I go into the bathroom to change into my lavender silk pajama set. I look in the mirror, examine my crooked bangs, the holes in my ears pierced too high up, the hair sprouting between my eyebrows. My buckteeth peek out so far from between my lips that it’s difficult to close them. I do not want to look like a baby anymore. I do not want to die in a Red Roof Inn.
When I walk back into the bedroom, Uncle Whack is counting the wad of cash on his bed.
Listen to me, he says, sitting down. I’ve got to go find Lacey now. That cool?
That is not cool, I say. That is definitely not cool.
I won’t be long, he says. You’ll fall asleep and I’ll be back. You’ll wake up tomorrow and Uncle Whack’ll be right here, ready for the roller coasters, okay? You like that Kumba ride, don’t you? That big blue?
I feel it in my throat first. The tight knot that always unfurls itself into a shakiness all over my face. From there I can never stop the tears from coming, and I hate myself for it. I slam my fists into the mattress.
Don’t leave me, I wail. Please, I love you, don’t leave me.
It’s okay, ma, he says. He moves over to my bed to hug me. He pulls my face into his chest. Shhhhh, it’s okay, girl. Damn, damn, you’re just a kid.
I kick myself under the covers and tell him I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll tell my parents that he kidnapped me for ransom as soon as I can find a phone. I’ll run away. I’ll drown myself, facedown, in the motel bathtub. La la la, I sing. I’m not even listening to you. The thought of him leaving feels worse than any other time I’ve ever been left; I didn’t know this one was coming.
I’ll be back soon, he says, promise, and the door slams before I can take any of it back.
The next morning, I wake up to Uncle Whack smoking in the corner of the room. His eyes are swollen, staring out the window, and his skunk stripe is dangling down on the side of his head. His beeper is on the coffee table in front of him, dark and still.
How was Lacey? I ask.
She didn’t come through, he says. He won’t look at me. Maybe today. Maybe at the park. Come on, get dressed.
Uncle Whack delivers on exactly what he promised. He lets me ride all the roller coasters I want to ride—the Kumba, the Montu—twice, and then three times, over and over again. I hold his hand in the line for every ride, and stand next to the wooden height requirement signs to show him that I’m okay. On the Congo River Rapids ride, we get so drenched our shirts suction our bodies. Uncle Whack checks his beeper constantly, but it’s not hooked on his belt loop anymore; it’s tucked away in his pocket.
So where’s the famous Lacey? I ask.
She’s caught up, he says.
We stop at a concession stand. Uncle Whack buys me a turkey leg and a pack of Sour Punch Straws that I zip up in my fanny pack. We sit down at a picnic table under an umbrella, and I gnaw the meat off the bone, offer him a bite.
Can we see the giraffes? I say. I hear they have purple tongues.
Sure ma, he says.
I had a good time on this trip with you, Wendall, I say.
I’m your Uncle Whack; don’t forget it. He looks more serious now, his eyes covered by thin, black glasses. I can tell by the shade of his nose that he’s been crying under there.
Okay, Wendall, I say.
This’ll stay a secret between us, right ma? he says. Tampa and all.
Yes, Wendall.
Listen, I love this girl.
It’s true that I’ll keep this secret, always, until now. Secrets are the only kind of love I know. It’s also true that my parents will never ask much about what we did. Years from now, I’ll ask whatever happened to Uncle Whack, and my mother will say, I remember him. The nicest boy.
I open my fanny pack and take out a Sour Punch Straw. I bite into it again and again until the foot-long candy is just a few inches of gritty sugar hanging out of my mouth.
You can’t eat strawberry flavored shit if you’re Lil Kiwi, he says. That ain’t right.
I don’t want to be Lil Kiwi anymore, I say.
Oh yeah? Then who?
Call me Sandy, I say. It’s my show name.
The next week, as promised, my father takes me to Las Vegas. Our connecting flight is in St. Louis, and we’re delayed; there’s a storm coming through. My father is irritable in the airport, shaking his foot, tapping his pinky ring against the armrest. He points over to the smoking lounge. It looks like a giant ice cube from across the terminal—a glass square with eerie cloudiness. You can handle it, right? says my father. You’re a big girl now.
I clamp my mouth closed as we walk into the room. I do not want to be poisoned to death in the St. Louis airport. I sit next to my father on a bench, and we’re surrounded by other people with their own brands of smokes, their own newspapers and headlines. I want to talk to each and every person, ask where they’re going, but everyone, including my father, is quiet. They puff. They read. The streams of smoke break, then lift. It looks like ballet—this evidence of adulthood. My father wraps his arm around me like he’s proud, and I rest my head in his armpit, open my mouth, breathe in the gray air as deeply as I can. I hold it. Breathe out.
There are old, splintered, wooden seats back at our boarding gate. The wood is soft; it gives way to my thumbnail. The wood is scattered with initials and drawings—hearts, stars, and forevers—and when my father goes to the bathroom, I sneak the keys to his Jaguar out of his sports jacket pocket for my own message. I want to carve my name into the armrest to honor this day, the day I was woman enough to sit inside the smoking room, but I’m afraid to get caught before our flight; I’m afraid of proof; I think someone might arrest me.
I grip the keys in a fist and bring it down. Push and drag it.
CRY BABY
His name is Quince Pearson. Quince has black hair, expressive hands, an infomercial smile I will never have. He’s the star basketball player, but we share an Honors history class because Quince is not afraid to be smart, to crinkle up his forehead and consider the past. My heart burst last week when Quincy did a presentation on Euripides. He unzipped his khaki uniform shorts at the front of the classroom, scissor kicked them off his ankles till his belt buckle clacked against the wall. We all stared at Quince’s Abercrombie boxers, his pale, hairless legs, as he said, Eu-rip-a-dese-pants-off! That’s how you wanna remember this dude! I think Quince is the most creative person I’ve ever met. He is eleven going on twenty.
Today, my homeroom teacher, Mrs. McBoner, wheels over our classroom television and fumbles to click it on for the morning announcements. Her name is really Mrs. McBride, but we’ve renamed each of our teachers and given them upgrades—Ms. Clit, Mrs. Tear-My-Condom, Dr. Gooch, Ms. Dyke-Hoochie. The TV snaps on and off, switches channels, because some kids in class installed computer programming into their wristwatches and this allows them to control the TV. Sometimes, during a test, one of them will turn the TV on mute, raise the volume to the max, then unmute so the speakers blare some kind of Days of Our Lives romance scene. This made Mrs. Tear-My-Condom cry on behalf of Mr. Tear-My-Condom being dead, and her suspicion that he was reaching out to her in this small, tacky way.
I’m in middle school now, and my best friend’s name is Clarissa Donoto. She’s in the seat next to me, taking notes on the morning announcements. We’re best friends because Clarissa is also tormented and, together, we torment other losers. She’s got a scraped-off dinner plate kind of face—round, blemished, pale—but she’s the smartest girl in school with the bubbliest handwriting. Today a boy named Harry sits behind her bouncing his sneakers on her metal desk basket until her double-chin jiggles. Fat Fuck! Fat Fuck! Fat Fuck! he whispers, leaning his lumpy, pink face into the back of her hair, but Clarissa is used to this by now—a pro—she never cries; her eyes don’t even leave the TV screen.
The high schoolers on television read from a sheet of paper. They make stupid jokes and talk about Dan Marino’s legacy and how he will build us a new football field made of state-of-the-art Astroturf. His son attends our school, but he doesn’t even play football—he’s into drama.