a young writer from the lone star state

Honestly, I thought my Spring Break was horrible. Nothing is worse than coming home and finding out that your family is having major problems.

But, if I’m being honest, I grew up with a broken family. I’ve seen my mom get divorced twice, seen my sibling fight and argue each other. I used to get scared if I saw my brother calling me on the phone. I once told my oldest sister that I’ve spent more than half of my life knowing that my everyone in my family hated each other.

I thought my family got better once I graduated high school. I thought everything was cool and that everyone had grown up and become mature. I was wrong.

Anyway, my definition for family member and definition for friend go beyond the normal sense. My siblings are technically half-siblings, but I’ve never thought of them as anything less than full-blooded siblings. Same goes for my friends — even though we have different parents, Jaskaran and Isaac are my brothers.

We’ve been friends since middle school and best friends since high school. I don’t see a life without them. We’ve gone through some dark times together, but we always hang out with each other because we can make some great times happen. We go by a lot of names, but we’re usually known as the Booze Houndz, or the Buc-ee Boiz. Our motto is “no worries.”

On Friday night, Jaskaran dared me to wear overalls out in public — he’d pay for them if I did dare to wear them. And I did. I wore them out in NorthPark Mall in Dallas. And I kept them on while we went to Deep Ellum. Isaac met us out there. And I had one too many Shiner Bocks along with a few shots of Jameson. I started Saint Patrick’s Day early.

What I mean to say is that I’ve turned to Jaskaran and Isaac for help more than I have my own family. I don’t see a problem with that. I have more in common with my friends than I do with family. And I still love my family, too, despite all the drama.

So when I look closely, hanging out with my friends was definitely the highlight of my Spring Break. Isaac and I made a song together and I can’t stop listening to it. It’s called “We had the Katana”

This is Isaac’s SoundCloud profile:

https://soundcloud.com/kokokokokokokokokokokokoko/tracks

Here’s a short clip of my adventures on Friday night:

R.L. Thornton Freeway

for Marco Salcedo – I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you, brother. Thanks.

Sandra’s eighteen years old and she’s got a tattoo. Her parents know nothing about it. The tattoo is part of a Robert Frost poem, one called “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” On the pale skin just under her right breast, in black ink, is the poem’s final stanza:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Sandra’s careful about what she wears so that her parents will never find out about the tattoo. Tonight, she’s got on an old white t-shirt and her favorite faded denim jacket. It’s a Saturday night in April and Sandra’s waiting for Jacob Turner—Jake—to pick her up from her house. They’re going to the theater together; Jurassic Park’s just been re-released in 3D. Sitting at the old desk in her dim bedroom, Sandra looks down and questions the few wrinkles on the part of her white t-shirt that covers her belly. should i put on something else no it should be fine i like this will he like this will he think i am messy no no he will like it where is he now

* * *

Both Sandra and Jake have been going to Thornton High School for four years, now, but it wasn’t until more than half her Senior year had passed when she met Jake—found him, really. In December, after the final school bell had rung, Sandra walked over to the classroom of her favorite teacher: Mrs. Kilgore. She wanted to ask the English teacher for a letter of recommendation—Sandra needed one to send along with her application to Washington and Lee University. Without knocking, Sandra stepped inside. She looked around the room—dim now in the weak sunlight of a winter sunset—and noticed Mrs. Kilgore was missing. She did, however, find a boy writing at a desk. With nothing else to focus her attention on, Sandra gave him a look. he looks familiar, Sandra thought. Then he looked up from his paper.

“Hey” she said before the boy could speak. “Where’s Mrs. Kilgore?”

“Um,” he replied, then thought for a moment. Sandra took another look at the navy polo shirt the boy wore; unlike her own, his was from a designer brand. “She said she had make some copies of a short story for tomorrow,” the boy said, “so she’s in the teacher’s lounge. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

“Oh,” Sandra said. She stopped to think. Sandra thought that since she drove own Camry to school, she could wait—she had no bus to catch or ride waiting on her. “I’ll just wait here for her to get back” she said. Sandra heard a group of loud students starting to walk down the hall. Then she asked: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Yeah, I think so” he said. He finally put his pen down. “You’re in Kilgore’s AP English class, right?”

“Yeah,” Sandra said, “for third period.”

The boy started to smile. “Oh. I have her for second period, for normal English” he said. “I think I see you whenever you’re comin’ in and I’m leaving!”

“Ohhh okay, now that makes sense” she said. She couldn’t stop from looking at the big grin on his pimple-less face. he’s so freakin’ cute when he smiles

For a moment neither of them said anything, but then the boy spoke up: “What’s your name?”

“Sandra Richardson” She started smiling, too. “What’s your name?”

