Infatuation (Part 2) � Lena
Audacity was my motive. If I was not being a completely obnoxious tomboy, I was an audaciously sincere male impersonator. Atop my motorcycle, I rode through the city, throwing candid, but daringly cool, expressions at attractive girls. I was their �motorcycle boy,� the transitory, mysterious one who swept through the shadows, with my bomber jacket flowing off my muscular shoulders like the cape of a phantom, as I soared over hindrances and obstacles. The snow and tedious winter months could not even halt me; invincible I was. Gripping the handlebars, I felt my dark brown hair flying in the wind behind me and heard the engine roaring in my ears. Audaciously, I jumped through the air over snowdrifts, sedentary cars, and rotting piles of garbage that lay strewn in the streets. My girls would watch me � I was their idol � and, by the yearning, envious looks upon their faces, they were in awe. They had never seen most boys perform such stunts � only in the movies was it capable of happening. And, I was their dream, if only I could actually speak to them.
That was my handicap � actual human communication. Perhaps Superman was not verbal, either, but I could not posture or muster an attitude of social equanimity. Thus, I was Lena, the Audacious, and Lena, the Aloof, and behind all of those layers of labels I desired, I was Lena, the Female. But, I liked � no, in fact, loved � girls and therefore became a compulsive womanizer � the silent charmer. My carrot � dashing smile, audacity, and prowess � was to be thrown to the girls and for them to grapple with, as I faded into the shadows as a mystery as Lena, the Aloof. Yet, I did not feign anything, aside from my gender identity. Androgyny became my shield of ambiguity. My hair touched the tops of my ears, but, yet, I was fortunate enough to have muscles. Leather boots with polished silver studs adorned me, as I rode through the streets, but I also possessed two useless organs called breasts. If I were to suddenly split, causing a dichotomy of my personality, a debate would occur between the two sides. The boots and short hair would argue, �Forget your female sex; you are a boy at heart,� while the breasts, menstruation cycle, and lone silver chain would retort with, �Why are you trying to cover yourself up?� And, thus, the argument concerning �Who is Lena?� would ensue. Lena was an avid womanizer, an aloof male imposter, and the mystic boy atop the speeding, candy-apple red motorcycle.
�You are confused,� psychiatrists and counselors would inform me. �You just can�t decide on what you want to be.� Well, I was what I wanted to be, I told myself. If I desired to be a chain smoker and an aloof male, then I would be all of those things. If they wanted me to be something else, I would definitely ride my motorcycle to escape the issue and enter my own state of introversion.
That is what everyone wanted me to be � something else. Sitting upstairs in my room as I listened to a New Order tape, I protested wearing a dress to a cousin�s wedding. A black mini-skirt and a pink striped blouse lay at the foot of my bed, but I refused to put them on. I preferred to wear a tuxedo, actually, but my mother forbade it. �You�ve got to look like a lady,� she had told me. But, as I stared at those repulsive clothes, I reviled in disgust at the thought of wearing them and casting my jeans aside. The image of a swanky whore, who was wandering through a smoke-filled bar, entered my mind. She minced on her black pumps, smoking a dainty cigarette between her bright red lips. As she walked, all of the corpulent, drunken men on the bar stools turned their heads to stare in her direction and salivated with the singular thought on their minds: sex. She was the one, their sex toy to be used for the night as nothing more than a reason for their stiff erections. The reality was, she was faceless, despite her visage, which was covered in layers of makeup. Pulchritude, cigarettes, and sex were the mere items that had any value. The thought of affectionately kissing another man sent shivers up my spine. She had to leave my mind, or else, I would regurgitate my identity, surrendering it to be a nonentity of a whore. I cast a blanket over the clothes, and then, concentrated in New Order�s lugubrious lyrics.
