Blue Plate Special Read Online Free Page B

on larry’s fender
    and all down the front of my shirt.
    damn.
    tears fill my eyes.
    larry reaches over. hey, it’s okay.
    you got something on underneath this?
    i nod. yeah.
    he undoes the knot
    on my skanky shirt,
    lifts it over my head.
    i actually believe him
    —that it’ll be okay—
    until i notice
    him staring.
    hey, the top
    looks great on you.
     
    i cross my arms.
    cleavage appears.
    i uncross them.
    larry opens the last beer and tips it back.
    glugglugglugglugglugglugglug.
    i close one eye because
    i suddenly see two of him.
    i wanna go home.
     
    no you don’t, dez. trust me.
     
    whaddaya mean?
    i try to sit up straight
    without lopping to the side,
    but it’s hard.
    why don’t i wanna go home?
     
    your ma went on a royal rant.
    she trashed your room today
    after finding a love note
    from that jerry boy.
     
    shit! jeremy , i correct him.
    what’d she say?
     
    larry rubs his chin.
    she said, i quote, if she’s sleeping
    with that loser, i’ll kill her.
     
    i roll my eyes. bitch.
    larry nods like he agrees.
    so, are you?
     
    am i what?
    sleeping with him.
     
    jesus, that’s none of your business!
     
    we’re quiet as roadkill.
    clouds gobble up the sun.
    a raindrop lands on my shoulder,
    then another.
     
    i slide off larry’s hood,
    stumble toward the passenger side,
    where i trip on something.
    the ground rises up to meet me.
    like a plastic straw
    someone dropped
    on the cafeteria floor,
    larry picks me up that easily.
    i wait for him to let go,
    but he doesn’t.
    the solid place
    between his legs
    hardens as he
    presses against me.
     
    heavy rain stings my arms.
    my halter top sticks to my front.
    larry inches me toward the car,
    tips the passenger seat forward,
    waves his hand toward the back.
    why don’t you climb in?
    you can lay down.
    you’ll feel better.
     
    no. i wanna sit in the front.
    i wanna go home now. please.
    i reach to push the seat in place,
    but larry sticks his arm out,
    blocking me.
     
    i.
    want.
    to.
    go.
    home.
    larry doesn’t listen.
    he takes my small hand in his giant one
    and backs me through the open door.
    i know what is about to happen.
    it never occurs to me
    that i can stop it.
     
    again
    i’m that
    plastic straw.
    larry is bending me,
    bending me, lowering me
    onto the ugly plaid blanket
    i’ve sat on dozens of times,
    doodling jeremy’s name on my jeans.
    his boozy breath,
    hot on my neck, whispers,
    dez, i’ve wanted you for so long.
    i tell him, no, no, no,
    but the sound can’t leave my throat
    because a shadow collapses my lungs—
    a heavy shadow with chest hair
    like a wiry floor mat
    that scrubs and scrubs
    at my bare breasts,
    and i wonder,
    where did my halter top go?
     
    before i can ask
    my skirt’s hiked up to my waist
    and larry’s pants are unzipped.
     
    rain pounds the windshield,
    and day surrenders to night.
    black birds cackle and call,
    and trees fold in on the car,
    enclosing us
    in giant parentheses.
     
    as the thunder rolls in,
    i say good-bye.
    good-bye to
    the mind that was mine
    and the body that was mine,
    which suddenly
    aren’t mine
    anymore.
     
    now
    i am a speck
    of something microscopic
    stuck to the dome
    of the ceiling light,
    watching a man’s ass
    pump up and down,
    up and down,
    watching a girl’s hair
    unravel like a skein
    of dark yarn,
    watching her
    face go blank
    as a smooth stone
    someone has tossed
    out to sea and
    possibly,
    quite
    possibly,
    forgotten.

Ariel
    M om’s sitting at the kitchen table wearing the lavender bathrobe I bought her two Christmases ago. She’s just showered and her hair hangs in long, damp waves. She looks so young. It’s no wonder people confuse us for sisters.
    As I walk into the kitchen, two slices of cinnamon-raisin bread pop out of the toaster. Mom glances up. “Honey, would you—?” she starts, but I’ve already grabbed a butter knife and plate.
    I set the buttered toast beside Mom’s Earl Grey tea. When I grab a Dr. Pepper from the fridge, she gives me the