Juliet Takes a Breath (16 page)

“I refuse to look at this as a fuck-up.”

“Well what else do you call it when you don't show up for our night and you don't even call and then I find out you were with her. What do you call that?”

I'd call that a fuck-up. But I didn't get to hear what Maxine called it because they moved their conversation into another part of the house. I heard footsteps and a door shut tight, then the muffled sounds of two people continuing an argument. The flash of amusement felt from their exchange was gone before I could harness it. I didn't want Harlowe and Maxine to break up or fight too much. It hurt my heart; I needed them to be an example of long-lasting adult lesbian love. Or something.

I stared up at the ceiling. Same clothes. Same mattress. It was 5:00 p.m. I cried, alone; wished I was home. What would Lil' Melvin be up to? I missed him never leaving my side when I was home from school. I wondered if he was okay. I remembered the brown paper bag Lil' Melvin gave me at the airport. My eyes welled up again. I missed his chunky butt. I opened it. Inside the bag were two packages of Twix bars, a Yu-Gi-Oh! Beaver Warrior playing card, and a note. The description on the Beaver Warrior card read, “What this creature lacks in size it makes up for in defense when battling on the prairie.” Beaver Warrior. Just the name alone made me laugh. My baby brother had made his first gay joke and it was perfect. I opened his note:

 

Sister,

 

I'm 100% sure I'm pyrokinetic. Also, I'm about 78% positive that I'm a homosexual like you.

The force is strong between us.

 

*M

 

Whoa. I read his note three more times, unable at first to absorb its message. Lil' Melvin was gay too. We were both gay. And what the hell was a pyrokinetic? I ate those Twix bars like I'd never eaten chocolate before. Lil' Melvin's admission of gayness left me feeling excited but also uncertain. How would I be able to help him through any of it? I put the letter back in its envelope and cried a little bit more. The amount of things that I could handle in a day had been reached.

I crawled back into bed. Thoughts of Lainie making out with Sarah filled my brain. Sleep took me away, helped me hide from all the emotions I didn't know how to handle. Before drifting off, I thought about all the promises I'd made to Ava about showering and self-care. Tomorrow. I would do all of those things tomorrow. I slept all night long without dreaming.

 

* * *

 

Harlowe shook me awake. The act wasn't aggressive. Her hands felt secure on my shoulders. She asked me to sit up. She opened windows and let the easy pastel sunlight into the room.

“Today is a new day, Juliet. Today you will not lie in bed. Today we will take care of each other,” she said. Harlowe handed me a stack of pancakes. “They're vegan.”

I hadn't eaten anything substantial in the last few days. My stomach grumbled, hard. The pancakes smelled delicious, vegan or not. Whether they were made with hopes and dreams alone, they were glorious. Harlowe sat across from me. We ate together. I realized that Kira's phone number was still legible across my forearm; sharpie ink was no joke. Harlowe saw it too.

“You've had an intense couple of days. I'm in a good place in my cycle and have so much room in my spirit to hear you. Not talking about a breakup can totally lead to a yeast infection,” she said.

“A breakup yeast infection to add to my breakup CD. This could be the best week ever,” I replied.

“I can cure yeasties but it's better to let out the feelings before they throw off your pH balance, Juliet.”

The last thing I wanted to deal with was a yeast infection. I pulled Lainie's letter out from under my pillow. There was nowhere else to start. It was one page long. I handed it over to Harlowe and felt how light it was. That crushed me even more. Was I not worth an Aaliyah-style four-page letter? Writing on both sides, pen pressed so hard against paper that the letter would feel textured and crumpled with pain? Was I not worth severity? Harlowe read her note and muttered an “oh fuck.”

“What?” I asked.

“‘She's the one I want my parents to meet as my girlfriend because I think she's my forever person,'” Harlowe read. Her brow furrowed as she rolled her eyes. “Adding that to a breakup letter is cruel and unnecessary. ‘Forever person', jeez.”

“I know right!” I exclaimed and then started to cry, again.

I covered my face, embarrassed to cry so recklessly in front of Harlowe. Harlowe hugged me, pushed her forehead into mine. We met eyes.

