The Old Woman
and Other Lesbian Stories

By Q. Kelly

Ride the Rainbow Books

www.ridetherainbowbooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

"The Old Woman and other Lesbian Stories" Copyright © 2011 by Q. Kelly

Many thanks to Leigh Ann Britt for her excellent work on the cover.

Smashwords Edition

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Q.Kelly on the Web:

http://qkelly.blogspot.com

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Email me at yllek_q@yahoo.com

"The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories"

By Q. Kelly

Table of Contents

The Old Woman
Jessica is a pretty good best friend, but she goes too far when she dares Rachel to ask an old woman on a date. Rachel has no choice; otherwise Jessica will do the asking, and Rachel has no intention of humiliating the old woman. Turns out maybe Jessica's idea was not so bad after all. There is a lot more to Ada than her age.

Funeral
Olivia takes a drastic step to combat lesbian bed death.

The Lesbian Curse

Becky and Katy are in middle school and tussling over a boy. Becky curses Katy, saying Katy will become a lesbian.

Polly Wanna Cracker

Polly is a bird. A parrot, to be exact. She follows the goings-on of her human family, especially Faye, the daughter, and Glenda, the mother. Polly knows their secrets too. Will Polly spill the beans when she finds herself able to talk after bonking her head against a window?

Haunted

Haunted people? Sure, they're everywhere. Haunted houses? Oooh, spooky. Good movie fodder. Excellent for campfire scares. Haunted cars? They’re not unheard of. But haunted pens? Yep, they exist, as Linda and Victoria find out when such a pen brings them together.

What Girlfriend?

Bobbie hopes her one-night stand won't pull the U-Haul trick.

Fortune

Best friends Jackie and Emma go to a fortune teller. Emma is shocked when the teller reveals to Jackie that Emma is her secret admirer.

Lili from the Future

It's a dream many people have; your future self visits you and fucks you.

Lizzie

Twelve-year-old Shel is not sure if her best friend means it when he says he's going to kill a person.

The Old Woman

Jessica's blue eyes gleamed. Mischief pulled her lips back for one of these Jessicasmiles that often caused me to wonder how I ended up being her best friend and roommate. "So," Jessica said, "how about this?"

"Forget it." I had no desire to hear what was behind her sly grin.

"Come on," she chided. "You said you—"

"I know what I said." I had asked Jessica to help me meet people, to help me break out of my cocoon. To help me get over Janet.

Jessica reached for a box of crackers. Nip Chee. What an odd name. Nip chee. Sounded like what would gurgle from the throat of a choking cat. Nip chee! Nip chee!

Real cheddar cheese, no less. Nip chee!

I lowered my gaze to the floor. The supermarket had blindingly shiny floors, and I saw a better use for "Nip chee" than a strangling cat. Say you're walking along, minding your own business, and someone forgot to put out a "Use caution. Floor is wet" sign, and you slip.

"Nip chee!" you might cry in alarm as you slipped.

I eased the crackers of out of Jessica's hands and replaced the box. "Jessica, look. No crazy ideas, okay? Just introduce me to people. Go with me to parties. Normal stuff, you know?"

"In case you haven't noticed, that is what I've been doing. And guess what? It ain't working. The next woman to walk into this aisle, you ask her out. On a date. No fudging about it."

I laughed. "Whatever. No."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"Yeah, I'll be asking out some ugly homophobic chick or something. No thanks. Or..." My chest tightened. "Or Janet. I bet she'll be the next person."

Jessica sighed and ran a hand through her closely cropped brown hair. "Janet's clear across the country!"

"Thanks for reminding me."

"It's been six months! Have some fun."

I pretended to survey a row of peanuts. But it was Janet's face, her green eyes, her long black hair, her crooked nose thanks to a softball injury, that burned my vision. "I appreciate this, really. You putting up with me and all that. But I'm not going to ask some random stranger out. I'm not you. You know I can't do that."

Jessica shrugged. "Fine. Either you do it, or I'll do it for you."

Indignation swelled inside me. Envy, too. Most people would not dare follow through on such a threat, but Jessica would. "Fine," I muttered. "Fine, I'll do it myself. How do I look?"

Jessica surveyed me. "Wonderful, as always. You're a heartbreaker. The next woman to walk in here is very lucky."