“Jake Turner” he said. “Jacob, really, but everyone just calls me Jake.”

how does this guy not get any acne how lucky, Sandra thought.

From then on, it looked to Sandra as if Jake had on a new polo every day; she started going to Mrs. Kilgore’s after school was over to see what color he wore that day and to check how well it compliment his smile—and more often than not, Mrs. Kilgore was off printing copies in the teacher’s lounge. As their graduation day grew closer, they started to share more and more things with one another—books, CDs, secrets. So, on one afternoon in early April, when Jake wore a maroon polo, Sandra shared with him her secret tattoo.

“You’ve got a tattoo!?” he said with face full of shock. “I would’ve never guessed that!”

Sandra felt her cheeks get warm and grow rosy did i share too much does he not like tattoos was that a mistake

“What’d you get a tattoo of?” he asked.

She looked down at the book Jake was reading at his desk—Sandra loaned him her copy of Fahrenheit 451.

“It’s from a poem,” Sandra said. “By Robert Frost—you ever read him?”

“Yeah! I know of him! What poem?”

“It’s called ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ Do you know that one?”

“I don’t really think so.” Jake said. Sandra could see him struggling to remember the names of every poem he’d ever read. “What’s it say?” he said, “What’s it about?”

do i show him do i lift up my shirt and show him no he will see the bra he will see my skin no i cant do that yet Sandra thought for a moment. “J.F.K. used to quote it a lot” she said, finally. “I got the tattoo the day after I turned eighteen. My sister Jessica took me out to Deep Ellum and it was sort of a surprise. I didn’t know what to get. When I got onto the tattoo guy’s table, I had to hurry up and pick something. Then I remember driving by that Kennedy Memorial, downtown, and that made me think of Robert Frost—so I told the tattoo guy I wanted a poem!”

“I think that’s really cool!” Jake said. Sandra couldn’t have helped but notice the way he kept his dark brown eyes fixed on her story. He had the same gaze Sandra would often make when she stared at her own tattoo through the wooden standing mirror in her bedroom—a mirror Jessica gave her before moving away for college.

Sandra listened as a custodian pushed a wobbly plastic trach can down the hallway.

“What are you doing, Saturday night?” Jake said, breaking what seemed to be a quiet but comfortable spell.

“Ummm” Sandra stopped to think, “Well my mom’s out visiting Jessica in Virginia—”

“Virginia?” Jake chopped in. “Really? Why?”

Sandra smiled. “That’s where Jessica lives, now—in Lexington. She got into Washington and Lee University. I wanna go there, too—with Jessica!”

“Oh I see!” Jake smiled now, too. “That’s so cool. I’m thinkin’ about going to UTD, that’s where my sister went!” Sandra remembered how Jake had said something before about wanting to study engineering. “Well,” Jake continued, “would it be alright to see a movie, Saturday night?”

“My dad’s still here, though,” Sandra said, “but I don’t think he really cares what I do. You know what he told me the other day? Right after he got back from taking my mom to DFW airport? He said he wasn’t really sure what to do with me.” She tilted her head towards the cream-colored linoleum tiles of the classroom floor. “We really aren’t very close. He’d probably faint if he ever found out that I have a tattoo. But I told him not to worry—I would take care of myself until mom got back.”

Jake chuckled. “Cool. Alright. I’ll get tickets for Jurassic Park—”

“No, it’s okay, I can buy my own—”

“No it’s fine! I’ll get ‘em,” Jake cut in before Sandra could finish. “It’s out in 3D now! It’ll be fun!”

Sandra smiled along with Jake. She felt the room start to heat up, but it may have just been the bright spring Texas sun peeking through the window.

“Is it alright if I pick you up around six?” he said.

Sandra felt her cheeks get warm but she couldn’t tell if she was blushing. “Sounds good!” she said.

* * *

Still seated at her desk, Sandra looks over at the red LEDs of her little alarm clock that tell her it’s now 5:55 PM. Then she looks out her window to the street in front of her house. wonder where he is how far away is he now where could he be She doesn’t have to wonder for long—a small red sports car pulls up and parks on the street and next to the walkway leading to her front door. For a moment, the car is still and, because of the spanning darkness of the night, Sandra can’t see anything moving inside the car. Then the driver side door opens—Sandra watches as Jake steps out of the car. Her heart, or something else sacred in her chest, feels like it is blooming. A warm, familiar form of fog spreads through her chest and into her head and hands and thighs and toes.