“It's going to be okay. All you have to do today is finish these pancakes and maybe take a shower,” she said.

I laughed against her shoulder. “Ok, I think I can do both of those things.”

I did what she said. Showering brought life into my lungs, running my hands over my body cleared away some of the sadness on my skin. I thought about my ovaries and how envisioning them different colors made the pain go away. The power and the ability to change the spiritual chemistry inside of myself energized me. I focused on the color violet; it felt warm and healing. As I showered, and dressed, I thought of the color violet. I didn't cry. I didn't think of Lainie. I chose faded black jeans, my hot pink “Bx Girl” T-shirt, and left my hair, loose, gelled, and curly. I wiped off the dirt from my Jordans until they gleamed. I put on some lip-gloss, eyeliner, and I was ready. Awake. Not crying.

I found Harlowe outside rummaging around in her truck.

“Look at you, all sorts of fresh and clean,” she said. She walked to the porch with a stack of papers and envelopes in her hands. “I have a meeting today. And all of this is bills and fan mail. Maybe you can help with some of it? I'm about eight months behind on replies and I like to respond to everyone and send out as many
Raging Flower
stickers as I can.”

“Works for me,” I replied. I reached out for the fan mail.

From the glove compartment, Harlowe retrieved a light purple bandana and handed it to me. “In case of tears or snot,” she said.

Violet. The bandana was violet.

“Can I say one more thing about this breakup?” I asked.

“Of course, you can, sweet girl child,” Harlowe replied. She sat next to me on the porch and ripped open old mail.

“She hasn't even called me. It's been four days. Maybe that means I should call her but I refuse. It feels like a set up. Is she waiting for me to call all freaked out and crying? Does she have some speech lined up? I don't know. I hope she does. I hope that just like I'm here feeling all fucked up, that she's there wondering why I haven't responded. I refuse to give her that. I'm not going to let her hear me cry or feel the weight of my rage and sadness. If she thinks about me at all this summer, I'd rather it be with a question mark pressing down on her rib cage.”

I wiped away unwanted tears and snot with Harlowe's violet bandana.

“And if she thinks about you all summer, she might just see what a foolish mistake she's made and come running back with another mix tape. Or maybe for the rest of her life, you'll be the one that got away and goddess, that'd be sweet,” Harlowe added.

That felt right to me. The idea of being Lainie's biggest regret soothed my soul. Harlowe and I worked on the front porch. She went through her bills and I muddled through her fan mail. It didn't disappoint. I read the best ones aloud.

 

Colleen—Denver, CO

 

Dearest Harlowe, Sweet Goddess of the Birth Canal,

I've tracked my menstrual cycle in accordance with Mother Moon. Celestial strength fills my every step. Thank you for connecting me to the inner chambers of my vulva and its link to the cosmos. Please come over for ginger tea if you're ever in the Denver area.

 

Tidings and waves,

Colleen

 

P.S. I might legally change my name to Aysun which means moon water. Do you think that's too much?

* * *

 

KC - Olympia, WA

 

Yo Harlowe,

I stopped cutting, which is fucking rad and super good for my spiritual growth. To celebrate my first year cut-free, I got this wicked
Raging Flower
tat. I broke up with my girlfriend because she wouldn't read your book, which obviously means that we were so not fucking meant to be.

In Solidarity,

fellow pussy-loving dyke warrior,

KC

 

Polaroid Enclosed: Brown-skinned Filipina, shaved head, holding up her denim pants leg to reveal a massive tattoo of the cover of
Raging Flower
on her leg. Her free hand giving the middle finger.

 

* * *

 

Angela - Redwood Falls, MN

Harlowe,

My seven-year-old daughter now tells people she “has a pussy and is proud of it.” Just wanted to share!

 

XOXO,

Angela and Adele

 

* * *

 

Raging Flower
stickers were giant sunflowers with the word “P*ssy” in hot pink written across the middle. I stuck them in all the self-addressed stamped envelopes from fans. Harlowe went through her bills with an American Spirit cigarette held in a straight line between her full lips.