�How does it feel?� I repeated over and over, wondering the significance of �it.� In the context of my life, �It� was my gender identity, which few seemed to properly comprehend. �But, why don�t you want to be a girl?� was a frequently asked question. My response was, �Why do I want to be a girl?� Girls, to me, were associated with pale-faced china dolls, standing perfectly still and erect in their dresses, as they were placed on display. Girls were makeup and gloss and thrived in the dross of gossip. Girls had immaculate, lithe bodies, with synthetic-looking hair. Girls were fickle, but, concurrently, objects of blatant lust. Evaluating myself, I was none of these things. I am androgynous, I told myself, a vague, ambiguous person with a mysterious sexuality. How did it feel it be myself? Confusing, enticing, and candidly dangerous, or, in another light, something far from a mundane existence.
My mother came pounding up the stairs in her high heels to my room. The distant sound of a slight step, followed by a thump on the carpeted stairs, indicated that my mother, not my father or brother, was venturing up to my room to reprimand me.
The door burst open, and she firmly stood, with an impatient, disapproving stare upon her face. �Lena!� she exclaimed. �Why aren�t you ready yet?�
�I don�t know,� I replied, using my trite answer to any question.
�We�re supposed to be there in twenty minutes!� She hastily looked about my room, impatiently checking every corner for a few cursory seconds. �Where are those clothes I bought you?�
�Um, I don�t know,� I lied.
Her visage augmented � eyes turning into sharpened daggers, skin turning to a shade of vermilion, and fingers curling like snakes out of her frustration. Removing her hands from her hips, she stalked over to my closet, grabbed the doors, and opened it with a jerking swing of her arm. Turning hanger after hanger, she became even more frustrated, as she could not find the clothes that exemplified the epitome of a prostitute�s attire.
�Where are your clothes?� Her perturbed attitude became exacerbated.
�I�m not wearing them,� I asserted. �I don�t want to look like some whore.�
�Where are they? Where�d you put them, Lena?�
�I don�t know,� I lied and lay down on my back on my bed. Ignoring my mother, I gazed upward at the ceiling panels above - beige, chipped paint, and divided into rectangles, like sardines squeezed into a can. The ceiling fan spun slowly around, like the propeller of an airplane, spinning through the turgid sky during the torrid month of August. Through clouds as thick as cream and air saturated with moisture, only a knife could emerge. Illuminated flowers in the center � glowing bells with frozen petals � curved outward to reveal a light bulb.
�Lena, are you paying attention to me?� my mother interjected.
�Not in the least,� I replied.
�Fine, stay home,� she retorted. �For once, you could cooperate and please your cousin, but you only care about yourself. Just stay home; we�re late already.�
New Order�s sonorous, saturnine sound lulled me into its spell, as my mother exited my room. The flowers grew brighter, the fan spun slower, and New Order became more morose. What to do, I asked myself, as I thought of the innumerable amount of possibilities that I could do today. My family � mother, father, and brother � left like a clamorous flock of chickens. The thought of a cousin � not the one in Oklahoma that gave me his motorcycle � in a white taffeta gown sent shivers up my back. Unlike her, I was not going to succumb to femininity and conformity.
The snow piled up outside � layer of white upon layer of gray to give the appearance of a black and white layer cake. Cars took several minutes � crawling up the street in the activity-halting torpor. Few were outside, and no windows across the street had their shades up. Smart idea, I thought, with the notion that everyone else, aside from my, must be snugly sleeping on his or her bed, with the quilt pulled up to his or he chin, with furnaces releasing their waves up heat into every room. Perhaps that was what I ought to do, but I was restless and itched for activity. The motorcycle, like blood against the snow, stood in front of the house, and here I was, in my room, and staring at my ceiling. A world � frozen and lacking human participation � laid beyond the front door. Yet, I continued to remain in my supine position. There must be more to life, I thought, although I have not been able to figure it out.
