Punk Like Me

by JD Glass

  • 83 •

  JD GLASS

  Kerry had one leg wrapped over mine as I stood between hers, and had our hips been any closer, the fabric from our pants would have melded, and as it was, I’m sure they almost did. It was getting pretty damn hot down there. One of her hands had found its way down under my waistband and was squeezing its way along my butt—I guess she must have really liked my ass, and it’s not too bad of one if I do say so myself. The other seemed to have discovered the same thing mine had, and for the Þ rst time in my life, I actually felt something other than chaÞ ng or discomfort, and that something felt really good.

  I lifted my head and Kerry looked me in the eye for a second, then down at her chest. “Your hand is on my boob, Hopeful,” she informed me with a sly grin.

  I looked at my hand and its placement, down at myself, and back at Kerry. “Yours, too,” I informed her with a smile of my own. I stroked once gently, then removed my hand and straightened up, a little painfully, I might add. Bending over for so long is not comfortable.

  Kerry stood with me and wiggled to stretch her back a bit. It had been her shoulders against the railing.

  She grabbed my hand and put it back. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Kerry smiled and held her hand over mine. “I just wanted to make sure you noticed.”

  “Trust me, I noticed,” I said, and caught her around with one arm.

  “One more kiss, and I’ve got to get home,” I said, and bent my head again, but she put both hands on my chest and stopped me.

  “Baby, how are you going to get home?” she asked distressfully.

  “I’m just gonna walk, Kerry. It’s only a few blocks away.” Kerry shook her head. “No way. I don’t want you to walk alone, I’ll walk with you,” she insisted, and at that moment, her watch beeped.

  “Fuck! Eight thirty!” she exclaimed. That had been the time she’d been asked to get home by. Not that it really mattered much to Kerry.

  She knew no one was home because there were no lights on and no car in the driveway, and she said as much.

  I looked around to verify for myself and nodded in agreement.

  Then it hit me. Fuck! Eight thirty! We’d been making out for almost an hour. I’m sure my parents knew it didn’t take that long to walk four or Þ ve blocks. “Yeah, okay, I’ve got to run,” I agreed in a bit of a panic.

  I was in deep, I mean very deep shit, and I had no idea what to tell my parents if they decided to ask me where I’d been and what I’d been doing for the past hour.

  • 84 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  “Well, you see, Mom and Dad, um, Kerry and I were, um, performing some technical experiments, oh, in the middle of the street, and then we performed a few more in front of her house.” Or how about “Mom, Dad, I’m going through some sort of identity crisis, and Kerry here was trying to help me out.” Or even better, “Ah, Mom?

  Dad? I think I’m a homosexual, so tomorrow, after you kick me out of the house, I’m going to join the local devil-worshipping cult, shave my head, join a rock band, and then get lost in a drug-induced, alcoholic haze, ’kay?”

  “Grounded, grounded, grounded!” singsonged through my head in Nanny’s voice at higher and higher volumes, and I started picturing what my dad might do. He’d really been going after me lately—insults early in the morning as he passed my bedroom on his way into the bathroom, more criticism, more than the usual threat of the occasional swat. If he decided that this was an opportunity to really teach me a lesson, you know, show me exactly who was boss, he wouldn’t just hit me. He’d start screaming at my mom, going on and on and get her all crazy until they were both screaming and yelling and ß ailing for what would seem like hours. Trust me, my mom did not hit like a girl, and she had deadly accuracy with a tossed shoe if one of us couldn’t Þ nd

  “the belt” quickly enough. After the Þ rst “corrective action,” miniature repeats would follow for days until they forgot about it or I or one of my siblings did something else to distract them.

  I wasn’t just in trouble—I was gonna be fucking dead. God, I wished graduation was tomorrow, but it was over a year and almost a half away—if I lived that long.

  I know I must have paled and the panic shown on my face. Kerry reached both hands up to stroke my cheeks with her Þ ngertips. I instantly felt a bit calmer. But only a bit. “Nina baby, it’s okay,” she reassured me. “Don’t be scared. Just tell them, um, tell them I dropped my key and you were helping me Þ nd it—in the leaves,” she continued.