“Hey!” Jake says once she opens the front door for him. “I like your outfit!”

i knew you would, Sandra thinks in relief. She follows Jake to his car—it’s an older sports car, she notices—but in good shape: no dents or scrapes or peeling paint. Sandra waits for Jake to open the passenger door for her. She sees—smells—the leathers seats, seats cleaner the ones in her Camry. smells kinda like a thrift store

On the freeway now, Sandra looks up and reads the exit signs along the way while they both listen to Jake’s CD: Channel Orange, by Frank Ocean. They’re about five minutes away from the theater when she starts thinking about a name on one of the signs: R.L Thornton Freeway. The name’s everywhere—it’s the city’s name, the high school’s name, the freeway’s name—Sandra had even applied for a scholarship named for R.L Thornton.

“I read something the other day,” Sandra says as she turns the volume knob on Jake’s stereo down, “in a book Jessica left at home. R.L. Thornton was a Klansman, in the 1920s. He was a racist. Can you believe that? The R.L stands for Robert Lee, after Robert E. Lee.” She turns to look at Jake, waiting for his response.

He doesn’t turn to look at her—he keeps his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the freeway even though there aren’t any others cars around them.

“Isn’t that crazy? Sad?” Sandra says. “This whole place’s named for a racist.”

Jake keeps his gaze on the road. Sandra watches as his designer clothes pulse with every passing street light. “Did you know,” he says, finally, “that Robert Frost’s middle name is Lee? Robert Lee Frost, after Robert E. Lee. But you wouldn’t call him a racist, now, would you?”

Silence. Sandra shifts her face away from Jake and towards the windshield. “No” she says after a while. She turns her head to her right and looks out the window, at the blurry world whirling by her. The street lights give it all an orange shade. did i really put the words of a racist on my own body did i really brand myself no no no thats not right that cant be right thats just not true

“Why does it even matter?” Jake says, halting her thoughts. “You’re applying for Washington and Lee University, anyway, too. It shouldn’t bother you.”

i only really wanna go out there cause jessicas there Sanda thinks, but she can’t find the voice for these thoughts.

“You do know that the Lee in Washington and Lee stands for Robert E. Lee, right?” Jake says. “He was the president there. Robert E. Lee wasn’t just a general. And R.L. Thornton has a statue in Fair Park, too, so he can’t be all that bad. I hate how people always wanna talk bad about white people. Don’t you hate when they talk down about you?”

Speechless. She feels her eyes and lips lock up in the tense air now surrounding her. Sandra’s realizes—remembers—that Jake doesn’t know who she really is. She realizes, now, that Jacob Tuner only knows Sandra Richardson—the eighteen-year-old senior at Thornton High School—and not Cassandra Richardson, the mixed daughter of a White father and Mexican mother—Cassandra who should have browner skin like her cousins who can actually speak Spanish and who have a Mexican father and not just a Mexican mother—Cassandra whose skin is lighter—paler—than it should be only because she stays inside, out of the Texas sun’s greedy reach, reading and writing and studying a lot—Cassandra who’s named after her mother’s mother who’s never set foot on American soil. He doesn’t know Cassandra, just Sandra—Sandra Richardson with a hidden Robert Frost—Robert Lee Frost—poem under her right breast.

* * *

The theater’s packed—it’s opening weekend, after all. Sandra and Jake sit in the back row, far from the screen. Sandra refused Jake when he offered to buy her something from the concession booth, but now she can smell the countless buttered buds of popcorn that are being eaten, piece by piece, all around her and she almost begins to regret her decision.

It’s the part of the movie, now, when the scientist arrive at the visitor’s center—right after the big scene where they show the first dinosaurs and when all the violins playing the Jurassic Park theme song.. Sandra watches as Jake lifts up the armrest that had separated her from him. She sees him shift further to the right, away from her, and then slowly lower his head down onto her exposed lap. if only i had a bag of popcorn to hold In the darkness of the theater, light bounces off the screen on back onto Jake’s face. Sandra see parts of his face glowing from the reflection of the screen the way that moonlight shines off a person’s face in the night. With all the movement and changes in the scene, light dances all around Jake’s face. Sandra knows that this position—Jake’s soft, acne-free head resting safely and firmly on top of her pale thighs—means that he wants Sandra to play with his hair—to slowly pass her fingers through his dark hair. But she’s shocked—her arms—her fingers—are swallowed by the darkness of the theater. Sandra can’t feel her limbs—they’re not numb, but missing. does he really want a mexican girl to play with his hair no no he doesnt even know who i really am he doesnt even know my real name will he care will he hate me Sandra keeps her arms and hands at her side. She feels herself become part of the seat she’s sitting in—nobody, not even Jake resting in her lap, can tell if she is breathing.