Creeping down the stairs � my steps were the only sounds in this lonely dwelling � I decided to make myself a breakfast that could benefit my cogitation on my plans for the day. Coffee, with the pungent fragrance that seemed to act like daggers to the dead cells of the morning, and waffles, with their uniform cubicle pattern, in a sea of maple syrup. The television beckoned me toward the lumpy corduroy sofa in the living room, and I plopped down upon it � remote control and breakfast in hand. Saturday morning in a city trapped in a stupor by snow � with only Japanese cartoons to watch � was not my concise idea of pleasure, but it compensated for watching a cousin trapped in the constraints of femininity and marriage.
Always drink coffee with a spoonful of sugar was my way to handle breakfast and the rest of the day. Face the world head-on and become inured in the bitterness with retorts. Yet, the snow still confined me inside the house to sulk about and watch poorly animated cartoons of distorted people with large gemstone eyes and long legs. And, like the weather, I would continue to remain in this torpid state.
By the way one made his or her coffee, I sensed certain traits about him or her. Perhaps my audacity laid in that cup of dark, bitter liquid. Sugar, cream, and the shade of color could reveal several aspects of someone. Too much sugar or cream revealed that one was a very secretive person, while none indicated that they were shamelessly open. The fact that one might not mix his or her coffee well enough showed that he or she was quick, which indicated that time played an inveterate factor in his or her life.
Perhaps I merely postured. If that were the case, I was the master poser. I lure, and they � the watchers � follow me eagerly. And, that was where Glynis, the skeptic, entered, who was the only girl to ever doubt my audacity and posturing. Instead, I followed her into her spell, as she believed my thoughts regarding coffee�s implications.
And, there was the motorcycle � the candy-red allure that gleamed in the gray light of the morning outside. Any girl that could ride that vehicle with such prowess was worthy of attention. With the leather, mysterious air, and androgyny, I even captured the skeptic.
Unlike other girls, however, Glynis did not seem submissive. Instead, her spunk vied to challenge mine, to force me to jump on and to take her ride. Where was she going to take me that I could not take myself? Where would her trolley stop? The first instant proved that �sugar, spice, and everything nice� would be a mere memory. But, simultaneously, I myself would not be flung into subordination. From where I stood, I planned to see the horizon from the same view she saw, and not an inch lower. If one possessed the audacity, they would not retreat; no one, not even Glynis, was going to pull the pedestal out from under me.
And, of course, I ended up driving her home on the legendary candy-red motorcycle. Control was mine, until I dropped her � slightly timorous after my frenetic ride - off in front of her house and left to return to mine. The motorcycle seemed to ride indolently after that, but perhaps, it was a mere illusion that was fabricated from my disappointment that she was gone. Alone, today and nearly unlike any other day, I now knew my plans. New Order and the yammering anime cartoons were to be turned off in a few moments. A motorcycle, the color of a red apple coated in solid corn syrup, awaited me outside, while the address of my audacious equal repeated itself inside my head. The clothes needed to be changed and the plates put into the sink to be washed later. Glynis needed not wait any further minutes � any moment, this stupor was going to arrive at a roaring halt.
Dressed in blue jeans, a black shirt, and my bomber jacket, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my pale visage. A can of hair gel lurked in the corners of the medicine cabinet, and I grabbed it without questioning. As I squeezed a glob into the palm of my hand, the clear, unctuous substance reminded me of inhuman matter, although synthetic seemed to be the obvious adjective. Synthetic as it was, its transparency displayed its easy dispose. And, with a moment of my hand to smooth out my hair or to appear like some greaser social pariah, only a soupcon trace of it � two white, waxy streaks that could be washed away into insignificance - was left on my palm.
To sit like a pile of compost at an apparently joyous occasion or to enjoy myself with the girl whom I could righteously call mine was the juxtaposition of the morning; to rot in disgust or to enjoy myself in levity. The vivid colors � of pink champagne bubbles, shooting stars, blackish-brown eyes of mystery, and feathery bluish hair � called to me. Outside, my motorcycle was chained to the iron railing adjacent to the cement stairs that led to the door. Despite snow had piled on my seat during the night, that inconvenience would not hinder my motivations. Locking the front door, I left the house and unlocked my motorcycle; the snow easily brushed off the black mock-leather seat, which was worn after years� usage by my cousin and me. Coughing and grinding its teeth, the engine fell into its usual vibratory hum of metal parts. And, with a glance into the mirror, I smiled a devilish, mischievous grin; the time to fly above the world, which was deluged in its own torpor, had come.
