We're sitting in this food court halfway between Sbarro Pizza and Dairy Queen, looking over these four guys who are milling around down by Qdoba. Kasha's hyperventilating. "Omigod, omigod, omigod." She grabs my sweater sleeve and wheezes, "You guys, check them out. They are so hot." And I'm thinking, No, they're not. They're guys. The girl behind the Big Wok counter, now she's hot. She's so hot I want to touch her skin and blister my finger. I want to explore her all over with my hands and press and squeeze and fondle what's under that tee she has on. As fast as I can, I want to rip that top off and get her down.
Blood gushes to my face and I drop my eyes. I can't believe I'm thinking that. It's not the first time I've gone there. Lately, it's like every girl I see, I want. In a sexual way. Not Steffi and Kasha, of course. They're not like me. I can never tell them how I feel; what I know in my heart to be true: I'm gay. I'm a lesbian.
"I'll take the blonde," Steffi says, sucking off the tip of her swirl cone.
"Which blonde?" Kasha asks. "They're all blonde."
Steffi looks at her, like, you know which one. The real blonde, as opposed to the box job.
"I'll take the one with the glasses," Steffi says. "He looks sweet."
"He looks like a geek." Kasha screws up her face.
"Yeah, you're right. Forget him."
They hate geeks. Geeks, nerds, goths, gays. Pretty much any definable group is on the diss list.
Personally, I like geeks. Girl geeks, anyway. Women with brains. Knowledge is power. Except for what others know about you. Then it's power to be used against you.
Steffi circles her soft serve with the tip of her tongue and elbows me. "You can choose from the leftovers, Tay."
"Oh, thanks," I mutter. I've barely glanced at them. I haven't undressed them with my eyes the way Steffi and Kasha have. Are. Just the Wok girl. Steffi and Kasha plan their double wedding, while I venture a long, lingering look at her. She's sponging off the counter where the last customer glopped soy sauce all over. God, she's cool. Make that hot. Her hair's pulled up in a twist with chopsticks to keep it in place and she's got a diamond stud in her nose. Heavy makeup. A barbed wire tat around her wrist.
I break out in a sweat.
"Go over there and tell them we'll do them right here, right now," Kasha says to Steffi. "Tell them we take Visa."
Steffi kicks her under the table.
I'd do her. Wok girl. I'd stir fry her pork. God, I can't believe I'm thinking that. I wouldn't know where to start, frying pork or shrimp or any other ingredient. She stocks all the right ingredients.
She's five or six tables away, but her name tag is big enough to read. Topaz. Cool name. Cool name for a hot chick.
The guys apparently concur on dinner at Big Wok. They head over there en masse. Topaz takes her time swabbing the counter and wringing out the sponge. Slowly, her eyes lift to acknowledge them. "Yeah?" she says, sort of clipped and wary.
Dye Job steps up. "Let's see." He rubs his scruffy goatee and scans the menu. "We'll have the dog shit and maggot platter, a lesbo lemon chicken, and two orders of suck my dick."
The other guys howl. Kasha and Steffi widen eyes at each other, then burst into laughter. For the record, I don't join in. The guys are pigs. They make me sick.
I despise the goatee look. The whole grunge thing. Filth outside, filth inside. Topaz's expression doesn't change. Really, I think. Don't give them the satisfaction.
She turns a cold shoulder and dumps a bin of chicken tenders into a giant wok.
"Hey. Dyke-oh. Did you get our order?"
She plays deaf.
"Dyke. Oh," Dye Job repeats. "Psycho dyke-oh."
Oh, he's hilarious.
One of the other guys, the one with the most highly decorated letter jacket, adds, "Can't you fools read? Her name is Topaz. Or is that To-Spaz?"
He cracks himself up. He gives a bad name to athletics. Glasses brays like a donkey.
Dye Job picks up a packet of sweet and sour sauce near the cash register and rips it open with his teeth. "So," he spits out the corner of the packet onto the floor, "you busy tonight, Spaz? We're having a wienie roast in your honor."
Letter Jacket guffaws. The other two snicker into their chests.
Topaz retrieves a spatula and foists it at them threateningly. All four flinch. A faint smile creases her face and she begins to fry the chicken. I like her. I want to be with her. Suddenly, I want her to do more; say more. Tell them to fuck off. Eat shit and die. Tell them they're jerks and she won't take it. Don't take it.