* * *

Driving down the other side of the freeway now, Sandra keeps her thoughts tied together inside her head as Jake listens to older rock record she’s never heard before. Sandra sees the sign again—R.L. Thornton Freeway. Then she starts to feel her tattoo sear her skin. Her flesh stings like from the venom of a cruel wasp. Sandra thought that her tattoo might start bleeding again—she wants to check under her denim jacket to see if cold red blood blots are staining her white t-shirt. miles to go miles to go miles Sandra feels a soreness bloom from inside her chest, close to the soreness she felt in the days after the days when she left the tattoo shop with Jessica. With every passing exit sign she sees, Sandra hopes more and more that one morning she will wake up, throw off her goose down comforter, rise out of bed, pull off her shirt and find only bare, clean skin on her ribs—no poetry, no blood.

Finally, Jake pulls into Sandra’s street—Longshadow Lane. Sandra watches as Jake parks beside her house and turn off the engine. There’s only silence for a while. The space between Sandra and Jake grows dense, grows thick and grows tense—breathing gets harder—she feels her thoughts condense into a silent ocean of discomfort. Sandra looks over to her house and finds no light in any of the windows. Jake asks: “Sandra, can I kiss you?”

“No” she says. Jake stares at her but says nothing. “You know, you don’t even know my name” Sandra says. She takes a breath—she’s no longer drowning in that ocean.

“Sandra Richardson, right?” Jake says with clear unease.

“No,” Says Sandra, “Cas-sandra Richardson.” She reaches for the handle beside her, pushes the door open and steps out. Sandra walks up, alone, to her front door without turning around. It doesn’t matter if Jake says anything or chases after her—Sandra’s swift stride towards the door, in the dark, looks like the unstoppable motion of a falling star. She reaches and quickly finds her keys resting in her little brown leather purse and opens her door. As soon as Sandra’s inside, she hears Jake’s car start up again. She closes the door and listens as he drives off down the street. thank god dads not awake

* * *

Sandra drives straight home after school, now. She no longer cares about the color of Jake’s polo.

 One afternoon, in May, she parks her car by the front of her house—next to her mailbox. Sandra gets out to open the little door of the mailbox and reaches inside. Two envelopes and something else: A letter from her mother’s mother, a letter from Washington and Lee University, and her old dog-eared copy of Fahrenheit 451. Sandra holds the book in her hands and remembers Jake leaning over with his head resting in her lap, light dancing on his face. She flips open the cover and finds a note written inside:

Hope you get into Washington & Lee. I know you’ll do well there and I miss seeing you after school Casandra.

Sandra grins. i cant believe he spelt my damn name wrong She holds back a giggle. Sandra tosses the book into the backseat of her Camry. Then she opens the letter from her mother’s mother. On a sheet of faded lined paper, Sandra reads a poem she asked her mother’s mother to translate into Spanish:

este bosque es hermoso, oscuro y profundo

pero tengo peromesas que cumplir

y mias parar ir ante de dormir

y mias parar ir ante de dormir

Sandra will tattoo these words under her left breast, opposite from the Frost poem. She folds the paper, carefully, and slips it into the pocket of her olive shirt. Although Sandra’s faded denim jacket was her favorite piece of clothing, she would call her olive shirt the luckiest. Sandra rips open the letter from Washington and Lee:

It is with great enthusiasm that we welcome you, Cassandra Richardson, to the Washington and Lee University undergraduate class of 2017. . .

She dashes to the front door, shouting for her Mexican mother and White father.

An Ode to Old Playboy

It’s about four in the afternoon now when Tommy’s walking home from Thornton High School but he knows he really can’t go home just yet. He’s stepping along the sidewalk of a quiet, lonely street he’s never walked down before—Fairview Street. He slows his pace for a moment and then turns his head to the right to give a long hard look at the house next to him. It’s an older home, with faded yellow paint peeling off the wooden sidings. That’s when Tommy spots the bright red sign on the unkempt lawn between him and the house: FOR SALE. oh so its vacant, Tommy thinks to himself. He stands there on the cracked concrete of the sidewalk for a minute before he realizes that this empty house could be his home for a little while. He turns onto the pathway leading to the house and walks up the steps onto the empty porch. Tommy swings his backpack off his shoulder and sits down.

if joe hadnt been so fuckin stupid i wouldnt be in so much trouble why is he so fuckin dumb gettin caught with my porno magazine in class now dad knows i stole it from under his bed and moms gonna be pissed as hell ill get my ass beat and grounded and now i cant go to joes no more

There’s a thud. Tommy jerks his head towards the source of the sound – it came from inside the house. It’s silent again, now, but Tommy stands up. He swings his backpack back over his shoulder and steps towards the door. Slowly, he reaches his right hand out and tries to open the screen door without making a sound. It’s useless – the hinges are dried and rusted so the door lets out a harsh screech like a bird from hell. fuck it Tommy swings the screen door open and waits for something—anything—to make a noise from inside the house. Nothing. He goes for the rusted brass doorknob of the wooden, rotting red door standing between him and the interior. Another screech – this bird’s got a little more baritone, though.

