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Texts

DAY ONE

X:
sm
4give me

DAY TWO

X:
sm
need u 2 believe me

DAY FIVE

X:
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sam? plz …

DAY SIX

Me:
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y?

X:
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she lives!

X:
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y? cuz I'm innocent

X:
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cuz I miss u

DAY SEVEN

X:
sm
cuz I luv u

X:
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cuz it's no fun w/o u

DAY NINE

X:
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cuz u r crazy bout me ;)

X:
sm
& …

DAY TEN

Me:
sm
& what?

X:
sm
& it's what henri paul wud do

Me:
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paint me an apology portrait?

X:
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if that's what it takes

Me:
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I'm grounded

X:
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I'll wait

Me:
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2 wks

DAY ELEVEN

X:
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look out ur window …

Summer to Falling

Out there—

hot
sm
hazy
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heat

steaming up from the pavement,

the sidewalk.

Out there—

pretty
sm
pink
sm
hearts

forming a chalk path

to my sidewalk.

Cars honk
sm
radios blare
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laughter flies

around bouquet after bouquet of flowers

red

up against a tree.

resting
sm
insisting
sm
waiting

X

marks a spot, a path

leading to my heart

red

like the roses.

My heart leaps upon discovery.

Romance still lives

in the air

in my lungs

in my heart

in every petal of every rose

beside the tree.

I pick them up

carry them back to my room

smell their scent for the next

few days.

My rose-apology portrait.

After I serve my sentence,

the first thing I do

is see

X.

Thousands of Years …

… could pass by like fearless nations

at war

at peace

in love

we are back

to life as we knew it

beautiful

floating

our own oasis of

Vespas flying down city streets

black coffee

walks along Division Street

vandalizing
VOTE HENDERSON!
signs

learning to play bocce ball

at the park where we swing

swoon

seal

our love for each other.

Cheesy

silly

summer fun.

Dating Up

Up since noon

love in tune

high in thrill

strong in will

bold 'n' young

come undone

deep in play

light in day

without care

each aware

Political debates?

Adventure waits!

Taller tree

vaster sea

more worldly

mon ami

stronger coffee

makes me

a

better me.

Meeting His Mom

We arrive in the western suburbs

identical houses line the streets circa 1940.

Two-story homes with tiny patches of lawn

white awnings, blue mailboxes

flag up, flag down.

A narrow living room holds

mismatched furniture, dead flowers.

A woman's voice calls from the kitchen,

the scent of homemade hot sauce greets me.

She sits at the kitchen table

hunched over bills, adding and sighing.

X kisses her cheek.

She tells him she's making tamales.

We sit. We talk.

My name. My family.

Her:
sm
Henderson? Any relation to the one running for

state senator?

I cannot escape my roots

even out here in the middle of the 1940s.

X visits the basement,

while I help mush masa.

Her:
sm
You have the most interesting eyes.

Her eyes burn into me like Lady Elba's hand on my chest.

Her:
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Oh, you must get that all the time, you're so pretty.

Not really.

Her:
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They're so big. I've seen your dad on TV …

Oh no, not this about Dad again.

Her:
sm
He's got tiny eyes. You must have your mother's eyes.

Do I have my mother's eyes?

See what my mother sees?

Her:
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I'm sorry, X always tells me I'm nosy.

She pats my hand in a comforting

motherly way. Her skin,

sm
pale
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soft
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cool
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delicate

like Mom's skin,

before the tests
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before treatments
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before “that time.”

X returns, wraps an apron around his waist

his arms around his mother's midsection.

X:
sm
My two favorite gals.

She smiles, proud, loving, ready to

mix the spices

mold the corn husks

make the most of her time with us.

Suddenly,

the smell of cumin

and the coziness of this kitchen

make me see a new side.

X as

compassionate son

talented tamale maker.

X as

a partner in caring

as well as

a partner in crime.

If Tamales Could Talk

After we taste the tamales,

X

revisits the basement

hoists a very large duffel bag

over his shoulder.

X:
sm
Okay mama, see you in a week.

We leave.

Me,

thinking of what it would be like to

visit again.

X,

scrolling through his phone for messages

or something.

The secret nature of things feels funny,

and too familiar.

When we get back to town, he says

there's a party …

could be fun …

we should go …

When we get back to town, I remember

there's a political event …

won't be fun …

I have to go …

And my father's clause—

Sam must support family in all events leading up
to election

fresh in my mind

from serving my time

being grounded.

X tells me to blow it off, be with him.

My heart wants to, but my head wins tonight.

Me:
sm
I can't.

He stares at the steering wheel. Says I'll miss a great party.

So he plans on going?

Even after the meth, the sorrysorrysorry, pink hearts, red roses?

He drops me off in front of my house

as I wonder if he will ever meet my dad,

shake his hand.

Would it be better?

Or worse?