"Cheeseball."

"What? You're great, and you're hot. Start acting like it."

I shook my head and wandered a few steps to the popcorn.

Jessica was at my heels. "Stop that. Stop avoiding."

I fingered a box of diet popcorn and then turned to Jessica. I loved her. I really did, but there were times I wanted to strangle her. It was amazing that we managed to be best friends since childhood, and then roommates. We were complete opposites, both in looks and personality. Where she was short, dark-haired and butch, I was feminine, willowy and blonde. I was shy and passive, while Jessica was outgoing and made friends simply by snapping her fingers.

"Why do I put up with you?" I wondered aloud.

Jessica laughed. "The question is why I put up with you."

"You're not really gonna make me do this, are you? What if—"

"Shh! Shh! Someone's coming!"

A woman turned into the aisle, and my heart stopped. I froze. I wanted to die. Please don't let this be happening. The woman was a tiny mouse of a person. She was a light-skinned black, she was old, and by old I meant old as in she had a slightly stooped walk, wrinkles, a flowered dress, the whole enchilada. At least she did not have a cane. I had dated black women, and her race was not a problem. But her age. Gawd, her age! Ohnonono. Wait a second. Relief washed over me; surely Jessica would not make me ask this woman out. I was saved, at least for now.

Jessica cocked an eyebrow and nudged me in the ribs. "Hunh. Well, have fun."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope."

"This is not funny. That woman probably has memories of the Civil War!"

Jessica snorted. "We had a deal. And, look, she's not wearing a wedding ring."

"I'm leaving."

"Damn it, Rach, what's your problem? What's wrong with meeting new people? This could be a very interesting woman. All you have to do is ask her out."

I sneaked another glance at the oldster. "Fine." I figured the chick would say no. Why would she say yes? So, I'd ask her out and would never have to see her again. It would get Jessica off my back. "Fine, Jess," I muttered. "But you owe me."

I gathered in a deep breath and sidled up to the newcomer. I felt stupid, horribly foolish, all these synonyms: idiotic, imprudent, thoughtless, irrational.

The oldster peered up at me through her spectacles. She had blue eyes, beautiful, deep blue eyes so out of sync with the color of her skin. I was caught off guard and looked down at her stupidly. I was five feet eight inches, and she was a good five or six inches shorter.

"Yes, dear?" she asked.

"Um, ah," I began. "I was wondering if you, ah..."

"Gracious! You have gorgeous hair. Silky and light."

My hands automatically flew to my hair. I felt for strands out of place. "Thank you. Well, see, ma'am, I was..."

The oldster's lips twisted into a broad smile. Her teeth were healthy, white and even. No old-woman pearlies in that mouth. Dentures, probably. "Am I in your way?" she asked.

"You're not blocking me. I was wondering if, well, if you'd, well, could you shake your head for me? Like you're saying no."

"I don't understand."

"Right. I’m not sure I understand, either." Nip chee! Nip chee! I would have to force the words out before paralysis seized me. "Would you like to maybegoouttoeatsometimeorseeamovie, and you can say no, you definitely can say no. I understand completely. So." I jerked a thumb toward Jessica. "I'll just go back and tell her that you said no."

The woman frowned, and bumps crackled my skin. I hated doing this. This sweet, kind old lady must be thinking Jessica and I were playing a joke on her, picking on her, making fun of an old chick. "See," I said, "my friend thought that—it's a long story. I don’t want to bore you."

"Are you asking me out on a date?" Eagerness laced the woman's voice.

"Uh." She's not going to say yes, is she? Oh, God.

"Are you a lesbian?" the old woman asked.

"Uh. Yes. Yes, I'm gay. But you're not, obviously, so I'm just going to tell my friend you said—"

"Tell her I said yes. I'll do it."

I misheard. "Pardon?"

She shrugged. "It's on my list of things to do before I die. Go out with a woman. And you're a beauty. You're sweet. Your hair is to die for." She extended a liver-spotted hand to me. "I'm Ada Janelle Smith. Pleased to meet you."

*****

I did not speak to Jessica for five days, but Jessica spoke to me plenty. She told me to get over myself, that I would have fun, learn new stuff, hear interesting stories. Maybe even make a new friend.