It’s all dark inside. Without any furniture resting on the old carpet, the house looks like it’s been robbed but it’s the still air of the place—air smelling of old cheap paperback books—that reminds Tommy that house is simply vacant. No one here.

An empty house. Tommy’s imagination is running, now. what happened here what family lived here in these rooms what memories took place here Tommy decides to take a tour of all the rooms, making up memories and stories and families and friends to occupy all the emptiness. He walks from one to the next. There’s five rooms total: a living room, kitchen, and three bedrooms—all bare and lifeless. At the end of the house’s single hallway, Tommy stops and stands before the door of the last bedroom he has yet to enter. Funny—all the other doors have been open. He inhales, opens the door.

A boy. There by the corner Tommy sees the hunched back of a maroon-shirted boy probably half his age sitting Indian style. The sun’s been setting by now so only dim, gold sunlight floats in from the room’s single window onto the carpet and faded wallpaper. Tommy would’ve said the room felt hazel.

“What did momma say this time?” the boy asks with a careless voice.

“What?” Tommy says.

“Well, what the hell she say? Can I come home now or what?”

Tommy can’t respond. He stands there, still and wordless inside the jambs of the open door. The boy flicks his head around his right should to take a look at the person standing behind him. Tommy watches the boy’s pupils grow. The kid’s been talking to a stranger.

“who the fuck are you?” the boy asks.

A pause. “I heard some noise comin’ from inside this house. Ain’t no one supposed to be here” Tommy says.

“yeah and so you sure as hell ain’t ‘posed to be here either” the boy shot back.

Silence. Tommy’s not sure what to make of all this.

“why you in here?” Tommy asks.

“well, shit, like I said earlier, momma kicked me outta the house.”

“why?”

“I stole twenty dollars from her purse so that my older brother could buy us cigarettes.” Tommy didn’t know cigarettes where so expensive.

“what’s your name?” Tommy asks.

“Albert.”

“Albert what?”

“Einstein!”

“Get the fuck out of here!” Tommy jerks back and takes another look down the single hallway. “How long you been here?”

“since ‘bout one, I guess.”

“You find anything cool in here?”

“I just been sittin’ here waitin’ for my brother to get back.”

Tommy steps back out into hallway. Then he turns into the bedroom next to the one Albert’s in. He steps in, taking a second look at the closet.

“You got any cigarettes? I bet you got a few in that backpack” Albert asks from across the other room.

“Nope.” Tommy walks up closer to the closet. That’s when he finds a stack of magazines hidden in its dark corner. He kneels to read the title. PLAYBOY. holy shit what the fuck did i just find here Tommy freezes for a moment. Then he scrambles to grab the entire stack. these all better fit in my fuckin backpack i swear to god The ruffling of magazine pages echoes through the room. Albert steps in the room.

“what the hell is all that?” Albert asks. Tommy rushes to cram all the magazines into his navy JanSport backpack. They aren’t fitting in.

“Uh,” Tommy says, “it’s all books.”

“Lemme see”

“No it’s okay. They’re just, books. Old books. Old shit.”

“thems ain’t books!”

“No! Fuck you!” Tommy’s panic is clear now. “I found ‘em first!”

“lemme see ‘em! What the hell is all that!”

“You’s too young to look at ‘em! It’s for big people”

“Fuck you! You ain’t a big person!”

“just how old the fuck are you?”

“twenty-four!”

“you fuckin’ liar—”

A furious rapping, like iron striking steel, interrupts the two. It came from the living room—no—the front door. Tommy, still kneeling on the ground, goes silent, waits. He barely fits all the magazines into his backpack.

“who the fuck is that?” Albert whispers while pointing across the house to the front door.

“I don’t know.”

They keep still. Then Tommy and Albert hear the rapping again—BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM—nine angry knocks in rapid succession on the old wooden door. It sounded like it might break right in half.

“Thank GOD I locked the door behind me” Tommy says under his breath.

“it could be my brother.”

Tommy shrugs.

The two hover quietly into the living room. It’s nightfall now when Tommy and Albert realize that it’s in fact not Albert’s older brother pounding at the door. Strobing blue and red lights flash into the house from in front, lighting up the whole empty living room. The two look at each other in common fear, their faces morphing in shock from the blue then red then blue then red lights.

“the fuck we gonna do now?” Albert asks.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. We’ll have to go out back—sneak by ‘em.”

“Oh gawd. I need a cigarette.”

