Like Freshly Cut Grass

I am ten years old and am playing hopscotch in my driveway. As an only child, I have grown accustomed to playing games by myself.

“Hey little girl!” someone screams behind me.

I turn and there is a boy leering at me across the street.

My chest tightens and I want to run away.

The boy is Arnold Stevens.

He is the kind of boy that makes the neighborhood keep their pets indoors.

He crosses the street and though I want to yell for my mother who is inside, I don’t. My throat is tight. My feet are frozen in place.

“What are you doing??” he asks, now standing directly in front of me.

I gesture to the hopscotch.

He laughs and shoves me to the ground.

I scrape my knees and tears sting my eyes.

“You gonna cry, crybaby?” he asks, laughing.

From the corner of my eye, I see a flash.

And then Arnold is on the ground crying.

And there is a girl standing over him, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

Her wild, black, hair blows in all directions, and for a moment I think I am looking at an angel.

“What the hell?” Arnold says, getting up, and starting to raise his arms to fight back.

Before he can fully stand, the girl shoves him down again.

“Say you’re done, and I’ll let you get up,” she says, her knee now on his back.

Arnold twists and cries out.

Her knee digs in harder.

“Say you’re done,” she growls.

He nods and she gets up, watching warily as he stands and glares at us both.

“You’ll be sorry you did that,” he sniffs.

The girl shrugs and we both watch Arnold walk away.

Once he’s gone, she stares at me and offers me her hand.

I take it.

It is calloused and feels a bit like sandpaper.

I like it.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Yesenia,” she says smiling, “Who are you?”

“Michelle,” I say, “Thanks for that.”

She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. As if she didn’t just save me from getting completely walloped by Arnold.

She points at my knees.

“You’re bleeding,” she says.

I look down and see blood running down my right leg.

Yesenia grabs my hand and pulls me down the street.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To my house,” she says, “We gotta get you a band aid.”

I don’t ask why we don’t just go to my house.

I let her pull me.

I let her hold my hand.

She talks and talks and I’m not really listening to what she’s saying because my mind is too focused on the feel of her hand and the way she smells like freshly cut grass.

I am fifteen years old.

Yesenia and I are sitting in her backyard.

She is angry with me.

“Just tell me why, Michelle,” she says impatiently.

I shrug, not looking at her.

“You let her push you around and I don’t get it,” she says.

“I don’t like confrontation,” I say.

It has always been my excuse.

“Besides,” I continue, “it’s not a big deal.”

Yesenia raises an eyebrow, “Her making fun of you in front of everyone isn’t a big deal?”

I shrug again, forcing myself not to cry.

I’ve already cried today, and it would just be too much.

“That’s just how kids are,” I say to the sky, sounding like I’m fifty instead of fifteen.

Yesenia lightly kicks my shoe.

“Look at me, Michelle,” she says.

I don’t respond right away.

I don’t want to look at her.

I’m thinking about Sue Jackson and the way she shoved me and the way she called me a “dyke” and the way everyone looked at me.

I’m thinking about how I screamed that I wasn’t.

How my voice cracked.

How maybe that told people that I was lying.

I’m thinking about how Yesenia defended me. Yet again. For the millionth time. How she stepped in front of me and got all up in Sue Jackson’s face. How she told her and everyone watching that I wasn’t a dyke. That they needed to leave me alone.

I’m thinking how I need to tell her that Sue Jackson was right.

“Michelle,” Yesenia says again.

I finally look up at her.

She kneels down so her face is level with mine.

I try so, so hard not to look at her lips.

“Michelle, you have to stand up for yourself,” she says, “You don’t deserve to be mistreated. I hate that you…that you think you deserve it or something.”

“I know I don’t deserve it,” I say, looking behind her instead of into her beautiful brown eyes, “I just…it’s easier to let things go sometimes.”

She stands and grunts in disapproval.

“Look,” I say, “Everyone can’t fight all the time like you.”

“I don’t fight all the time,” she counters.

I scoff at her and she narrows her eyes at me.

“I. Don’t,” she insists.

“Right,” I say, “You don’t always fight. You’re so good at letting things go.”

She stares at me for a moment and then laughs.

“Well,” she says, looking at the sky, “I refuse to let people walk all over me. Unlike others.”

I feel my cheeks redden.

I know she’s right, but it still hurts to hear it.

She sees my face and says, “I’m sorry, Michelle. I…I just wish you-

“I know,” I say.

There is a silence between us. I can see her looking at me, but I keep my gaze focused on her pink sketchers.

“I should go,” I say finally standing, “I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?”

“Ok,” she says.

I start to walk away.

“Michelle?” she says.

I turn around.

There is a soft breeze that makes a lock of her hair fall over her eyes.

I fight the urge to go to her and brush it away.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” she asks, a tension in her voice that’s pretty rare.

I smile.

“Never,” I respond.

Never.

I am twenty years old.

Yesenia is sitting across from me telling me there’s a boy in her lecture class that keeps asking her out.

That she thinks he’s cute.

She wants to know what I think about it.

I stare at my bowl of ramen and act like I’m thinking.

I am thinking.

I’m thinking about all the things I want to tell her but can’t.

I’m thinking that maybe I should change my major from political science to theatre because I’m such a good actor. Because I’ve been playing a role for ten years and have been really, really, good at it.

“Michelle?” she asks.

