Date: Sat, 15 Jan 2011 00:53:53 -0500
From: inabelljar@gmail.com
Subject: Hot Palms Pt. 3 by Audrine Vice

At the blast of an alarm and a slamming door downstairs, Jeri started,
clutching her bed, readjusting to the sweaty, dark world of her house with
no air circulation. She stared at her clock until the red numbers
registered: 4:30. Shit. Work was in half an hour, with a twenty-minute
drive down Lake Boulevard, not counting work traffic. She sat up, bent
forward and groaned, all her muscles crawling with sleep. Her dreams
summarized themselves in quick review flashes, hazy blonde clouds, the
inside of her car, a pair of pink smiling lips slurping an electric blue
drink from a straw. Tess's party was tonight. She had spent the rest of the
week at school in question, finding herself wandering near the football
field at a safe distance, warily observing the flock as they mingled with
football studs. The way they walked differently in the presence of these
boy-men, their white tennis shoes laced tight, bending over to stretch,
then lengthening themselves, taut stomachs peeking out, examining their
nails and convening to evaluate this year's team. They were as banal as one
expected, the prime of their lives having come early, signed to end one day
after graduation when their mothers would nudge them eagerly towards some
nameless Southern gentleman, prepared like mannequins for a lifetime
storefront display.

Black shorts, blue uniform t-shirt, hairbrush, sandals. No, can't wear
sandals, new policy. Converse. These'll have to fly. Kicking stray pairs of
jeans and books out of her path, Jeri jumped down the stairs, flinging open
the refrigerator and mumbling as she raced through its contents, finding a
browning plantain and a cherry Capri-Sun. A note from her mother on the
refrigerator door--Working an extra shift, back late, make yourself
dinner--went unnoticed as usual. Jeri was accustomed to fending for herself
and didn't need instructions. Locking up the house, she glanced in the
rearview, noting how curly the humidity had made her hair, and sloppily
sped backwards out of the driveway.

Though the air was still velcro, the temperature had dropped slightly with
the weekend's arrival, and Jeri opened all her windows as she sped down the
slowly crowding main road, switching to lanes that kept her in the shade
and out of the sudden sharp flashes of mid-afternoon daylight. Absorbed in
the Ramones, still waking up, she caught herself in a right-turn-only lane,
and work was straight ahead.  Unfazed, she gauged how annoyed her boss
would be at her lateness, and took this road she didn't know, a scenic
route to the same place, she hoped. She tightened her grip on the wheel,
triceps tightening, imagining the wisp of a girl next to her, like a ghost,
smoking her cigarettes. Where am I? Up on the right, Ventura Street,
Charleston Avenue, and then the wealthy subdivisions, Arthur Court,
Magnolia Island, and the long drive through Pepper Hill, a neighborhood
which Miller H.S. could have designed a direct bus route to--the party
haven of their district, swanky Rainbow Row-style three-stories set in
front of scenic marshland. She probably lives there.

Jeri suddenly missed Kenna, whom she hadn't thought of in months, who
played tennis at the club at Pepper when Jeri got lost driving through the
area one day. Only other lesbian she knew of who attended Miller, closeted
as expected, like Jeri, though Jeri's sexual status wasn't exactly hidden
from anyone. Kenna, green-eyed and serious, hid her secrets under tight
black braids and a starched tennis dress--skull tattoos, just a shade
darker than her chestnut skin, laced up her sides like corset ties, most
glamorous body Jeri'd ever seen. Could've been a model, but cared about
nothing but tennis, and for a while, Jeri. They'd fucked, hardly speaking,
in her car when Kenna finished practice that day, her neck wet with sweat,
immaculate shaved legs pinning Jeri back, hypnotizing cat eyes darting all
over her in position to pounce. Sixteen years old, unable to maintain her
usual facade of cold lust for two months, Jeri showed up at her tennis
championship that year, enamored, feeling as if she should have brought
flowers when she saw the foreshortened lynx legs pounding the court,
vicious and swift, face in total focus while the large audience grudgingly
shifted in a wave to allow Jeri a seat. Kenna's eyes were glued to her in
the stands, frightened, as she played, as if accepting her presence, but
warning her not to reveal herself. First time Jeri saw her weakness, an
eighteen-year-old with a budding star career, first time she understood her
limits, the rules. Kenna lost the match; she disappeared, and Jeri resumed
her stoic butch pose, the word heartbroken banned from her vocabulary.

