vomit on her feet. A flyer for some gay event stuck to her heels and she let it. She left a faint trail of bile down the hall and pushed open the door to her room. The teen stirred, cracked an almond-shaped eye. There was blood on the sheets from where she had pulled into Michelle like a pomegranate. The memory sent a tremor through her, but Michelle knew it was only an aftershock. You Have To Go, Michelle said, Now.
All right, the teen said. It was perhaps not uncommon for her to be tossed from a strange loverâs house without fanfare. She hadnât gotten undressed for their lovemakingâthat was Michelleâs job. She stuffed her feet into her high-tops and stood awkwardly in Michelleâs cluttered room, a mess of dirty clothes and papers, books and shoes and stupid knickknacks, pictures and photos rippling from the wall in the breeze from the window. One bookshelf was an altar because Michelle was spiritual. Candles and rocks, mostly. She liked to light the candles and hold the rocks in her hands and pray for something to help her out.
All Right, Michelle repeated, looking at her toes. She glanced up quickly at the teen. Thanks For All That. She allowed herself a smile. She didnât want to be a bitch.
Who was that downstairs? Lucretia asked.
My Girlfriend, Michelle lied, but it did the trick.
Oh, okay. I better get out of here, huh?
Yeah, Sorry. Michelle allowed herself a larger, more regretful smile and showed it to the youth: not my fault.
Well, that was fun, said the teen. Really, Lucretia seemed fine, totally fine after a night snorting heroin, a drug famous for being so bad and awful. She hadnât puked andshe seemed really coordinated. Look at how much a person deteriorates in ten years, Michelle thought. The night had left her barfy and haggard, her life now destroyed. Lucretia gave her a swift peck on the cheek and bounded out the door. She was halfway to the stairs when she turned. Hey, where am I?
The Mission, Michelle said. Fourteenth Street. Michelle could see that this wasnât enough information to orient the teen, but, not wanting to seem stupid, Lucretia gave a sharp nod.
Thanks . She was down the stairs and out the door.
7
In the lesbian bar Stitch pulled her wallet from the ass of her baggy black jeans to pay for Michelleâs drink. She wore a cowboy hat on her head and a faded beer T-shirt on her body. She flirted with the bartender, another butch. All the butches were seething with sexual tension for one another. They chased and dated femmes, girly-girls, keeping their clothes on in the bedroom, and then hooked up with each other like straight dudes on the DL, pushing their fists up each otherâs pussies.
Stitch had the word GENIUS tattooed on her stomach and the quadratic formula tattooed on her neck. Her knuckles looked like a calculator keyboard, marked with + and â, % and <. Michelle thought if Stitch hadnât been a fuckup she couldâve maybe been the next Einstein. She liked to imagine who her friends could have become if they hadnât been saddled with a low-grade PTSD from being queer, if they hadnât been forced into the underground, away from the world and its opportunities. Stitch would have been Einstein, Copernicus. She was obsessed with the astronomer TychoBrahe, who had lost his nose in a duel and tied a golden prosthesis around his head with a ribbon. Stitch tagged GOLD NOSE in barroom bathrooms and bus-shelter walls with Sharpies. She would have been Jane Goodall, Jacques Cousteau. She would have been a marvelous surgeon, her urge to slice herself, her friends, and her lovers with sharp objects redirected toward healing. Stitch talked to Michelle about math the way Michelle talked about poetry, so that it became understandable, even beautiful, a natural language that was both the code and the decoder.
Michelle was scared and attracted to the strange things Stitch did to her bodyâthe cuttings, how she once heated up the
All right, the teen said. It was perhaps not uncommon for her to be tossed from a strange loverâs house without fanfare. She hadnât gotten undressed for their lovemakingâthat was Michelleâs job. She stuffed her feet into her high-tops and stood awkwardly in Michelleâs cluttered room, a mess of dirty clothes and papers, books and shoes and stupid knickknacks, pictures and photos rippling from the wall in the breeze from the window. One bookshelf was an altar because Michelle was spiritual. Candles and rocks, mostly. She liked to light the candles and hold the rocks in her hands and pray for something to help her out.
All Right, Michelle repeated, looking at her toes. She glanced up quickly at the teen. Thanks For All That. She allowed herself a smile. She didnât want to be a bitch.
Who was that downstairs? Lucretia asked.
My Girlfriend, Michelle lied, but it did the trick.
Oh, okay. I better get out of here, huh?
Yeah, Sorry. Michelle allowed herself a larger, more regretful smile and showed it to the youth: not my fault.
Well, that was fun, said the teen. Really, Lucretia seemed fine, totally fine after a night snorting heroin, a drug famous for being so bad and awful. She hadnât puked andshe seemed really coordinated. Look at how much a person deteriorates in ten years, Michelle thought. The night had left her barfy and haggard, her life now destroyed. Lucretia gave her a swift peck on the cheek and bounded out the door. She was halfway to the stairs when she turned. Hey, where am I?
The Mission, Michelle said. Fourteenth Street. Michelle could see that this wasnât enough information to orient the teen, but, not wanting to seem stupid, Lucretia gave a sharp nod.
Thanks . She was down the stairs and out the door.
7
In the lesbian bar Stitch pulled her wallet from the ass of her baggy black jeans to pay for Michelleâs drink. She wore a cowboy hat on her head and a faded beer T-shirt on her body. She flirted with the bartender, another butch. All the butches were seething with sexual tension for one another. They chased and dated femmes, girly-girls, keeping their clothes on in the bedroom, and then hooked up with each other like straight dudes on the DL, pushing their fists up each otherâs pussies.
Stitch had the word GENIUS tattooed on her stomach and the quadratic formula tattooed on her neck. Her knuckles looked like a calculator keyboard, marked with + and â, % and <. Michelle thought if Stitch hadnât been a fuckup she couldâve maybe been the next Einstein. She liked to imagine who her friends could have become if they hadnât been saddled with a low-grade PTSD from being queer, if they hadnât been forced into the underground, away from the world and its opportunities. Stitch would have been Einstein, Copernicus. She was obsessed with the astronomer TychoBrahe, who had lost his nose in a duel and tied a golden prosthesis around his head with a ribbon. Stitch tagged GOLD NOSE in barroom bathrooms and bus-shelter walls with Sharpies. She would have been Jane Goodall, Jacques Cousteau. She would have been a marvelous surgeon, her urge to slice herself, her friends, and her lovers with sharp objects redirected toward healing. Stitch talked to Michelle about math the way Michelle talked about poetry, so that it became understandable, even beautiful, a natural language that was both the code and the decoder.
Michelle was scared and attracted to the strange things Stitch did to her bodyâthe cuttings, how she once heated up the
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