I did not care. I did not reply. I was mortified. I hated Jessica. I, Rachel, twenty-five years old and a paralegal, had a date with a geezer who probably had grandchildren older than I. Wonderful. Just wonderful, thanks to Jessica.

I could have called Ada and canceled, but I did not. Above all, I was a nice, polite person, and I respected this woman enough to not break our plans. However, I had never been good with people: kids, teenagers, the elderly, you name it. I could not imagine how my evening with Ada would resemble any sort of fun, for Ada and me both.

I went to see Ada anyway, on my fifth day of not speaking to Jessica.

Ada and I met at seven p.m. at a Chinese restaurant. "You look beautiful," Ada said, and I felt my cheeks flush. I was easily embarrassed. I had spent a good couple of hours fussing over my appearance,although I was not sure why. Maybe to show Ada the respect she deserved. I had chosen my best black pants and a dressy white shirt. My hair was pulled into a bun, but some strands had broken free. I went light on the makeup, as usual. It was just lip gloss and foundation for me.

"Thank you," I replied. "You look nice too."

Ada beamed, and I could not help but smile back. She had a contagious grin, and she did look good. No flowered, old-woman dress this time. She was decked out in a sparkly black shirt and black pants that showed off her small, trim body. She was not wearing her spectacles, and so her blue eyes were more lively and vivid. There was no denying it, though: she was still an old woman.

Over cashew chicken and lo mein, Ada told me about her slave grandmother and the blond-haired master that passed on his blue eyes to Ada and her older brother. Ada married young, at sixteen, and had two children. When she was thirty-two, her husband, Steve, was hit by a car and died.

Ada told me about her children, grandchildren and great-grandchild. Her youngest grandchild was my age, twenty-five. This fact did not mortify me as much as it would have before. For long stretches of time, I forgot I was on a "date" with a great-grandmother. We clicked all night long. Ada’s voice was rich, honeyed, and when she shared her stories, she was decades younger. Age flew off her face. Her eyes sparkled like hell, and I could not get over how blue they were. She truly was a beautiful woman, even if she was, well, old. What became clear as the evening progressed was that Ada did not feel old. She was as vital and energetic as she was at twenty, at thirty, at forty, even though she could not run marathons anymore.

She asked me about myself, but I demurred. My life had been nowhere near as rich as Ada's. I would rather hear about her, and I said so. She laughed and looked at me in a little, secret way that made me feel like I was the only person in the restaurant. I swallowed some anxiety and asked her if she had told her family about the "date."

Ada giggled. "I sure did. They thought it was a hoot."

"A hoot? They didn't care that you're going out with a woman? A woman young enough to be your granddaughter?"

Ada shrugged and sipped from her Coke. "They know about my list. I brought it." She reached into her purse and drew out a yellowed piece of paper. "I started it when I was thirty-five, but I've added on since then."

I scanned one hundred and nine items, one hundred six of which were crossed out. My heart stirred with jealousy; Ada had done, had accomplished so many things I'd never dreamed of doing. She had made love under the stars in at least ten countries. She had run with the bulls in Spain. She had painted a mural. She had bungee jumped and sky dived (at age sixty, she informed me). She had touched all fifty U.S. states. She had written and published a kids' book. She also found her slave master grandfather's "other" family, all blue-eyed blondes, and befriended them.

The three items that remained on the list were:

Go out with a woman

Find the love of my life

Die happy

"What's this about finding the love of your life? It wasn't your husband or any of those guys you bedded in those far-flung places?"

Ada's gaze bore into me. "No," she admitted quietly. "Something was always missing."

I shifted uneasily, unsure of what to say. "You've done a lot."

Ada grinned. "I'm thinking it's time to add to the list again. I don't plan to die anytime soon."

"Glad to hear it."

"Rachel, thank you for a wonderful evening. I've enjoyed your company. Would you like to go out again, now that you see I don't bite?"

Go out again? "How old are you exactly?"

Ada's lips turned downward in disapproval. "I'm seventy-five. And much more than a number."

"I know." Ada was right. I needed to look past her wrinkles and spots and see her for who she really was. I was not ready to do that just yet, though. "Ada, I like you. I really do. But we're friends. I'm not going to kiss you good night or anything."

There was a flash of anger, of irritation, of something in Ada's eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. "Of course," she said smoothly. "So what do you want to do next time?"