  Good idea. I nodded in agreement. No, wait, bad idea. I’m a terrible liar. No way could I get away with it.

  Kerry let go of my face and took my hand, and we started walking back to my parents’ home. Of course, we walked back the same way we walked to Kerry’s, stopping to make out every few steps, and there wasn’t a parked car, telephone pole, streetlight, or quiet wooded spot where we didn’t take a little time to perform a few more technical experiments, or maybe mechanical experiments.

  • 85 •

  JD GLASS

  We got to my front door and started to kiss good-bye—I think I pointed out earlier how that door sees a lot of action—when it struck me. How was Kerry going to get home? I didn’t want her to walk by herself; that had been the whole point in the Þ rst place, and I said so.

  “Nina, we can’t keep walking each other back and forth all night,” Kerry said, “although it’s deÞ nitely worth doing.” She grinned.

  All the lights downstairs were off, and the TV light was the only thing that glowed out the window from my parents’ room. My father always fell asleep with the TV on. Maybe I’d gotten lucky, maybe this could work, maybe…

  “Wait a second,” I told her. “I’ve got an idea.” I stuck my head inside and called up, “Mom?”

  No one answered, except for Ringo, who came rushing over in a scatter of nails and fuzz to jump all over me. He gave little whines to let me know he still wanted to go out in between licks. This was so much the better for what I had in mind.

  “Nicky?” I called as I scrufß ed Ringo’s head and ears.

  “He’s not home yet,” my mom answered in a sleepy voice. “His friend’s mom got sick, and I’m too tired to drive. He’s staying over there.”

  “All right, um, I’m going to walk Ringo, then, okay?”

  “Thanks, honey,” my mother answered back in that I’m-not-really-hearing-you-because-dreams-are-calling-me voice.

  I stepped in quickly, grabbed the leash that was always by the door, and Ringo did a little jig on his hind legs at the sound. I rubbed his head some more and scratched his ears for good measure, then snapped the leash onto his collar. I stepped outside with my dog.

  Kerry looked at me then backed up a step as Ringo launched himself at her in a frenzy of doggie-style greeting, hauling me behind him. And Kerry laughed while she tussled with him, bumping heads and wrestling on the lawn a bit.

  Greeting formalities over, Ringo came back over to me and sat pressed into my leg. Kerry stood and brushed the grass from her back and legs. She came over to me and laid a hand between Ringo’s ears.

  “So? How’re you getting home?”

  “Ringo,” I answered a bit smugly. “I’ll walk with you, and then Ringo will walk back with me, and that way you won’t have to worry about my continued health and safety, see?” I smiled—at my luck for having avoided death and at my own cleverness.

  • 86 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  “Mmm, Hopey, you inspire me,” Kerry drawled out in an undertone and closed in to kiss me, but this time, I stopped her. Something had been kicking around in my head, and I needed to know something very important, well, important to me, at least.

  “Hey, I want to ask you something,” I said softly, as she put her arms around my neck. “I want to know who you’re kissing,” she kissed my neck, “when you kiss me.” She kissed my throat.

  “Who do you think I’m kissing, silly?” And she kissed my lips. I lost myself for what
ever length of time, but I stopped her again. Kerry had put her glasses on again while I’d been in the house, and now I couldn’t read the expression in her eyes.

  “No, really, I’m serious,” I said in a low voice. “Are you kissing Hopey? Or are you kissing me? Or are you Maggie kissing Hopey or me?”

  Kerry wouldn’t look at me as she silently played with the collar of my coat. “Aw, Hopey, you always ask the hard questions,” she sighed into my throat, and I smiled grimly to myself. Fine. I’d been afraid of that and expecting it all along. So this was my little red wagon to play with, all alone, and not hers, then.

  Kerry looked up into my stony expression and stroked my cheek again. “Oh, Nina, does it matter really? If you’re Hopey and I’m Maggie, or whatever? All that matters is these lips,” and she kissed me,

  “on those.” She inched back and smiled. “Technically, that is.”