Like the rest of the city, Glynis�s street appeared no different � in a halting stupor from the mountainous piled of snow and trash in the streets. Black trash bags were carelessly thrown onto the sidewalk, even to the point in which the contents littered the snow. Shades wee drawn like eyes still in slumber, and the impermeable row of row houses cast a tepid shadow on the cars buried in the frigid white powder. Glynis�s house was not unlike the rest, and I nearly doubted that anyone was awake, until I noticed a portly woman in a stained brown coat waddle out of her house and onto the street.
�Glynis! Mike!� she called when she stood in the doorframe. �Make sure your brothers get breakfast, hear? And don�t get into any trouble!� she paused, I assumed, in doubt. �I�ll be back in a few hours, and I want this house to look the same when I return, understood?�
She closed the door behind, turning her back toward me. Walking over piles of frozen trash, I waited on the sidewalk until she left my vision. After parking my motorcycle in front of her house, I walked up the stairs and pressed the dissonant-sounding doorbell.
�Jesse, go home!� a male�s voice yelled from inside the house.
�Answer the door, you moron!� a female voice, I assumed to be Glynis�s, retorted.
�I�m not opening the door for some faggot!�
�Don�t you call him that!� the female voice exclaimed.
�Answer the damn door, Glynis.�
�I�m busy!�
�Answer the damn door!�
The argument ensued for a few more minutes, but did not escalate beyond the two voices yelling. I hoped that her brother would not answer since I did not want to explain who I was and why I was here. And, Glynis knew who I was, without doubt. The morning neared the end of its tenure, and the afternoon would soon be rolling in through the dreary skies. The honey-colored sun began to raise its head out from the milky, smog-laden sky. A thin rod of light appeared to bisect the center of the street. The piles of snow glistened with melting ice, and the hoods of cars, like the brows of perspiring people, had their frost-encrusted windows melt.
However, no one felt like opening the door. The two voices continued to argue about this ambiguous person named Jesse. �I�m not opening the door, Glynis,� rebuked the male voice. �No faggot is going to set foot in this house.�
�You asshole,� vexed Glynis. �You�re making him stand out there for twenty minutes.�
�Why the hell can�t you answer the door? He�s your friend.�
�You�re closer to the door, Michael.�
�I told you that I don�t feel like answering the door.�
Their string of retorts eventually receded, and Glynis decided to open the door; her eyes were aglow and radiant once she saw me standing on her steps.
�Sorry to keep you waiting,� she said in a demure but congenial tone. �My older brother is an asshole.�
�It�s no problem,� I replied. �It�s not bad outside,� I lied.
�You want to come in?� she asked. �We can chill in my room for a bit.�
�Yeah, sure.�
I closed the door behind me and walked into Glynis�s house, which looked similar to mine, aside from the fact that she had three brothers populating the living room. The television blared, and two towheaded young boys watched their Saturday morning cartoons intently, ignoring their two older siblings who were on the verge of a verbal brawl. Glynis glowered at her older brother, another towheaded family member, who looked equally as irked at her as she was of him.
�And you tell me you�re doing school work,� he sneered at her. �That�s such bull shit.�
Glynis stuck her chin out at him, as she walked past him and to a flight of carpeted stairs. Intently, I followed her, as she climbed them and observed her every move from gripping the banister to the slight bends that her knees made as she walked. On arm hung at her side, naturally curled like a vacillating fish frozen in its struggle, as its lip was caught onto the hook of a fishing rod. Under her flannel shirt, I noticed her back � the angular, tense shoulder blades and crease in the center. No brassiere clung to her back, either.
