
Dad harrumphs and returns to his newspaper.
“Why do you need to go to Garry’s, Kyle?”
“To buy a sombrero for the dance.”
Mom and Dad both give me strange looks. Mom smiles, but it’s tight and uncomfortable on her face.
“We went yesterday, sweetheart.”
“What?” I don’t remember. I really am losing it.
“Listen, Kyle, I don’t want you running around with that girl anymore,” Dad says from behind the paper.
“Running around?”
“We’re concerned she might be a bad influence.” Mom lays her hand on my arm.
I pull away. “A bad influence? Are you serious?”
“We know you were drinking that night.” Dad crumples the paper.
“Yeah, and
I’m
the one who chose to drink a whole bottle of tequila. Shira didn’t force it down my throat.”
“Kyle, please. We’re just looking out for you.” Mom tries to take my hand, but I pull away.
“Your mother and I think it’s time you moved on, made some new friends. Have you even thought about what you’re going to do about your diploma?”
“Moved on?” Anger and hurt are all tangled up, forming one giant knot in my belly. My heart’s jackhammering. I’m shifting between realities, between two dead friends, and my dad’s concerned about whether I’ll graduate from high school?
“We just think it might be best for you to consider having new people in your life.”
“Daniel was your friend. We know that. But after the memorial, we’re hoping you’ll find some closure and move on with your life. That’s all.” Dad slurps his coffee.
“Who’s this new girl you’re taking to the dance then?” Mom asks, fidgeting with her napkin.
Closure.
The word reverberates in my head. Only way I’ll get that is when I can remember what happened that night. Maybe it wasn’t even me who started the fire.
“Danny was more than just a friend, Dad. And Shira’s the sweetest, kindest girl I’ve ever met. Just because her mother’s an alcoholic doesn’t mean she deserves to be judged. What do you think people say about me then?”
“You watch your mouth, young man.” Dad points a finger at me, his cheeks bulging. I’m goading him, and I don’t care. Above Dad’s head, Jesus glares at me with judgmental eyes from his hunk of wood.
Repent, sinner.
“Kyle, we never said—”
“No, you don’t even know them. You never liked Daniel and you’ve never really met Shira. You have no idea what my life is like, and now you tell me I should move on?” My voice rises in pitch and volume.
“You want the truth? No, we never liked Daniel and his wetback parents—”
“They’re Nicaraguan, for Christ’s sake.”
“Language, Kyle.” Mom corrects me, but not Dad.
Dad doesn’t even hear me, just continues. “We knew he’d be a corrupting influence. His father—”
“Michael, please.” My mom’s words are met with a glare.
“No, Beth, he needs to hear this. The sooner he realizes what’s good for him, the better.”
“I just think…”
They start arguing across the table about me and my life’s trajectory, as if I don’t exist. Right now, I don’t want to exist.
The walls are closing in on me and a scream’s tearing up my throat.
“You know what?” I stand up, thumping my fists on the table, sending cutlery clattering to the floor. “I’m trying to deal with all this the best I can. The last thing I need is you two trying to plan my life for me. I’m never going to find a girl to marry.”
“Kyle, of course—”
“No, Mom. I’ll never find a wife. And I’ll never give you grandchildren.”
“And why’s that?” Dad asks.
“Because I’m gay, goddammit.”
Mom gasps and presses her hands to her face, eyes widening with dismay.
“No you’re not, son,” my dad says.
“Yes, I am.”
“See, this is exactly the type of thing I was afraid of. That Daniel…”
“That Daniel was my boyfriend.”
“What?” Dad’s turning an alarming shade of purple; his hands clench into fists.
“Your ex-boss’s son? We’d been sleeping together for a year already.”
Dad hasn’t hit me in years, but I watch those twitching fists and just can’t stop provoking him. “No, no…” My dad’s shaking his head.
“Maybe it’s time you got used to the fact that your son likes fucking boys.” I anticipated my dad’s fist, not my mom’s hand across my face. She catches me on the left. I can’t really feel the sting, but it still hurts. Catastrophically.
With tears in my eyes, I escape the stifling confines of the kitchen, slamming the screen door behind me.
I follow my feet to Shira’s. By the time I get there, I’m about ready to burst. Of all the ways I could’ve broken the news to my folks, that’s just about the worst. But it’s their fault for thinking they have a say in who I love.