Tommy leads Albert to the backdoor in the kitchen. He motions for Albert to stay in place while he takes a peep into the backyard from the window by the sink.

“No one’s there,” Tommy reports. “We’ll just slip on through there then make a run for the park—ya know the one by Singer Elementary?”

“yeah, I know the one. I lost my virginity there—in that big green plastic slide, ya know the one?”

“oh shut the fuck up, kid.” Tommy pushes open the backdoor and slowly steps through into the dark backyard. Albert follows after him. They step off the tiny little concrete porch and onto the tall grass of the backyard lawn. They’ll need to hop over an old, leaning chain-link fence and then rush down an alley and across four blocks before they reach the safety of the park. Tommy walks up to the fence.

“here, I’ll lift you on over” Tommy says, reaching his arms out to pick up Albert.

“fuck off! I can do it myself”

“alright you little bitch—”

A voice charges from behind them: “You two! Stop!”

okay fuck this kid thinks Tommy. He leaps over the chain-link fence and makes the dash down the alley. He has trouble running with his JanSport backpack swinging side to side behind him, but there’s no way he’s going to let himself get caught with a new stack of Playboy magazines by both the police and his parents – again. Tommy’s heart pounds along with every strike his feet make when they slam into the hard asphalt beneath him in the alley. He feels himself move faster through time with every stride.

Out of the alley now, Tommy jumps right onto Northridge Street—the park is just four blocks away. There’s some relief when he emerged from the alley to find no blue and red lights around but he keeps up his quick pace. Only a few sporadic streetlights, porchlights, and lit windows help guide Tommy down to the park but it’s that cold air of the October night that starts to burn up his lungs. He starts to feel that awkward cold sweat run down his neck, now, too

He makes it. There’s no lights around but Tommy can still see his warm breath steam in the dark of the park. No one’s there to hear him heave. Tommy climbs up a platform, pulls his backpack off then hunches over to take a look into the mouth of the big green plastic slide where Albert said he lost his virginity. that fuckin dumbass i bet hes asking the cop for cigarettes too He wiggles himself in.

For five minutes Tommy rests there in the slide. His lungs burn like hell and every breath he takes feels like a punch to the chest. Slowly, he calms down and his sweat dries up. Everything starts to feel smooth again. A moment passes, then he unzips his backpack to take a look at his treasure. fuckin finally He pulls out a single magazine and strains to read the text next to the blondie on the cover: 2007 Playmate of the year – Sweet & Sexy Sara Jean Underwood. Tommy flips to the center. Warm blood rushes down his torso, through his groin and into his crotch. holy fuck shes the prettiest thing ive ever seen that smile those eyes those tits that ass holy hell i bet joe aint found a better girl than this shes amazing perfect

He doesn’t notice the cop climb up the platform and stick his face into the slide.

“Alright, kiddo, let’s go” The face says with a bodiless, nameless voice.

Tommy slowly raises his eyes from Sara’s breasts and to the cop’s head on his left. awWwwWW FUUUCCKKKKkkingggg HEEELLLLLLLLL

The cop leads Tommy to the cruiser parked on the street in front of the park. Tommy waits for the cop to open the door so he can step in. Seated inside: Albert. Tommy makes a face like the Chicago Bulls logo.

“You little bitch!” Tommy says. “He took ‘em all!”

Albert grins.

“And NO I ain’t got any fuckin’ cigarettes, before you ask.”

Albert howls.

The Schrödinger Future

For Stephanie Martinez, the bravest woman I’ve ever met. You will get through this.

 

 

“Once, never, there was a Sophia and she was for never, forever”

 — From Kazimir Sierra’s poem “Once, Never or Wildflower”

 

It’s the second day of 2018’s February. Twenty-three-year-old college boy Kazimir Sierra is going on a date with a girl he hopes to see again on the fourteenth. And this isn’t just any girl he’s aiming for—this is Sophia De La Cruz he’s talking about here, the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. It’s been two years now since Kazimir met Sophia – back in 2016. Well, really all he ever did was sit several rows behind her in English class, but she had a boyfriend then: Armando Rivera. But Kazimir dared not to forget her name and he instead dared himself on one night, in 2017, to follow her on social media. It was cause for celebration when she followed him back and when Kazimir discovered Armando was no longer her boyfriend. Then, one night in early January 2018, he posted a picture of a small, black and white portrait of Hemingway. What a surprise – she actually responded, saying she liked the way Hemingway wrote. That got them talking of pizza, the city of Austin and music.

She lives now in a city an hour away from Kazimir and teaches at a high school there. Sophia sent him a message towards the end of January: “I remember you said that you love music so I’m going to capitalize on that. What are you doing Friday night?”