  “I guess,” I got out through a forced smile. I was feeling pretty stupid, or actually S-T-U-P-I-D, nice and big and spelled out in capital block letters.

  Ringo whined and his tail beat against my leg.

  “We should get going,” I said shortly, and Ringo jumped up to drag me forward.

  Neither one of us was really in the mood to talk much on the way back to her house that second time, although we did hold hands all the way to her front gate. We faced each other and stood there silently.

  “Hey, have a good night, Maggie, okay?” I Þ nally asked softly and gave her a lopsided grin. This weight was growing in my chest, almost painful in its intensity. I felt my eyes get large and round, like I was going to cry but wouldn’t.

  “You too, Hopey,” she answered me, and we leaned into one another for a kiss on the cheek. Suddenly, Kerry threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly. “Nina,” she whispered in my ear, “my best

  • 87 •

  JD GLASS

  friend, Nina,” and she kissed my lips with a ferocity I didn’t know she possessed, and I responded in kind, that weight in my chest let loose into a bursting, searing pain, like burning arrows ß ying through me and into her, anchoring us, sealing us together.

  Finally we broke apart, but the pain didn’t stop. It felt worse, like I’d taken my skin off and my rib cage was open, my beating heart steaming in the November air for all to see.

  “Go,” Kerry said brokenly. She was at the point of tears. “Go before I don’t let you,” and she kissed me breathless again. “Go.” She was crying and I could taste the salt of it. “Go,” she ordered between kisses and tears and Þ nally, Þ nally, I drew breath enough to say, “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  The wind was cold on my face before I burrowed it into her hair, and I realized I’d been crying all this time, too.

  We held and looked at each other wordlessly, helplessly. Don’t ask me where this sudden sorrow came from. I didn’t know then, and I still don’t know now. Maybe we’d been really scared by those guys that chased us down from the subway, or maybe we both knew that we’d crossed a line and couldn’t go back, no matter what we did, and that nothing would or could ever be the same again. Maybe we were both really disappointed that we didn’t get to see Dayglo Abortions after all.

  Maybe.

  Ringo just settled himself quietly underneath the bottom railing of the fence and lay on the grass, alternately observing and drowsing.

  Lucky dog, with no decisions to make, no people to answer to, no expectations on him. He didn’t care if people said he sniffed butts or licked his fun parts—it was all part of being a dog. Feed him, pet him, play with him, and walk him, and he was pretty darn happy. I wished I could be Ringo.

  Somehow, we Þ nally said our good nights and good-byes, and exchanged a ß urry of hugs and kisses and soft promises, and eventually, I got home. I remember being about two blocks away from home and just staring at the sky, then Þ nally getting back to my front door in a daze. Bet you thought I’d never get there, hmm? Me either. I looked up at the house, now all dark and silent, and up and down the street where I lived, the very occasional car going by at high speed.

  Sighing, I led Ringo inside, snapped off the leash, and took off my coat. I hung both up by the door and quietly made my way up the stairs, my doggie friend behind me the whole way. He let himself into

  • 88 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  the room I shared with Nanny, and I went to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, washed my hands and face, and stared at myself in the mirror.

  I didn’t look any different, really. My eyes were a little red around the edges, my nose too. But it was still my face, the one everyone else would see. I just didn’t recognize it, from the inside.

  I made my way to my room, undressed in the darkness, and slid beneath the blankets on my bed. As I settled in, I lay on my back, head on one hand. I brought the other to my lips, and I touched them. They were so very soft, I just couldn’t believe that I’d actually kissed Kerry, that we’d been making out, that, oohmuhgosh, it was a girl. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Was I Hopey or Maggie? Was I still Nina?

  Was I still even a girl? Still human? Maybe it would all be obvious to me in the morning, I thought, but as I drifted off, I kept wondering, why had those guys called Kerry a dyke? It made me feel guilty.

  It should have been me.

  • 89 •

  • 90 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  OSCILLATE WILDLY

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Crash. Rustle, rustle. Crash.