Shira’s in the shed, sanding cylinders of wood for a new set of chimes. She’s listening to some Navajo band, a mix of Native drums with lyrics about modern politics. She’s singing along to the Native part, mouthing syllables that mean nothing to me.
“Shira!”
“Hey, Kyle.” She spins around on her chair. “What’s wrong?” Shira dashes across the sand, tries to catch me as I collapse to my knees. Maybe I’m having a heart attack. It feels like there’s a corkscrew going right through my chest. I gulp down air and it’s just not enough. As the music rushes toward a frenetic climax, I’m pretty sure I’m going to explode.
“Calm down, please.” She smooths the hair off my face with her small hands, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and starts rocking me back and forth. Gradually the pain subsides, and the track changes to something gentler. I can breathe normally again. Shira keeps rocking me, kissing my hair. I don’t deserve this from her. In that other life, I’m glad she’s the one who’s dead.
Taking deep breaths, I try not to cry, squeezing my eyes shut.
“So…” Shira says. “When is a bus not a bus?” She says it imitating Danny, drawling out the words.
“When it turns into a street.” Her voice is thick with tears this time, and I pull her into my lap. She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her head in my shoulder. Now I’m the one rocking her. It feels better this way.
After a while, she sniffs and leans back.
“Shira, I know we agreed not to talk about it…”
She looks up at me with her almond eyes and rubs a dusty hand across her cheek.
“About what?”
“Could you tell me what happened that night, for real?”
“You sure you want to know?”
I nod, and she takes a deep breath. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “We’d all been drinking. You the most, maybe.” She pauses. “Kyle, you don’t need to hear this now.”
“Maybe I do.”
She picks up a twig and starts scratching in the sand. “It happened so quickly. You had a lighter, or matches maybe. It’s a bit fuzzy. Danny tried to get it out of your hands.” Shira gets off my lap to pace barefoot through the dust.
“No one noticed the gasoline had spilled. We were all so drunk, all so angry.”
Vague memories spool through my mind. I remember fumbling in my pockets, Danny’s desperate pleas not to do it. Do what, though? It’s not like I set us all on fire on purpose. I swallow the niggling doubt and nod for her to continue.
“The lighter, I’m not sure how, but it landed in spilled gasoline and the next thing you know…
whoosh
.” She includes a demonstration with her hands, sending slender arms into the air above her head. “Everything’s on fire and…” She hiccups. “It was so hot. Too hot. There was so much smoke. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t see. I remember the smell and the sound of…”
She places gentle fingertips on my melted face as I gather her in my arms.
“It was an accident, Shira. No one’s fault.” Although it wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t brought the matches…lighter.
“Kyle.” She pulls away. “Was that why you came over?”
“Not really.” We stroll into the shed to escape the boiling sun.
“Oh.” She catches her bottom lip with an incisor and steps closer, her fingers walking up my chest.
“I didn’t come over for that either.” I step away. Shira’s more than just a fuck buddy. She’s always been the glue in our strange little threesome. “I know things have changed, but we’re still friends, right?”
“Yeah,” she says, her gaze riveted on the ground, and I’m not sure I believe her. Girls, expecting us to glean divine insight from the ether about their emotions. Why don’t they just say what they really mean?
“I just had a massive fight with my folks.” Changing topic seems best, or maybe just easier.
“What about?”
“I told them I’m gay.”
“So it’s official? You’re gay? Just gay?” She raises an eyebrow.
“I reckon so.” If Shira’s disappointed by the news, she doesn’t show it.
“I guess your folks didn’t take it well?”
“My mom hit me.” I chuckle, feeling the left side of my face where the scars are worst.
“Your mom?” Shira frowns.
“Yeah, I was half expecting my dad to punch my lights out. Not my mom.”
“I’m sorry.” She peers at my face. “Did it hurt?”
“I’ve had worse.” And she knows it. Shira always had a jar of some traditional herbal balm ready to soothe a black eye or bust lip before my dad tried sobriety.
“Crap, what’s the time?” she asks.
“Almost two.” According to my watch.
“I’m meeting with the counselor today. You wanna come with me?”
That would mean going to the community center, and the possibility of seeing Mya. Not that I relish the idea of talking to some head doctor, but maybe I could just discuss the gay thing and leave out the rest.
“Sure, when’s your session?”
“At two.”
I grin. “Indian time?”
She smiles and all the awkwardness melts away. We’re just friends again. She neatens up her workbench and closes the shed behind us.