He responded: “No plans. My last class is over at 1:30 and I should be home at 2:00.”

It turns out to be an invitation to see some of her students perform in a choir concert. She tells him they can get pepperoni and mushroom pizza together afterwards. The guy would have loved to have replied with “HELL YEAH LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOO”

It’s going to be an hour-long drive. No problem in that. He’s done three hours before for Virginia, his ex-girlfriend that lived in Denton. But this drive, for Sophia, will be the first long drive of 2018. The day before the concert, Kazimir wrote for her a small note:

I wanted to tell you something earlier but I did not have the right words for what I wanted to say. They’re slowly coming to me but, for the sake of this moment, and, to put it simply, what I want to say is that you are gorgeous. There’s more to it than that but I struggle picking better words and that’s because I want the words to be as pretty as you, Sophia.

He took a picture of the note and sent it to her. She read it the next morning.

“What a lovely way to wake up. Thank you, I wish I could read it forever” she said.

“You’re welcome. I’ve got that note on my bookshelf so I can give it to you later if you want.”

“Please do.”

He rushes to add on to the note. After all, he did say more exists to it than that. The words weren’t coming slowly any longer. He wants to impress her, really woo her. He turns it into poem, about three pages long, called “Once, Never, or Wildflower.” He places it in small envelope and brings it with him for the hour-long trip.

It’s dark once he pulls into the parking lot of her apartment. Then he watches her as she walks from around the corner. It’s hard to see at night but Kazimir goes breathless, wordless. It’s hard to even look at her for too long – beautiful, wavy, dark hair, glowing skin, a lovely, delicate, slim figure. A sheer heart attack.

After the concert, a fun concert, they pick up that pepperoni and mushroom pizza and head back to her apartment. With the pizza box firmly in hand, he climbs up a flight of stairs and into her living room. It’s a damn nice apartment, clean and new and stocked up with nice modern furniture. Way prettier than his own house that can get as dirty and chaotic as four college guys can make it. The lights in her apartment give the place a warm, orange glow. Her roommate, Belinda, is out of town, so Kazimir and Sophia are alone. perfect. He can feel all the stars in the skies above Texas start to align in his favor. It’s time to hand her the poem. wait did i leave it in the fucking car Then, like a big white bullet, a cat bursts out of a vacant room – the roommate’s cat.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” he asks.

“It’s really hard to tell the gender of a cat when it’s young. Belinda thought it was a girl and named her Maxine. But, later, she found out that it’s actually a boy. So his name’s Max, now.”

When they sit down on the couches to eat, Kazimir can hear nothing else in the apartment, nothing else in the whole word in fact, except for Sophia and her warm voice.

“You know,” she says, “I don’t remember ever meeting you in class.” Damn, alright, so it’s like that, huh? Then Sophia asks, “Would it be weird to say that I’ve always wanted to sleep with a professor? Like, I’ve always wanted that experience.”

His heart collapses with the force of a dying and disappointing supernova. yo what the FUCK did this girl just say? he thinks to himself. It’s shocking; he can barely manage to restrain an intense urge to rush on back down those stairs out the front door and right back into his little black four door Kia. He forces himself to swallow his panic with the next bite of pizza but his stomach is long gone by now—a black hole must be sitting—no, growing—in his esophagus.

“Tell me, now, about your ex” she asks him.

“Virginia?”

“That’s her name? Virginia? Why would you ever date a girl named Virginia? They’re all the same.” A pause. Every possible response to this question evaporates now from Kazimir’s burning chest like smoke rising from a dying inferno.

how the hell could you say that you dont even know her

Kazimir doesn’t want to retell all about Virginia, but he can’t keep telling Sophia “No.” He feels her pry it out of him. It is straining, having to relive all those intimate moments with Virginia. By the end of his story he’s drained, trembling on the fancy brown leather couch next to her. In the middle of his story, Sophia took off the jacket she had been wearing that night. He could see more of her luscious skin now and, just a couple hours ago, he would have died to have seen it. But now he only wishes that she would quit bringing up her ex-boyfriend: “I’ve only written a few poems, for my ex.” Kazimir choking on his pizza would be his only saving grace from this the awkwardness. In fact, he’d be more comfortable with having a chunk of crust lodge itself in his air canal than to listen to her talk about her ex again. She asks: “So what philosophy classes have you taken?”

that fucker must be a philosophy major if she’s asking that, he thinks.

“Um, well,” he starts to counting off on his fingers on his left hand: “I’ve taken Logic, Ethical Theory, Philosophy of Language, Philosophy of Literature, and Philosophy of Law—”

“Did you have Armando Rivera in your Philosophy of Law class?” she cuts in, reaching for her phone to show Kazimir a picture of Armando.

