Identical (10 page)

Do you think I could just

tuck my tail between my

legs, come home, and play

housewife? Never again!

So…what? If she wins, she’ll

spend most of her time in DC.

But what if she loses? Either

way, guess who else loses?

A fine pinot noir, grown here

in the valley. I’ve come to appreciate

good red wine. Mom allows some

with dinner sometimes. And once

in a while, she allows it after dinner.

“May I have some more too?”

She slides the bottle across the table,

and I fill my glass to the brim.

Mom and I sip in silence for a while,

but eventually the building buzz

in my brain opens my mouth.

“Do you miss us when you’re gone?”

Now you might think “yes” would

pop out from between her lips,

quick as a jack-in-the-box wound

tight. No way. She tilts her head

slightly, as if to tip the right answer

into her mouth. The maneuver fails.

Suddenly, she doesn’t look like

a politician. She folds up, small,

a woman twice her age, beneath

the burdens she will forever carry.

I don’t blame her for not wanting

to be here. Who does?

Mom opens another bottle,

pours for us both. I’m getting

drunk with my mother, and

neither of us can think of

a thing to say. Finally, she

says,
I’d better go to bed.

“Sure, Mom. Me too.”

I go around the table,

give her a hug. “Love you.”

She turns, looks me in the eye.

Love you too.
She pauses, stutters,

A…are you…all right?

Anger flares. I want to shout,

“Like you suddenly care?”

Want to cry, “Save me!”

Something acidy rises in my

throat. If I break down, say

those things and more, then what?

But she has already closed

herself again, snapped shut

like a heavy door.

“No,” I say simply. Wineglass

in hand, I start to leave, turn

to see her choke back a sob.

In the living room, the TV

is on, but Daddy has drunk

himself into oblivion.

Cool. I’ll be there soon

myself. The rest of the house

is dark, and I leave it that way.

I stumble up the hallway,

into my bedroom. Turn on

the little lamp beside my bed.

Think about calling Ian.

But it’s late, and it’s Friday

night. He’s asleep or out.

Where any self-respecting

sixteen-year-old should be

on Friday night. Out,

          getting drunk

with friends or, better yet,

a really fine guy, instead

of tying one on

          at home

with my marble-hearted

mother, no less. At least I

caught a couple of tears, which

          leaves

me wondering if she ever

just breaks down or freaks

out. She used to freak out

          a lot

before the accident. At least

then we knew she had feelings.

But that was before she came

          to be

completely drained of emotion.

I wonder if I would have liked

her when she was young, pretty,

          desired.

Did she like herself then?

Before she had children?

Before she met Daddy?

Up on Figueroa. That’s a mountain

not too far from here, but far enough

so parents and cops rarely want

to take the drive, especially at night.

Even if they did, we have our favorite

party place, well off the main road,

and a mile or so back on a dirt track,

not something they’d happen upon.

Great place for hide-and-seek.

Great place for a kegger, too.

And that’s our destination.

Mick drives like a maniac,

which would be all right except

I really, really want to get high,

and smoking dope and speeding

don’t exactly go hand in hand.

I could be bitchy, and it may come

to that. But I’ll try sweet talk first.

“If you slow down a little, I’ll roll

a nice big joint. And after we smoke

it, just maybe I’ll mess around

with your nice big joint too.”

Okay, so it isn’t eloquent,

but it works.

To right around the speed

limit as I fumble under

the seat, searching for his stash.

This slow enough for you?

Damn, I feel like an old woman.

“Ha. Sound like one too.”

Finally, pay dirt. I reach into

the baggie, extract a big bud.

Hurry up with that, would ya?

Hey, I saw you on TV tonight.

I keep crumbling dope.

“Really? You watch the news?”

No frigging way.

He snorts a half laugh.

Nah. I was channel surfing.

Ah, but of course.

“So how’d I look? Like

a movie star or what?”

He reaches for my left boob.

More like a rock star, baby.

God, he’s a player. A lousy

player. “Give me your lighter.”

Delectable smoke fills the cab.

Hey, man. You never told

me your mom was so hot.

My body stiffens and I shove

his hand away. “Shut the fuck

up.” I take a giant hit of pot.

Jeez. Pushed the wrong button,

huh? Sorry. But she is.

“Mom is not hot! She’s fucking

frigid!” Why is this bugging

me so effing much?

Okay, okay. Really sorry.

Now give me the damn doob.

I don’t feel much like messing

around with Mick’s “nice big joint,”

not even after killing off the nice

big joint wrapped in a rolling paper.

Maybe after a beer or ten.

And hey, lucky me, looks

like the beer’s flowing up

here on Figueroa Mountain.

Twenty or so vehicles are parked

helter-skelter, like misaligned

zipper teeth. Some I recognize.

Some I’ve never seen before.

It’s an older crowd. Several

people graduated with Mick,

and a few last year. Not too

many my age. Fine by me.

I see enough of those people

every day at school. Who wants

to socialize with them? What

I want is to leave them in my dust.

Suddenly a familiar whine

threatens my jocular mood.

Hey, Mick! I hoped you’d be here,

even if you had to bring
her
along.

You guessed it. My delightful

friend, Madison. She rubs up

against Mick like a hungry cat.

Is she trying to piss me off?

And here I just got unpissed.

Two choices. Jump into the ring.

Or turn away, move on to

that really cute guy over there.

I turn to assess Mick’s reaction

to the fur-free feline at his arm.

He looks vaguely intrigued,

and totally unconcerned about me.

So fine. No use getting into

a scratchfest. I wander over

to the keg, top off a twenty-ounce

cup, and go say hi to Prince Charming.

He’s not particularly charming,

but at the moment, charm is not

a prerequisite. I’m not looking

for a life partner, just a good time.

“What’s up?”

His eyes, the color of creamed coffee,

hold mild interest.
Not much. You

a friend of Mick’s?
He tips his head

in the direction of said Mick.

“Not really.”

Hmm. Got the idea you were.

Didn’t you come together?
He smiles

at the loaded question.
I mean,

didn’t you
arrive
together?

“Doesn’t make us friends.

But yeah, we did actually.”

My turn to smile. “And we’ve

come together a few times too.”

He looks me up and down like

he’s shopping.
I see. Any plans

to come together tonight?

“Nope.” I part my lips bravely.

“Not with
him
, anyway.”