Like her faded shirt, her denim jeans lost most of their original indigo color. Only the seams, which ran in sporadic, spotted lines down the sides of her legs, had any notation of once being dark blue. Scuffed black boots, mottled with salt spots, and a lone black leather bracelet that hung about her thin wrist adorned her. At the top of the stairs, she turned toward me, and her mop of blue hair shifted and cast a different shadow upon her neck. With her dark eyes illuminated by the singular blue flames in her pupils, she asked, �So, what do you want to do?�
This question caught me awkwardly and sounded odd, especially considering that this was her house, but, then again, I ventured her on my own; she was kind enough to et me inside, despite whatever she was doing before.
�I don�t know,� I replied. �What do you have here?�
Glynis cogitated in a cursory fashion for a moment, before a fiendish, mischievous grin crept across her lips. �My brother has a bottle of Jack Daniel�s under his bed.� She paused, but still smirked. �I don�t think he deserves to drink all of it.� The flames in her pupils grew as fuel was added to the fire. �Let�s go.�
Glynis took me into her room, which was devoid of any individuality. Two beds, with monochromatic sheets, stood in the center, and a stereo, which only had a tape deck and radio, with two stacks of tapes decorating its sides, was elevated upon a shelf that held some books. A closet, complete with a mirror on the door, finished the ensemble.
�You can sit down on my bed.� She pointed to a rectangular bed with forest green covers and faded notebooks strewn across its surface. An algebra textbook sat, open-faced, at the foot of her bed, but I merely glanced at it. Leaning from my position, I spied a page of red quadratic equations, numbered one through forty. Quickly, Glynis knelt down on the carpet and crawled over to the brother�s bed, which was similar in appearance but had dark blue sheets and was covered with several pairs of nearly threadbare jeans in a pile at the center. Her hands groped under, trying to find something that she previously had found accidentally.
�I know he has a bottle of it under here somewhere,� she said, certain about her assertion. �And, it should be full, too, unless her drank most of it already.�
After a few moments of searching, Glynis, to her delight, pulled a cardboard box out from under the bed, with five half-empty bottles inside. Taking one out at a time, she laid them on his bed. Yellowish and amber-colored liquids lay flat against the vertical bottles. The labels were faded, but Glynis picked up two full ones and observed their ingredients.
�Found it,� she stated, before placing all the other bottles back into the box and sliding them under the bed. �Let�s have some fun,� she said, with a sly, secretive smile. �Let�s go.� She beckoned me out of her room and across the hall to a bathroom. Closing the door behind, she laughed, tilting her head back, as her eyes shaped into dark crescents. �It�s time for us to enjoy ourselves. No one knows what two infatuated girls can do, anyway.�
I kept my back against the door since the bathroom was small and acknowledged the zippers on my bomber jacket carefully. Glynis, however, was aglow, radiating with her happiness; I smiled in return, but not out of complacency; audacity and admirers aside, Glynis was the only satiability to my lovesick androgynous self.
Placing the bottle on the floor, Glynis turned the hot and cold knobs of the bathtub � a yellowed porcelain basin, dispersed with gray lines that mimicked cracks � and poured in blue and red bubble baths. Like multiplying, cancerous cells, the bubbles populated and filled the tub, until they slid off the rim and onto the floor.
Confused about the relationship of whiskey and a bubble bath, I asked, �What are the bubbles for?�
�No reason,� she replied, and flashed me her sly, disarming smile. �Just get in.�
Nonchalantly, Glynis slid into the bathtub with her clothes on. Once the bubbles immersed her body up to her neck, she slipped her flannel shirt off, casting it onto the green linoleum floor.
�C�mon, get in,� she jocosely said.
Originally having trepidations, I then complied with Glynis, who now radiated with contagious glee and mischief as she lay on the floor of the tub. Hanging my bomber jacket on the door and removing my boots, I climbed in and sat across from her so that we faced each other. Her facial expression became even more intoxicating � eyes boring into me, trying to hypnotize me into their spell. Grabbing the bottle from the floor, she unscrewed the top, but it to her lips, and took a swig of the amber liquid.