*****

Jessica was eager to hear all about the "date" the minute I walked into our apartment, and I finally broke my days of angry silence. "It went well," I admitted. "Ada's an interesting person."

"Are you going out again?"

I did not answer right away, and Jessica's eyes widened. Obviously, she had meant the question in jest. "Oh my God!" she breathed. "You are going out again! Oh my God!"

I brushed her exclamations off. "Not like that. Like as friends."

"Nuh-uh," Jessica countered. "You're stiff and tense and defensive. Did you kiss her good night?"

I shoved past Jessica. "No, I did not kiss her good night." I stalked into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. I sank into my bed and stared at the ceiling.

The truth was, Ada had given me one of the best evenings of my life, and I could not stop thinking about her. Her smile, her laugh, her eyes. Her split-second reaction when I said we were friends and that I was not going to kiss her. Ada's expression had not been borne of disappointment, but borne of the knowledge that I had never, not even for a second, considered her with an open mind.

"I’m a jerk," I whispered. "And I can’t wait to go out with Ada again." Interesting, funny, charming Ada. "This isn't happening." I clutched a pillow to my chest. I reminded myself that Ada was seventy-five years old, with liver-spotted hands and a great-grandchild. She would not last more than a minute in bed, would she? What would making love with her be like? She was a brittle, fragile sack of bones. She was a walking heart attack. My thoughts drifted to her list. So full of life, that list was. So full of life Ada was, so open-minded, forceful and bubbly.

*****

For our second "date," a week after the first, Ada and I picnicked in a meadow. A babbling brook meandered nearby, and butterflies fluttered lazily around us. The Georgia spring was swinging into full bloom, and new life was everywhere. This meadow, which Ada called her secret place, was the stuff of romance novels, it really was. All too aware of that, I struggled not to lose myself in the moment or in Ada's magical bottomless eyes.

I failed, miserably.

Ada told me stories from her girlhood and from her later travels to Paris, London and Prague. She still had sex, had it a couple of weeks ago, as a matter of fact, with a thirty-eight-year-old man. I choked on my sandwich, but a bottle of water helped avert disaster.

Near the end of the picnic, as the sky was turning orange and purple, Ada coaxed some information out of me. I shared what being a paralegal was like. I told her about Janet and why we broke up (she got a job across the country). I told Ada about my haughty WASP parents who still did not accept I was gay. "Imagine them seeing me with you," I said with a laugh.

"Just be true to yourself, to your heart," Ada replied simply. She had a way of talking that made it clear she was not lecturing or judging. "It's your life, Rachel, not their life. It's up to you to spin the magic out of your days."

"Hmm." I glanced at my watch. We had been picnicking for nearly four hours, and the sun was falling asleep. I moved to help Ada to her feet, but she did it fine by herself. I packed up the blanket and basket. Ada did not mention going out again, so in a tentative little voice and with my heart a mess, I asked her.

She fixed her unnatural blue eyes on me and smiled. "I would love to, Rachel," she said, "but on two conditions."

"What conditions?"

"The first is that you kiss me. Now. The second is that when we go out again, it's a true date. None of this 'friends' crap."

I could not believe I was actually considering her requests. I was, though. Ada was the most interesting person I had met. She was beautiful, lively and intelligent. And yes, I did want to kiss her. I no longer feared her old-woman lips; I had a sneaking suspicion her mouth would be perfect. I did want to go out with her again. But what would people think? My parents, my co-workers, society in general? Even Jessica would blanch. And I still could not imagine myself in bed with Ada. What about children? I wanted kids someday. Perhaps I was thinking a bit too far ahead, but...

Ada clicked her tongue. "Well?"

Confusion frustrated my mind. "Ada, I don't know."

"I see."

The hurt in Ada’s expression broke my resolve. "Fuck it," I exclaimed, and I swept Ada into my arms. The old woman's lips were soft, her kisses gentle, her tongue the right amount of insistent. Her moans set my body aflame. In that meadow, for fifteen minutes, Ada blessed me with the best makeout session of my life. I was falling in love.