“I don’t know, I was never in class. It was an 8 AM.” (He really did skip class a lot)

“Oh, never mind then.” She puts down the phone like a shooter lowering a gun away from a hostage. Kazimir takes of breath in relief — he’d feel yet another star die in his chest if she would have forced Kazimir to see a photo of Armando.

He finally acknowledges the huge ass nice flat screen television in front of them in the living room where they’re eating pizza. “Can that TV play YouTube?” he asks.

“It can, actually.”

“I want to show you Last Dinosaurs, my favorite band.”

“NO!” she shouts.

“What? Why not?” he’s stunned, again.

“That band doesn’t sound like it’s any good!”

Okay – every star in his heart explodes now. Another Big Bang is happening right now in his fucking chest but it’s certain that, this time, a new universe will not rise from this catastrophic explosion – it’s just all death. It is impossible to inhale – he feels his face freeze into a dumb disbelief. No chance in hell now he’s gonna hand her “Once, Never.”

His pizza’s cold now. Kazimir gets up from the couch.

“I need to use your bathroom.”

She points to a door next to the kitchen.

Alone now, in the bathroom, Kazimir stands in front of the mirror. By instinct, he brushes his hair with his hand before he realizes that having perfectly coiffed hair is pointless. He cut his hair two days ago just for Sophia, but he’s not going to try impressing Sophia any longer. He flips the light switch, walks out.

“I’m sorry to ask, but, do you have any bottle water?” he says when he turns toward her.

“For the drive home?”

“Yeah.”

“No, sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’ll just stop at a gas station along the way.”

It’s midnight when she walks him out to his car. Driving his little black four door Kia now, Kazimir breathes in all the wet, windy, cold air around him—all the air in Texas. That’s when he knew he’d lost his future.

Well, it would be better to say he lost a future. Just one. He can’t write while driving so he turns on the microphone on his iPhone and starts to records himself. With his voice, bold now, he says: “You’ve heard of Schrödinger’s cat by now, so I won’t bother with explaining it. What I mean to say is that I’m living the Schrödinger Future, now.”

He shuts the microphone off and drives in silence. No one is around to ask him just what in hell he means by a Schrödinger Future. No one can hear him think ive spent two years thinking of sophia and my whole god damned goal was to move out to austin so that i could have a chance of being her boyfriend but now that i know shes weird as fuck i dont have that future anymore and now the future is in the air now up for grabs it is chaos unpredictable in flux anything is possible now just like schrodingers cat my future is now both dead and alive all at once it is nothing it is everything

The anxiety passes just like the lonely light poles behind him now. Kazimir pulls into the next gas station he spots—a Buc-ee’s. He buys a bottle of water but waits until he’s back in the Kia before he takes his first sip. He raises the bottle and just as it touches his lips he sees the little envelope with the poem he wrote for Sophia sitting on the passenger seat. Kazimir puts the bottle down and picks up the envelope. He centers his thumbs at the top of it and tears it right in half. It’s a satisfying sound, that graceful but quick rip of paper. He opens Spotify on his phone, picking nothing other than Last Dinosaurs to play for the rest of the drive back.

 

He aimed for them to stay put like a tree or a stand of corn. Because if He’d a aimed for man to be always a-moving and going somewheres else, wouldn’t He a put him longways on his belly, like a snake? It stands to reason He would.

– William Faulkner’s Anse Bundren

I can’t stop moving across this campus. Every few hours or so I gotta find a new place to study. I walk all over campus. Sometimes for no good reason. Sometimes I just wanna walk around and see new people and smell the campus and trip over all the cracks and uneven cement. And I want to get hit by a bike, sometimes. You always see something new. It might just be a habit I developed on my first day of classes at A&M. I got lost looking for Heldenfelds Hall. I walked around Evans Library about four times looking for the place. Finally, I asked a cadet and he pointed at the building right behind me.

I’m not like this in Dallas. There’s no place like A&M in Dallas. I don’t walk much over there. So every time a new semester would start over here, for the first couple days my shins and feet get sore. ‘Cause I gotta get used to walkin’ a lot again. Then I get the rhythm. My feet lead the way. I just have to listen’ to ’em. It’s fun. I’m sorta glad its a big campus. It’s fun that way — walkin’ and listenin’ to music.

The other day I was walking by Evans Library and saw this lonely little shoe next to to where they were doing some construction. I thought about the shoes. Some girl must have dropped it, right? Then I figured, well maybe a fella went out on a date with some girl. But she was graduating and moving far away. So he got drunk and took her shoe from her and ran off. Like a reverse-Cinderella. Then he realized he couldn’t do nothing with a single shoe, so he dropped it and went on home.