�You�ve got to love that stuff,� she responded and sighed. �You want some now?�
Staring at the brown glass bottle, I became hesitant. The possibility of trying to drive home on my motorcycle traversed my mind, but then soon drove away in a flash on its course and out of my conscience. Glynis continued to gaze at me with her euphoric expression, waiting for me to succumb and become truly audacious. But, despite the audacious allure I possessed, I was not a stoic, pride-driven person. Danger and risks ran through my blood stream, and the alcohol called to me. Become the servant and be submissive forever. Only once, I told myself, will I do this. Despite I was not a heavy drinker, one time would not damage or corrupt me. And, thus, Glynis handed me the bottle of whiskey with eager eyes.
�You�ll love it.� I surmised that Glynis had already taken more than one drink from the bottle.
My eyes closed, as I took a slow drink from the bottle, with the fire already beginning to burn in the depths of my throat. Gathering into a concentrated ball and burning in a pit of glowing coals, the flames burned like a scathing shower of acid down my esophagus. Water streamed superfluously from the ducts of my eyes, running down my cheeks and into the purple bubbles in the bathtub. Glynis�s face � glowing like the acidic fire inside of me � became smeared in my field of vision, but nevertheless, the bottle did not slip from my hands and into the water.
�Gimme,� Glynis said, gabbing the bottle�s neck away from my hands, which seemingly became disconnected from the rest of my arms. My white palms caressed the oiled rim of the bathtub, while my elbows remained in the water.
�Aw, man,� Glynis sighed. �That is one hell of bliss. Don�t you agree, Lena?�
�Yeah,� I mumbled, lying. In fact, the rest of my body felt as if every cell had imploded into a depressed, sedentary state.
�I�ve never thought I was truly straight, hell,� asserted Glynis,� my best friend�s a cross-dresser.� She paused to take another drink. �Just like a �feminate girl � yeah, too effeminate to be a girl, that�s right. Named him Jesse; no wonder, it�s a destiny all in the name. I guess Glynis means failure, huh?�
The room began to become fragrant with whiskey and soap, as Glynis approached the disillusionment brought on by intoxication. By a mere drunk, I felt the affect of the alcohol � like vortexes formed by the swirling purple bubbles in the bathtub, like a drug-induced hallucination. Despite, I grew roots and became sedentary on the porcelain surface, while Glynis became a submissive patron to whiskey, babbling on about her androgynous friend, Jesse, and slurring every word together.
�Comes to my house, right? Ma kicks him out �cause he have purple hair. Purple � so what? Masculine girl gotta befriend a fem guy. Beats me, I tell ya. To sissy to take a drink, but loves his coffee and cigarettes y�know? I go shopping with him � dresses an� such, tight pants � but I feel sorry for him. Got no manhood, I tell you, but I like him. But, you�ve got to have a girlfriend, yessiree.� Her sentences approached incoherency with each word.
The bliss, however, was transitory. As a single fist knocked thrice on the door, Glynis�s head slipped below the surface and the bottle of whiskey dropped from her hand to the floor. The alcohol � the little that was left inside � spilled onto the green linoleum.
The fist knocked again. �Glynis, what the hell are you doing in there?� Her head laggardly emerged to the surface, with her hair covered in a motley arrangement of bubbles, but she did not say a word. �Glynis, goddamnit!� her brother�s voice thundered outside.
�Go away,� she shouted in a delirious tone. �I�m busy.� Each word slurred into the next, and she executed her terse speech with a tinge of pain in her voice.