Samara, a friend of Harlowe's, stopped by to discuss the reading at Powell's. Their conversation faded in and out of my attention. One minute it was about how eating different seeds affected menstruation and then it was about some composting debacle at their friends' communist farm. It went on forever. I didn't even notice that Samara had her arm around Harlowe's shoulder until Maxine strolled up the walkway.

Harlowe disentangled herself from Samara. She rushed up to give Maxine a hug. Samara said hello and goodbye in an overly cheerful, awkward sort of way and walked off. Maxine hugged Harlowe but not body to body. It was one of those Christian side hugs. The energy was off and the not-speaking thing made my arms break out in goosebumps. Harlowe and Maxine went inside. They spoke in low rumbles. I kept my ass on the porch and worked through her fan mail. Their drama reminded me of my drama. My guts twisted up from missing Lainie and I still had Kira's number on my forearm and wasn't sure what I was going to do about any of it. So I let the day pass me by and found comfort in sleep.

 

 

 

… and in the middle of it all: all of the self-empowerment, all of the radical womanhood, all of the community-building. You will still feel wrecked. Allow yourself to be wrecked. Know that it is finite.

 

Raging Flower

 

* * *

 

I woke up the next morning with my phone in my hand. Checked my call history and Ava was the last person I'd spoken to. She'd ended last night's phone call by telling me to “emotionally drop that uppity
gringa
” and focus on myself and of course, to dip out early and come visit her. But the phone didn't wake me, the smell of breakfast did. It smelled like home on a Saturday morning and for one half-second, I forgot I was in Portland.

Maxine stood in the kitchen dressed in a denim shirt with cutoff sleeves, a faded yellow apron wrapped around her waist. She poured sliced potatoes into a hot pan. News radio hummed over the crackling. Maxine was so dreamy. I wished I'd gelled back my hair or put on cleaner, cuter shorts.

Maxine offered me coffee with cinnamon and cane sugar. It was thick and strong, the type of coffee that needed a cigarette to accompany it. I lit one from a pack on the counter. Maxine scrambled eggs and set them aside. The dish wouldn't be ready for a while. Tortilla Españiola took time, something about it tasting better if the person cooking wasn't in a rush. That's all she said. I didn't press for a story and I wasn't given one. I'd heard stranger things about food. We drank coffee in silence. It'd been awhile since I'd had any time with Maxine, since she was even in the house.

Harlowe burst in through the front door. Banshee-like, as usual.

“None of the lezzies were working at Anarchy Books today,” Harlowe said, sighing, as she dropped two used books onto the table, “So I just spent the last three hours with bearded man hipsters, one of them wearing a “This is What a Feminist Looks Like” T-shirt by the way, and we discussed why it's important to purge the soul of male authors and focus solely on women writers. And by discussed, I mean I spoke and they listened.”

“I'm already exhausted,” Maxine said, as she poured the eggs into the potatoes, “I don't know how you're able to entertain fools.”

“I mean, someone has to push these guys, you know? I know it's not my job but I look at it like I'm doing their daughters, girlfriends, mothers, lady co-workers, any women they know,” Harlowe said, as she looked at both of us, “I look at it like I'm doing them the favor, like I'm helping them become better men.”

Harlowe grabbed a flier from the back pocket of her denim shorts. “And I picked this up for you,” she said, and handed it to Maxine.

Womanists United Against Bush.

Discussion topics: 9/11 cover-ups, Capitalist-Based Fear Mongering, Anti-Blackness, and Islamophobia.

“What should I do with this?” Maxine asked, flipping the flier over.

“Duh, it's for Womanists only. I obviously can't go, but you can and you should and maybe Juliet can go with you? Does a closed space mean Puerto Ricans can't go either? I don't know?”

Maxine sighed. “Harlowe, we've talked about this before. Just because you see something that is targeted towards Black people, doesn't mean that you need to bring it home to me and encourage me to do Black people things with other Black people, okay? And if Islamophobia is one of the topics, it won't be just for Black women.”

I rose to leave but they both stopped me. They said it was fine, that these conversations weren't a secret. They were discussing something major but no one had to leave. In fact, a third-party might be useful if they needed a mediator. I stared into my cup of coffee and listened to them.