“So you're going?”

“I have to.”

Whose words to whom?

We kiss goodbye

slow and sweet.

It burns a little

just like homemade tamales.

Vive Le Senator!

Tonight's soirée takes place

in a French restaurant.

C'est la vie, I'm not hungry.

Miguel rushes around

thanking donors for their money.

Merci. Merci. Oh please!

Dad gushes about us being

one big, happy family.

Quelle surprise, that's what he sees?

I play along with
joie de vivre

the more supportive I am,

the less he notices of me.

I hone my acting skills.

We sit at the front table.

Dad shakes hands with everyone.

Vive le Senator!

Whose hand does X shake tonight?

Why would he go without me?

Why would he
want
to go without me?

I slurp my soup with Melanie

until Jane yells at us.

Queen Vanilla has a migraine.

Quelle horreur!

More and more people show up.

So many so, I become claustrophobic,

duck out the side door and

get some fresh air.

Vive la blah blah blah
.

French Lessons

Outside, I call X.

It rings and rings and rings.

I leave a message,

something stupid,

sounding insecure.

Merde
.

As I contemplate my needy state

I notice a guy smoking a few yards away

seeming equally as bored.

He looks interesting
sm
avant-garde
sm
Eiffel Tower tall.

I approach him for a cigarette.

It's the only thing I can think of—a cig.

I'm bad at smoking

worse at flirting

but, if X can party without me

I can try and smoke with a cute boy.

I brush a curl out of my eye

brush up on my French, say hello.

He turns around. I gasp,

Sacrebleu!

Ted.

He looks at me like I'm from Planet Lame.

He's
sm
calm

cool

careful.

Ted:
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Think your dad will win?

Like this is what's primarily

on both our minds.

I shrug, say I don't care.

I look closer at the Ted
du jour

longer, floppy hair

Chuck Taylors

Long Live Anarchy
bracelet

He's
au contraire
to the Ted I knew

buzz cuts

preppy shirts

basketball obsessed.

The space between us feels tense, yet

for the first time ever—electric.

Did he become interesting, accidentally, over the summer?

A je ne sais quoi oozes out of him

like laissez-faire took over

his Type-A personality.

He asks about “the college dude” as if spitting out escargot.

I shrug.

How should I know?

He's at some party not answering his phone.

I start to ask about his girlfriend,

realize I have no clue who she is

I've been so wrapped up in

me and X.

He tells me her name, and that it's over.

I try to act casual, yet my stomach flops a little.

Was that a pity flop?

Or …

Ted:
sm
So is there a reason you came over to talk to me?

Me:
sm
Maybe. There a reason you're here?

Ted:
sm
Maybe.

Not getting anywhere, I resign.

Me:
sm
I should go back inside.

Ted mumbles something

about me looking all serious

like Madame Roulin.

I smile at him.

He knows Gauguin?

Smokescreen

Inside, I run smack into my father

and

Ted's dad:
sm
Your father tells me you're really focused

on those SATs.

I shrug.

Ted's dad:
sm
Good. The more you study, the more you

increase that X factor.

Yes, I'm focused on the X factor.

Dad wraps his arm around me

pleased, puffed up with pride

Henderson blood coursing through both of us.

Ted's dad:
sm
Wish some of your discipline would rub

off on Ted.

No wonder Ted's sporting

an anarchy bracelet instead of a basketball.

A woman shakes Dad's hand,

asks for a favor in return for her vote:

get the loud drug parties on her block to go—

disturbing ruckus …

reeks of chemicals …

kids who should be in college …

not carousing …

Dad agrees, whole-heartedly.

She gives her address

which sounds vaguely familiar.

Party Betty's house?

Sweating, I excuse myself.

Dad gives me a little hug,

asks why I smell like smoke.

I smile at his guests as if he's whispered something

sweet in my ear.

Alone, I check my phone

sixteen times

pit in my stomach

finally, one text from Gavin—

I hope LA crumbles into the Pacific!

nothing from X.

Positive Energy

Twenty-four hours later

no word from X.

WTF?

Not one to sulk, I call April,

tell her about X and Ted.

Talk some sense into me!

What's going on?

Did something change,

something happen

at the party?

He just went to a party, and I didn't.

Is that a big deal?

Am I being a baby?

Do college girls get paranoid?

Or is this just high school insecurity?

Me:
sm
Tell me I'm not crazy.

April:
sm
You're not crazy.

Me:
sm
Did I misjudge Ted?

April:
sm
You didn't misjudge Ted.

Me:
sm
But Ted's changed.

April:
sm
It's possible.

Me:
sm
Then it's possible for guys to change.

Thinking of X.

April:
sm
Not all of them.

Reading my mind.

My friend's good at

lifting moods

igniting hope

living in a Utopian

reality.

But just to be sure,

she suggests we consult Lady Elba.