Lena and Paula

There aren’t many futures that actually keep me up at night. But there’s one: making more money than my father. Because at some point I decided it’s the money that ruined everything—all those zeros are why he keeps disappearing for months with whatever girl he’s focused on, leaving the rest of us with nothing. My mother doesn’t know how deep it goes. Probably doesn’t want to.

Kids are one of those things I’ve never figured out. I don’t know how to be around them, don’t get how they think, don’t know what to do when these eight-year-old punks grab at you on the street calling you shit, and the second you push back they’re wailing for their dads, who show up looking both disgusted and interested. Specific flavor of misery.

The biggest one though—the thing that actually makes my stomach turn—is the thought of being exposed. My best friend Paula had her bikini slip off at the lake last summer. Everyone at school found out. Not just the girls gossiping about it. Tara, this complete idiot, wouldn’t let it drop. She thought it was endlessly funny that Paula’s body didn’t match her expectations.

But at that moment Tara was occupied with other things. All noise and clumsy movement, these pathetic grunting sounds, nearly falling off the bed trying to do two things at once and succeeding at neither. She gave up. Smarter move. She just lay there slapping against my stomach like that was the whole point, and I was grateful not to be looking at her face, so I stared out the window toward the park and thought about whether Paula would bring by those history notes I forgot to copy, and maybe that Douglas coupon. There was this new perfume I needed—vanilla and raspberry mixed together. It actually smelled good, which for something from a department store was basically impossible.

Turn around, she said, and suddenly I was on my back and she was moving forward.

The thought came to me in her bathroom after, washing my face. Looking at myself in the mirror—eyes that looked almost angry—while Rammstein played in the living room and marijuana smoke hung in the air. Something just clicked. I wasn’t just some kid whose body other people got to use. I had character. I was creative. I was actually something. And I wasn’t weak.

I went back out and grabbed my things. Told Tara to fuck herself on my way to the door. Got dressed in the courtyard while this old deaf couple watched from their bench—completely indifferent. Smoked a cigarette and headed to the bus station. God help anyone I had to deal with today.