I look up at her and smile.

It’s my dazzling smile. My supportive smile. The smile I’ve been perfecting for ten years.

“If you think he’s cute, go for it,” I say, my voice an octave higher than normal.

“Go for it,” I say again, bringing my voice down to its regular decibel. I study her face through my smile.

She smiles back like she hasn’t noticed my undulating vocal chords.

“Really?” she asks, “I mean he’s cute, but I don’t really know him,” she continues, playing with her own bowl of ramen.

“Well, get to know him,” I respond, “Isn’t that what dating is for?”

She looks at me and laughs.

“Yea,” she says, “You’re right. What the hell?”

“Do you like anyone?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows playfully.

I shrug, acting nonchalant.

“Not really,” I respond, “There’s a few guys in my Chicano studies class that are cute, but I think they have girlfriends.”

Yesenia sighs, “The best ones are always taken.”

We continue talking about boys and classes and upcoming exams.

I’m so good, I think.

I’m better than Meryl Streep.

I’m twenty-five.

I’m walking down the street holding hands with Tim.

He’s talking about his screenplay and how he thinks this one might actually have a chance.

It’s about aliens taking over the planet but really it’s a story about two people who have always had feelings for each other but never say anything. Never do anything. Who die in each other’s arms covered in their own blood and alien guts.

I squeeze his hand and he smiles at me.

He thinks I was squeezing his hand to show him my enthusiasm. My support.

Really, I squeezed his hand because I want him to stop talking.

Because I don’t want to think about his brilliant screenplay that revolves around unrequited romance.

Because I don’t want to think about Yesenia.

(There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think about Yesenia)

I’m thirty years old and Tim is staring at me with his mouth open.

“Gay?” he says.

I nod.

“For how long?” he asks.

I shrug.

“Forever.”

It’s a day later and my parents ask me the same question Tim asked me.

“How long?” they ask, their eyes wide in shock.

“Forever,” I say again, feeling like it’s the only word that exists now.

“Forever?” they say, “But…we had no idea.”

I am Meryl freaking Streep.

I’m thirty-two years old and I haven’t spoken to Yesenia since I came out.

After I told Tim and my parents, I made a facebook post about it.

I tried calling her but she didn’t answer.

I have assumed this is because she hates that I’m gay.

I am staring at a picture of her on my phone and there is a knock at the door.

I answer it and stare into those brown eyes that I have memorized since I was 10.

“Hey,” she says shoving past me into my apartment.

I close the door.

“Come in,” I say and watch her eyes narrow.

We stare at each other.

“So?” I finally say, not being able to stand the silence.

“So?” she mimics back to me.

“Why are you here?” I ask the ceiling.

I can feel her rage even though she stands on the other side of the room.

“You came out in a facebook post,” she says through gritted teeth.

“It took you two years to say that?” I say to the floor.

“For two years I have been wondering why you didn’t tell me yourself,” she says beginning to pace the length of my kitchen, “Why I had to find about it on my laptop. We have spoken and seen each other almost every single day for twenty-two years and you didn’t think to tell me this huge thing in person?”

“Some things are hard to say in person,” I say to my coffee table, “I didn’t want to freak you out.”

She stops pacing and I can see her staring at me. I can imagine the look on her face. Those perfect lips open in anger. Those brows knitted together in outrage.

I see her walk toward me and my heart starts pounding.

I’m wondering if she can hear it.

She is standing in front of me and I don’t think I’m breathing anymore.

She puts her hands on my face.

“Look at me Michelle,” she whispers.

I do.

“You really think that after twenty-two years, I had no idea?” she asks.

My toes curl. My hands clench into fists. I don’t think a marathon runner has sweated the way I am sweating.

“But…but you never said anything,” I stammer.

“It wasn’t my place,” she says, shrugging, “I figured, someday, you would tell me. It just…took a lot longer than I thought. And there were points, like when you dated Tim, that I wondered if I was wrong.”

“Oh,” is all I can say.

She is still holding my face.

I allow myself to do something I have always wanted to do but have never done.

I stare at her lips while she’s looking at me.

“You fool,” she says and before I can say another word, her lips are on my mine and my head is exploding and my heart is coming out of my chest and all I can do is stand there in shock.

After a few moments, I pull back.

“Wait,” I say.

“Wait?” she says impatiently, removing her hands from my face.

“How come YOU never said anything?” I ask, “You’re the brave one, the one who should have stepped up!”

Yesenia blushes and looks away.

It is maybe only the second time in twenty-two years that she has avoided my gaze.

“Like I said, I wasn’t sure,” she says, “I mean, there was always this small part of me that maybe doubted and…I didn’t want to risk our friendship. Our…you’re my family, Michelle. You’re my…you’re my everything.”

I want to pinch myself to make sure this is real.

“But, what about all the boyfriends? What about Rick?” I ask.

Rick who she was with for the last five years. Rick who I was pretty sure I was going to lose her to.

She looks at me, “I adored Rick,” she says and my whole body is on the brink of collapsing, “But I…I don’t think I can be with anyone as long as I know you exist.”

I am seventy years old, and Yesenia and I are sitting on a bench holding hands watching the sun set on the ocean floor.

She is talking about our upcoming trip to Mexico and all the sights we are going to see.

I am only half listening.

I am really just thinking about her calloused hand in mine and how after all these years, she still smells like freshly cut grass.