  “Good-for-fuckin’-nothing kid, out with that punk-ass-faggot dyke friend to all hours. Piece of shit’ll probably die of AIDS,” drifted into my ears and woke me in the morning as my father got ready for work at Þ ve o’clock.

  This was how I had been woken up every day for the last few months. I didn’t have to get up until six, but my dad, who had to leave by six, was up and at ’em or, rather, me early every day.

  Some days I was “good-for-nothing,” some days I was a “fuckin’

  bitch,” and others I was a “fuckin’ monster piece of shit” and a “fuckin’

  loser,” and he couldn’t wait until I was old enough so I could “move the fuck out,” and he made damn sure (hmm…bitter…do I sound bitter?

  Sorry. Not bitter, still a bit pissed, though) he was loud enough so I could hear him, since my room and the bathroom shared a wall.

  I lifted my head and opened my eyes to see Nanny sprawled and still deeply wedged in dreamland. I squirmed and tried to settle myself back in and struggled to fall back to sleep for another half an hour, but then I realized, there was that “dyke” word again, and about Kerry, too.

  God, that girl had so many guys after her, it could make you dizzy.

  And she didn’t look anything at all like whatever it was a dyke was supposed to, not that I knew what that was, really, just some vague notion of gym whistles and sweatpants. And if those guys thought she was a dyke, and my dad thought she was a dyke, what in the world was I going to do when people like my dad realized it wasn’t Kerry but me? And what was a dyke supposed to look like, anyway? And why

  • 91 •

  JD GLASS

  “dyke”? What the fuck did that mean, anyway?

  “Homosexual,” I knew. “Gay,” I understood. “Lesbian,” well, it just sounded too damned strange, like either an appliance (like a refrigerator or a lawn mower) or a job title, you know, “I got my degree, and now I’m a practicing lesbian, got my own ofÞ ce and everything.” I know, I know, Sappho, Isle of Lesbos, yes, I know, but still, it sure as hell didn’t sound like it had anything to do with women loving other women, and “dyke,” well, yeah, dikes hold back water in Holland, and there was a Greek goddess or something like that named “Dyké” (she had something to do with revenge, opposite her sister, “Até,” who had something to do with altruistic/universal love), but beyond that, it didn’t make any sense to me.

  Oh my God. I opened my eyes into the darkness while my father continued his monologue in the sho
wer. I had better get some damn understanding double damn quick. I spent over an hour yesterday making out with my best friend, who was a girl like me, and I was pretty sure that it would make me at least one of those words, if not all of them.

  At that realization, I got so cold I started to shiver, and I huddled myself into a little miserable ball with my legs pulled into my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs for warmth. I shook so hard my teeth rattled in my head and made even my eyes hurt.

  By the time my father Þ nished his morning ablutions, left for work, and my mom came in to the bedroom to give Nanny and me good-morning kisses, my bone shaking and teeth rattling had made me sweat, even though I was freezing under the bedclothes.

  Nanny’s bed was closer to the door, so that’s where my mom went Þ rst. “Good morning, good morning, good morning to you,” my mom sang to Nanny, who grunted and rolled as close to the wall as possible.

  I heard the kiss my mom placed on Nanny’s cheek.

  “Noooooo, leave me alooooone,” groaned Nanny. She was always a big grump in the morning.

  “Rise and shine, sweetheart,” my mom answered gently. “The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the school bus is here in forty-Þ ve minutes.”

  Nanny groaned and ß opped about again, and Þ nally got to her feet. “I’m not feeling shiny,” she grumbled as she made her way out of the bedroom, “and there’s no sun, and I hate birds,” she continued as

  • 92 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  she stumbled into the bathroom.

  I stayed huddled in my little miserable self as my mom came closer and closer and Þ nally sat on the edge of my bed. “Hey, morning bird, you’re not singing today,” my mom said gently as she leaned down to kiss me and lay a hand on my face.

  Her Þ ngers felt nice on my cheek, cool and soft.

  “Nina!” she exclaimed in dismay, “you’re burning up! How do you feel? Does your stomach hurt? Is your throat scratchy? Is your head okay?” she asked me, all concern as she laid her hands all over my face and neck to see if I was warm everywhere.