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The Dinner Guest
The sky is cold, an icy sort of gray that makes me want to run inside and hide in my bed with the
windows boarded up until the sun comes out again. She sits on the broken chair, rocking
dangerously back and forth as she stares into space. Inside, the smells of her mama�s cooking
are hot and inviting, but bile rises in my throat and I want to stay here, under the icy gray. The
silence is heavy and has lasted too long.
"I think I�d be pretty if I was thin." I keep looking at the sky. It�s not as if I haven�t heard this
before. Everyone, well most everyone, thinks they would be happier- prettier, if they were thin.
No surprise.
"I mean..." she stares down at herself, than grabs a chunk of her thick, black hair. She is pretty.
She just can�t see it in herself. "I have nice skin." She�s pale- and her skin is clear and smooth
and perfect. "And my nose and mouth are ok..my eyes could be bigger." She laughs. The
conversation in itself is completely ridiculous, as she is beginning to realize. "I�m just fat."
The response is automatic. "No you�re not. You�re fine."
She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Yes, I�m fat."
"No- not like..Jenny Fan."
She shrugs. "I want to be thin..but not for the typical reason."
Typical?
"Yeah..like..I want to be thin so I can feel better about myself."
I nod, but wonder why else would you want to be thin?
"Thats pretty unusual. I mean, you don�t want to be thin for that reason."
There�s another silence as she picks at the skin on her hands. Inside, the house is loud and
friendly and warm, as her relatives pile into the dining room carrying platters and dishes and
glasses and trays. "Babe! Come inside, dinner is ready."
We stand up and walk inside silently. The dining room is bright and colorful, and grandparents sit
around the table that is covered in steaming food. We sit down. The meal looks delicious. The
crusty bread is fresh from the oven, the fried peppers and onions look cheerful next to the pale
chicken. The salad hasn�t started wilting yet, and the lettuce and tomatoes have a drastic
contrast. The fruit salad is unusual, because kiwis and grapes and melons are hard to find in the
winter. There is spicy rice and smooth pasta and beans soaking in a maroon sauce. There is
wine for the adults. The children have tall cups of water, the glasses thick and heavy and
covered with beads of condensation. The younger ones have to use both hands to hold the
heavy cups.
We say grace, and I feel lonely as I listen to the Spanish words flowing from their mouths. I join
in a little loudly on the "Amen" and feel awkward, but her father smiles at me and offers me
some salad. She reaches for a piece of bread and spreads thick butter on it.
Her mother slowly serves herself some rice, looking regal in a watered silk suit. Her dark hair is
pulled back tightly and she gives off a sense of elegance. She stares at her the stranger that was
once her daughter, wearing one of her colorful tee-shirts that are always a little too tight. "You
must not eat so fast, babe." Mamacita stares meaningfully at her daughter, and slowly chews her
rice and beans.
She puts down the untouched bread and traces the patterns on the tablecloth with one finger
while everyone else eats. The rice and beans are scooped away. I feel uncomfortable helping
myself while my friend partakes in this unofficial fast, so I only sample a little, and have a lot of
salad. I offer her the bowls, but she shakes her head and keeps her eyes down on her plate.
There are several conversations around the table- the wine is dry, the neighbors are sick, the
report cars are wonderful. She doesn�t join in the conversation. I try to avoid speaking as well.
Finally, she reaches for her tumbler filled with ice water. She has to use both hands.

The Music Man
We're sitting in the tiny practice room, full of pianos and chairs and the two of us. I'm
concentrating on my ham sandwich and lemonade. He's shifty, and uncomfortable, itching
mentally. He sways from side to side as he stands, occasionally playing notes on the piano and
hitting them. His eyebrows raise on high notes, he subconsciously lowers his chin on lower notes,
and every few minutes he sighs and rolls his eyes.
"You sound good." I mean it, too. He's amazing.
"Yeah, whatever. It's this G...at the end.." I sit and stare at the walls, at the floors, at the
keyboards. Why can't I tell him? And what would I say? "I don't like you, or love you, but I�m in
complete awe of you, and I want to stay in this little practice room forever and listen to you
sing...� Yes, that would certainly be interesting.