�You�ve been in there for the past fifteen minutes,� he bellowed again. �What the hell are you doing in there? I gotta take a piss.�
�Takin� a bath,� Glynis mumbled. �Takin� a fuckin� bath.�
�Well, where�s that girl?�
�She�s in here wit� me!� Glynis replied whimsically. �Drinkin� the fuckin� pain away.�
�You�re what?� he exclaimed. �What the fuck are you-�
�Go away,� Glynis answered, gliding like an unctuous serpent into the water.
�Glynis!� her brother exclaimed again, before beginning to pound on the door with more force this time.
Surrounded up to her neck in bubbles, Glynis uttered no words. A sickly smile spread across her face, as if it were composed of a mixture of malicious intent and satisfaction. But, no laugh escaped her lips, as her eyes closed. The bottle of whiskey remained on the floor, without her acknowledgement.
About me, the water seemed to grow cold, and Glynis remained sedentary. About her neck, the purple bubbles were motionless, but the deranged smile still retained its composure across her lips. For a moment, I was credulous to believe that this girl � a porcelain, blue-haired figure amidst a sea of purple � had any degree of tangibility. The stillness combined with the alcohol guzzling did not seem to be compatible, let alone in harmonious agreement as it was now. But, the placid mood merely revealed the cacophony at greater dissonance than it could have if we talked in the bathtub about nonsensical things. The previous ranting created a picture of a chasm in my mind that was filled with dark purple flames that trapped Glynis. With the water becoming frigid and the bubbles dissipating into a carbonated-like fizzle, I climbed out of the tub.
Drying off my clothes and putting my boots back on, I proceeded to clean up the whiskey, but I became startled in my efforts. The door opened, unloosened on one of its hinges. Colliding with the bathroom wall, the door moved aside and revealed Glynis�s older brother, aghast.
�It�s not what you think,� I stammered, as soon as his malicious, onyx eyes glared at me.
However, he did not seem to hear. Pushing past me, he grabbed Glynis, disturbing her impeccably motionless position. Instantly, she awakened, but tried to collapse back into her bliss in the water.
�What the hell do you think you�re doing?� he vexed, shaking her from her wrists.
Glynis did not answer, and I remained a wallflower that blended in with the beige pattern of flowers on the walls.
�I knew you were just like that purple-haired fag you hang around with. It�s a fist in the face for him tomorrow,� he threatened. �I�ll rip whatever balls he has, and, if I could, I�d kill the fuckin� bastard. You understand me?�
Glynis groaned, �No.�
Her brother�s temper ruptured. �What do you mean? Don�t you know what he did to you?�
�Jack shit,� Glynis mumbled. �Jack motherfuckin� shit.�
In her intoxicated state, Glynis collapsed onto the floor, moaning until she regurgitated. Her brother allowed Glynis to slide onto the floor in her delirious state, but then turned toward me. �Get out of my house,� he spoke, as if he possessed authority. �Or else, I�m calling the police.�
In the mildly delusional state I was in, the next few hours became a blur. Leaving Glynis�s house was completely forgotten � a black void that could have been filled with words by he younger brothers watching me stumble out of the house and down the street. My motorcycle remained on her street for a few more days, until I retrieved it after school in the middle of the week. The candy-apple red color had not even been blemished by the corrupting snow.
For the next two weeks, we did not meet at the cafeteria. Perhaps, we were merely avoiding the truth � the cacophonic reality. The two of us were depressed girls, who were oppressed for being ourselves and acting out our own desires. Beyond the blatant errors made from the alcohol and bubble bath, I knew that I liked Glynis. However, neither of us could show our faces and step out into the limelight.
Lying on my bed, I listened to New Order, blasting on the stereo to create a pervasive sea of sound in my room. The wedding finished, and the absence of my presence was not discussed. My mother, despite her objections to my androgynous appearance, never questioned about the disappearance of the clothes. Shoving them into the trash, I erased them from my memory, and, then, donned the familiar hair gel and black bomber jacket. As I rode through the melting snow, the constant vibrations and groan from the engine became a monotonous drone in my ears. How I wished to explode into flames � to become a verbal conflagration and retort at every objection.