She found herself signaling right and swerving in. To see the tennis court,
she decided. From a few streets back in the neighborhood, Jeri felt the
vibration of bass, the car in front of her heading towards it, swerving
drunkenly as the driver threw a glass bottle out of window. Jeri swerved to
dodge it, aggravated, but sped up to follow the car, which did seem to be
headed for the noise. She slowed, wanting to check things out, positive in
her hunch, and rolled up slowly behind what seemed to be a mass drive-in
before a excessive and manicured pale-blue mansion, swarming with
teenagers. The tennis court was the other direction; she just wanted to
know what she was wearing, if she was smoking, did she have a boyfriend?
Did it matter?


Staring dully into the mirror, Tess emptied her vodka glass into the sink,
rinsing it and filling it with cold water. She didn't want to drink, but
would have to pretend. A few more hours of this might inspire alcohol
later, when the jocks wouldn't leave and the music hurt her ears. Someone
banged on the bathroom door, and she didn't answer, glancing at the
lock. She always had this as her time to herself, escaping to "use the
bathroom," just wanting quiet. The music came muffled from outside, just
the deep boom of bass with no audible lyrics, reminding her of some high
school movie. She crept up to the mirror, nosing the glass, pulling her
lower eyelid down to mark it black, then the other, hipbones pushing into
the sink under a tiered orange tea dress her mother had picked out. Her
hair was tangled and she ran her hands through it, wanting to look good,
wondering if there was anyone to meet, though she hardly cared and just
needed something to do. No one really listened, and she'd given up on
talking; no one found her strange for sulking on the living room ottoman,
gulping from a glass, dazed by a soccer game on television.  Even a
birthday party was never about the host, only the guests and their ability
to BYOB.

Opening the door, she apologetically let in an aloof brunette, covered in
glitter, and then began to wander, feeling strange in her own house, more
like a nightclub. The sun was setting. She had always lived here. She
caught herself in the mirror--a carefully drawn nectarine with blackout
eyes, clumps of copper bangles on each arm, her hair pinned back, lips
chapped in the heat. She reached into her bag and pulled out an unopened
pack of Pall Malls, reading the seal, the warnings, the motto, gently
peeling off the plastic and squeezing the green box thoughtfully against
her orange ruffles, wondering if they tasted the same as Jeri's. Driving by
the gas station earlier that day, she remembered that Rachael and Genna
only drank diet soda and stopped to pick some up, noticing for the first
time the rainbow of tobacco products behind the counter. Quietly, she
scanned the boxes, names meaning nothing, then looked at the discounts, in
case she didn't like what she bought. She didn't know what Jeri smoked, but
it tasted like mint; she asked for menthols, fumbled for her driver's
license, and left feeling different, worse, but better.

Broad shoulders and an Irish face blocked her exit to the front
veranda. This was Mike, or Mitchell, that seemed right, she thought. He
bulged in a tight t-shirt reading "ITALIA," which struck her as ironic in
view of his shaggy auburn complexion. His freckled hand was boldly on her
arm, and he drawled in a blurry tone that tasted of light beer, inviting
her outside. Lacrosse captain, and an unquestioned player in the school
drama association, reveling in his ability to dabble in the less-masculine,
great way to charm, sullen pretty introverts reciting Twelfth Night, thrown
off-guard. A perfect balance of sensitive and sexy, Monika had swooned,
stupidly.

Wearily, she conceded, killing two birds with one stone, the need to be a
showhorse, and the need to find a lighter, a forgotten necessity in her
nervous attempt to purchase her smokes like a veteran chimney. Without
speaking, she opened the pack, clean and uniform, and undid its patterned
rows of white sticks, mouthing one playfully between her lips, as he
reached around to caress her backside frankly and struck a match. A light
for a grope, fair-trade commerce. She felt obligated to little more than
remaining in place, staring straight ahead and nodding as she felt him
pulse his muscles intentionally with each breath, talking too close to her
face about the profoundness of Chekhov, resorting to World Cup commentary
when he ran out of knowledge.

Her eyes softened, scanning the driveway that had become a parking lot
sadly. It didn't feel like a birthday. Behind the haphazard rows of Benzes
and supersize Hummers, she saw what she didn't realize she wanted to see--a
Jeep. Swallowing hard, she unconsciously pulled her arm away from the
Irishman's tangle, looking for eye contact, mouth agape. How can I pretend
I don't want to see you again? Her eyes locked on Jeri's for a split
second; like a startled animal, she shoveled her hair around her face and
clumsily turned the wheel, refusing to look back. This time, Tess didn't
follow the car as it drove away, reaching for her cigarette and taking a
long drag. She turned away, facing her house, looking into the door as
so-called friends poured out with armfuls of beer cans. Another drag, and
every fast drag after that, sucking it back, afraid of what she might have
found.