"I'm off today." He laughs. I roll my eyes.
"Sure. You're amazing and you know it."
He snorts. "Marie, don't feed my ego." I can't help it. He's just..vocally perfect. It's beautiful. He's
awkward, but beautiful.
After awhile he sits. "So. Tell me." I wait. "How is it going with this..Brian fellow?" He knows
about him. He wants to hear it again. God knows why. It entertains him. He needs to feed his
anger and excersize his adrenaline. He sits like a panther, tensed on the edge of the chair. I
have to smile. He's adorable. Like a baby..but there's something deeper inside of him that people
don't bother to see. That I still can't quite understand. But I know it's there. It has to be.
"Come on." I give him a reproachful look. He laughs. More of a grunt-laugh. I love him. His eyes
dance and his knobby-knuckled hands rest in gentle fists on his knees. He randomly hits an E.
"Laa!" I smile. He's just so talented. Everyone knows it. I want to keep his voice; I don't want
anyone else to enjoy it because I'm selfish.
We both sigh and there is a long silence. "Marie, whats wrong? Don't cry." He laughs. He knows
I'm not going to cry.
"Just thinking..about dying." It was a relatively safe answer.
He groans and rubs his forhead. "Marie..don't think about that."
"I can't help it." I shrug. He looks at me. He laughs.
"Do you believe in God, Marie?" He knows the answer, and I roll my eyes. He laughs again. "Are
you an atheist?" This entertains him beyond belief. There's more silence.
"Marie, I'm going to be on Broadway." Another laugh. He might sound arrogant, but I know it's
true. I believe him entirely. At this moment, I believe he can do anything. He's perfect, immortal.
He stands up, checks the door to make sure no one is listening. Girls gather around the door to
listen to him. They shriek when he belts. They cling to each other and revel in the sound. Part of
me wants to join them- but most of me is just honored to be closer to him than they are. I look
down on them, and together we make fun of them and I listen to him complain. I like to think that
I know him better than they do. Our conversations always say more than it seems. We don't
need to use words. They're just decorations. Thats how I like to look at it, though I�m probably
wrong.
"So, um- there's this great song in The Scarlet Pimpernel.."
I have his attention. "How high does it go?"
I take the plunge. "Well, it's two people- they're brother and sister-"
He snorts. "Marie." He doesn't need to tell me. I know. He's too good to sing a duet- least of all
with me. He's solo material. He'll always be.
The bell rings for lunch and he opens the door and leaves. As he goes out the door he turns to
face me, and laughs once more. His shining smile and dancing eyes- they're musical
themselves. I get up and follow him, joining the other thirty people in the room- and the magic I
see in him is gone. He's just another gawky, awkward teenager- but he's shining. When he's not
singing- I see something more in him. It isn't a romantic feeling. It's admiration- and maybe
jealously. Fascination. He's perfect.
Someone is playing the piano, and he's singing, enjoying all the attention. When he's done,
everyone applauds and cheers, because they're under his spell. He turns and catches my eye,
and laughs. But I don�t join him, I just stay behind to watch.

Carry On
The lawn seems wider than it usually is. I regret every step. I want to turn around and hide. I
want to go back inside and curl up and cry. But he needs someone there. Even if it's only me.
And he did ask me to come. So I keep walking. I sigh when I see the stairs. I don't want to climb
them, and I don't think I'll be able to. But I do, and I let myself in.
The house is dark. All of the curtains are drawn. A little girl next door shrieks happily as she and
her brother run through a sprinkler. I'm furious with them. Don't they know he's gone?
Suddenly I feel sick. I need to turn around and get out. I need to be in my own bed- I need to be
hiding under my own blanket. I need to get away from all of this, the lawyers and old
schoolmates calling, the relatives that don't care and only want their part of the estate- the sullen
cousins and little sisters looking trampy in their tight black dresses who were forced to come and
didn't care about him. They are all taking their flights home, probably planning a party or reading
a novel. We have to stay.
