Bastard
by J.M. Patrick
When I was a little girl in a big bed in a little room, I would stare at the ceiling and think about where you might be. In a rocket ship maybe? Landing on a giant moon with craters so big your co-pilot yells "Jesus, Jim! Watch for that hole!"
Maybe you'd be in the emergency room, calling "Stat! Stat!" and using the big silver paddles to save someone's life. Once, you were an explorer in an African rainforest, but in school I learned about snakes so big they could eat a man, so I stopped imagining that."Where are we going?"
"Raul's. He's making steaks."
I hate Raul. His stomach hangs over his pants, he talks with his mouth full and his fingernails are always black. I want to soak his hands in soapy water.
I want her to stop the car so I can throw up on the sidewalk, but I don't say this.
"What kind of steaks?"
"T-bone. Does it matter?"
No, I guess it doesn't.
We're silent for fifteen street lamps.
"You're named after a princess," Mom smokes really long cigarettes now, but she throws them out the window before they're even halfway smoked.
"I am?"
"Princess Diana. She was a beautiful woman."
"What happened to her?"
"The paparazzi killed her."
Paparazzi, paparazzi, paparazzi. I love this word! It sounds like the firecrackers the neighbor boys light in the summertime — exploding and then fizzling out.
Raul's son wants to play Tonka trucks in the driveway. He's four. That is exactly twice the age I was when you left. I know this because I'm in fifth grade now and Mom told me about you.
It's too hot for Tonka trucks, but I play anyway. I don't want to make Trevor angry; it's too hot to listen to him scream. He's wearing a tee-shirt that says "I'd Rather Be Kung-Foo Fighting." I don't know what this means, but I think you would.
He drags a loader back and forth across the blacktop. It's soft enough that it leaves a mark.
"Loader-loader-loader-loader-loader."
"That's not the sound it makes, Trevor."
He doesn't even look up. He switches to a backhoe.
"Backhoe-backhoe-backhoe-backhoe."
"Trevor, they don't make those noises! They make truck noises!"
Raul is watching from the doorway. He is going to open the door and yell at me, I can tell.
With a sharp stick I trace the tiny tire tracks the loader left behind, over and over until it snaps in half.
Last night I dreamt we were flying to India in a tiny airplane. You were telling me I could ride the elephants through the market. You said you would buy me scarves and jewelry and that I could eat all the fresh fruit I wanted. You said that in India, there are spiders bigger than my hand.
When we landed, you told me to close my eyes. You had to duck when we went through the doorways — Mom said you were very tall. My shirt was sticking to my arms and my hair was wet.
When I opened my eyes, there was nothing but sand.
"What is this, Diana?" Mom is waiting in the kitchen when I get home. She doesn't go to work anymore; she stays home to get ready for the baby. She's smoking a cigarette at the table, she's reading something.
"How should I know?"
It's a letter from my seventh grade math teacher. I'm being suspended.
"What is this Diana?"
"I. Don't. Know."
"What do you know?"
I know I beat the shit out of Miriam Coplik last week. I know that when I punched her the first time, my knuckle popped and her nose cracked, and I have never felt so good in my life.
I know that I punched her seven more times, but not out of anger. I was just trying to feel as good as I did the first time.
It's Saturday night. Kyle and I are having sex in the parking lot of the A&P. We do this a lot, but the truth is, I don't even like it. While he's on top of me, I memorize the signs in the window. Next time, I'll see if I can close my eyes and remember them all.
I started smoking those long cigarettes like Mom does. That's what I'm doing now. I smoke the whole thing, though — right down to the filter.
"Can I have one?" Kyle takes one without waiting for an answer. He always does that.
Kyle is asking me for a lighter when I see you. I know it's you because you're very tall and because you look a lot like me.
You are peering into the store windows.
"Diana, a lighter."
I hold my hand up and he stops.
You are looking around. You don't see us in the car, or maybe you do and you don't know it's me. Maybe you know it's me and you don't care.
With one motion, the glass cascades down around you like a waterfall — all of the signs I memorized "Cigarettes At Lowest Prices" "Strawberries-Buy One Get One Free", they tumble down around you too.
Kyle is watching you, whispering "Holy shit."
You are not an astronaut, you are not a doctor. You are not a jungle explorer and you will never take me to India to ride elephants bareback through colorful markets.
I hand Kyle my lighter.
When the police come, I will tell them I didn't see a damn thing.
J. M. Patrick lives in Connecticut where she spends weekdays secretly checking her email at a desk in a cubicle decorated with a Marilyn Monroe calendar. She is told she speaks French in her sleep. She writes to find out who she is speaking to. Her work has appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Edifice Wrecked, Write Side Up and Long Story Short, among others. For more, visit www.jmpatrick.org.