Dye Job squirts his packet of sweet and sour onto the counter, right where Topaz just cleaned. He hitches his chin at Letter Jacket, who perks up as if an arrow got shoved up his ass. Letter Jacket tears open a packet of sauce and dribbles it. The other two are sheep. They're writing on the counter, one letter each. I bet I can guess.
"What are they doing?" Kasha strains her neck to see. Steffi climbs onto the back of the chair and sits with her short skirt overhanging the top rung.
Topaz seems unfazed, although she's scraping away like mad at the chicken. Her shoulders are hunched, tensed.
I want to rush the creeps; tackle them; smash their faces into the floor. I want to take them out one by one and pound their pretty teeth into their nasty mouths. I want to damage them. But I'm not strong enough. Physically or… emotionally. Or any other way.
I'm a fake. A false front. The slightest knock and I'd topple over backward. No one can ever know.
I can't help obsessing about what people would say if they knew. What Kasha and Steffi would say. The rest of the squad. My fear is debilitating. Paralyzing. It's changing me; making me bitter. I used to be a nice person. Happy, hopeful. I'm turning into a bitch. I hate me.
"Give me a D," Letter Jacket chants, pointing at the counter.
Dye Job says on cue, "Give me a Y." He forms the letter with his arms.
"Give me a K." Glasses joins in.
Dye Job ends, "Give me an E; what does it spell?"
Steffi and Kasha cover their mouths and try to stifle giggles. Kasha moves atop her chair, too. They're actually amused by this. Kasha uncovers her mouth, unable to hold it in, and laughs out loud. The guys' heads swivel. At the encouragement, Letter Jacket smiles and waves. Like he knows us.
They don't go to St. John's Academy. I don't know where they go. They can go to hell.
"Omigod." Kasha flops back into her chair. "They're coming over."
Dye Job leads the pride as they swagger to our table. Letter Jacket is so tall and broad he blocks my view of Topaz. Glasses says, shifting his feet, "Hey, ladies. How's it going?"
He's out of his league, and knows it.
Dye Job rolls his eyes at me. He's out of his league, too, but doesn't know it. Pathetic. I hate him. I hate them all.
Kasha says, "Where do you guys go? I don't recognize your colors."
Up until now the fourth guy has been silent. He answers Kasha, "Northridge. We're here for the state tourney."
"Duh," Steffi says. "We figured that."
The guy blushes fluorescent red. If he wasn't a guy, I'd think he was kind of cute. Dye Job's staring at me. What? I lift my Coke and take a sip. Fuck off, I think. Bail before I hurl on your high tops.
See? Raging bitch.
Steffi and Kasha start cracking jokes and acting stupid and flirty. I wish I wasn't with them. I wish I wasn't one of them. I lean around Blush Boy to catch a glimpse of Topaz; see what she's up to. She's mopping the mess they left on the counter. She looks ready to cry. God. Her sadness is so palpable, my throat catches. I want to hold her.
I want to be soft again. Nice. I want to be at peace with myself, and the world.
All at once the guys are pulling over chairs from another table, inviting themselves to join us. Or did Kasha invite them? I'd tuned out. "What's your name?" Dye Job asks me.
I just look at him. "Mabel," I say.
Steffi snorts.
I widen my eyes at her. I don't want to get to know these guys, okay?
"What's the C on your sleeve?" Dye Job pokes me there.
I almost karate chop his head. Don't touch me! I think. Don't ever touch me. I lean back with my Coke in hand, poised to trip the lid and slosh it in his lap at the slightest provocation.
"Captain, right?" Blush Boy meets my eyes.
Cute and intellectually gifted. Be still my heart.
"What's the V?" Glasses asks, eyebrows raised.
I shouldn't have let Steffi and Kasha talk me into coming with them. The second playoff game didn't start until eight p.m., so it seemed a waste to hang around the arena when we were within walking distance of the city. Steffi and Kasha were hungry, as usual, and I'm never one to turn down food, so we decided to go look for a shopping area with a food court. The rest of the squad stayed behind to patronize the concessions, which was just as well. I was sick of them. Sick of me. Sick of hiding it. Sick of having to.
It wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't C. CV. Captain of the varsity cheerleading squad. Who'd ever suspect the CV was gay? A queer?
Give me a D. Give me a Y.