The hallway doesn't want me there either. I step and it screeches in reply. I should obviously not
be here. But he asked me to come. I feel myself crying, but it's not me. It's an actress who looks
just like me, playing an awkwardly written, non-equity part.
I walk through the kitchen. Out of habit, I open the refrigerator. There isn't any food, except for
some old soy sauce and relish. It's natural, and satisfied, I nod. I continue my quest into the
living room, and this is where I find him looking like yesterday's dinner.
He is wearing his suit from the funeral yesterday, and it's wrinkled and dirty and his tie and shirt
collar are loose and rumpled. I've stopped crying, and he looks as though he hasn't cried at all. I
haven't seen him cry, ever. His feet hang over the edge of the sofa, and he is hunched over, his
mouth shut tight, his eyes wide open. He is leaning forward slightly and his mouth is set in a
straight, thin line. He hasn't heard me come in- or at least, he hasn't acknowledged me.
The kids outside are laughing. He turns to me suddenly, as I'm standing at the end of the couch,
staring at the ground. "Make them shut up." His voice cracks, and I see his lip trembling. Oh, no
God, please don't let him cry. Please don't let him cry!
He starts to cry, and I feel like I should be crying but I just can't do it anymore. I sit down next to
him and he leans into me. This isn't right, I think to myself. I'm always leaning into him, and Alex
was always leaning into me. Who can I lean on now? And then it comes to me like lightening and
earthquakes and crying- who did he lean on before? This broken, empty shell of a person never
had anyone to lean on in his life- but now he doesn�t even have someone who is dependent on
him.
He lets out a long, shuddering sigh. "Oh, God." I don't say anything. "This- this is just. You don't
understand- we were so- we had to-" he starts crying hard again, and I don't say anything but feel
his tears falling onto me.
I decide to say something, genius that I am. "It'll..it'll be ok. You'll see."
He cries. "You're just a kid!" I nod, and think to myself, so are you...so was he. "Now- now I have
to die- we all just live, and life is hell, and then we just-" He reached into his pocket and pulls out
tickets to a concert. "We had- we were going to go to-" I take them from his shaking hand and
put them on the coffee table.
I need to say something but I don't know what. "I hate..I hate.." I can't think of who to hate the
most- his parents who deserted him- the boys in khakis who could lie to themselves in order to
be elected Homecoming King, who beat him up when he was in school- the men in the alley who
raped him in New York last summer- all of the people who made his life shit before he died- and
the doctors who couldn�t make him better. No more second-chances, no more second-guessing.
Game's over. I finally start crying, but then I regret it because I want to stay under control, and
now I'm losing it like the night that he called to tell me. Then, I hate him for leaving.
He sighs, shuddering, and slowly the tears just dry up for him, but not for me. He strokes my hair
and kisses the top of my head. My hands are fists- but there's no one left to fight. There's nothing
we can do.
The kids outside are still laughing and shrieking. I hate them.

Trivial Pursuit

I sat under the table in the dark and suddenly felt a sharp pain in my knee. I bit my lip to keep
from swearing and removed the pen I had inadvertently rested on. My breathing sounded loud
and harsh, so I tried to breath through my nose. My heart was pounding, but I didn�t dare move
for fear of being caught. I knelt, frozen and cramped, the back of my neck throbbing and my
knees aching. I could hear footsteps coming closer and I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the
inevitable moment of capture. Clenching my hands into fists, I debated rolling out the other side
and finding another hiding place while my hunter stumbled around in the inky blackness but
decided to stay still and risk being apprehended.
I heard low voices talking, the pitches rising and falling with the unintelligible exchange
of vital information. I felt my muscles tense up, knowing that I didn�t have much time. The
footsteps came closer to the table and my heart seemed to leap up my throat. A hand flung up
the tablecloth and I was staring into the shining, fanatic eyes that haunted my dreams.
�Ahh! Caught you!� She scampered across the room to turn on the lights. �Now it�s
Gracie�s turn to count�. I stood up, my head hanging low, my mouth filled with the metallic
bitterness of defeat, ready to begin again.