*****

I could not bring myself to tell Jessica that Ada and I kissed, that we were going out again. So I did not tell Jessica. I told no one. And Ada and I went out again and again and again. After one month, we made love, and our lovemaking was different than with my "younger" others, but no less perfect. Just...different. Different wonderful. Different indescribable. Ada had more energy, more gentleness, more kindness, more wisdom than I imagined possible in one human being. She was good to me, good for me—surprising me with treats and little gifts. She was the best thing that happened to me.

Ada taught me how to dance, how to ride horses (yes!), and how to change the oil in my car. She showed me how to slow down and smell the roses and how to find beauty in weed-choked lawns, in one-eyed men and in hairless cats. More often than not, we fell asleep in each other's arms and woke up together.

After two months, I met her family, including her four-year-old great-grandson. I felt right at home, but I knew that soon, Ada would step up her insistence that she meet my family. And she did.

I agonized, and Ada patiently talked me through it. Yes, of course we all want our parents' approval, she said, but it's more their loss if they're going to huff and puff and get uppity. Ada advised me to start "easy" by telling Jessica why I was never home lately, why I had a spring in my step, why I laughed at everything now.

My heart was cold and clammy even as Ada's warm hands caressed my back and moved to my neck and then to my breasts. My parents would be furious. They would call me stupid. Ada was black. She was seventy-five years old. How much longer would she live? Was my time worth pouring love, devotion and the best years of my life into this woman? In time, her wrinkles would sag with more desperation, her vision would diminish, she would go deaf, and her mind would fail. And forget about children.

I told all this to Ada. She clucked and looked at me with her all-knowing eyes. "It's you, Rachel, you who are asking those questions. You're the scared one. Not your parents. Sure, life is a gamble. It's a risk. You could die tomorrow, and I could live thirty more years. We don't know what's going to happen. Only you know if you love me enough to take this kind of risk, if you're brave enough. Only you know what's in your heart."

"Ada, on your list, you said you wanted to find the love of your life."

Fear tinged Ada’s eyes. It was a new look for her, one I did not like. "And have I found the love of my life?" she whispered.

Tears stole my vision. "I don't think so. You deserve better than me. I'm a coward. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I do love you, but we're not meant to be together."

Ada moved to touch me, to reassure me, to wipe away my tears, but I pushed her away.

*****

I suffered through a ghastly year. If I had thought getting over Janet was hard, getting over Ada was impossible. I saw her everywhere, in the most likely and the most unlikely places—in Jessica's blue eyes, in the outline of a vase at my parents' house, in a bag of peanuts. I carried a picture of Ada and me in my wallet, and I sneaked looks at it every chance I got. Twelve months after Ada and I broke up, I was as miserable as ever.

And then one day at the very same supermarket where Ada and I met, I saw Ada with a thirty-ish Asian woman—a stunning, statuesque creature. They were holding hands and were lost in their own world. Ada looked happy. And younger. I had no intention of saying hello, but Ada called out before I could slink away. "Rach! How are you?"

"Fine," I mustered. "I'm...yeah. Fine. How are you?"

Ada indicated the Asian woman. "This is Kim." Ada went on to explain that she and Kim met six months ago and they were engaged. Ada had not spent her year moping.

I managed a few decent words of congratulations and stumbled out of the store. I ran to my car and cried and cried. I had let the best thing in my life get away. And why? Why? Because she was old? So what? My excuses seemed silly, so pointless now.

*****

Life went on. Time went on, but it didn't necessarily heal all wounds. Ten years after I ran into Ada and Kim in the grocery store, I still mourned Ada, although the raw pain had ebbed into a dull ache. I had dated here and there. I simply could not get over the woman I let escape. I simply could not forgive myself for my stupidity and my fear.

I wondered every day how Ada was, if she and Kim were happy. And, yes, with guilt, I wondered if Ada still lived. I scoured the newspaper obituaries religiously, but I never saw her name. My father died of a heart attack, and my mother ran off with the twenty-year-old pool boy. Jessica, who moved out soon after my breakup with Ada, married the woman of her dreams. Everyone was either dead or happy, except for me. I spent my days drowning in the sea of muck that was my life. Nip chee! I had slipped, fallen, and could not get up.

Then I saw Ada in the snack foods aisle, and my fog lifted. Only for a minute, though. Ada was obviously dying. She was gaunt, a shell of her former self, but she still managed to be impossibly beautiful. Willing myself not to cry, I said hello. Something flooded her features—recognition, love, happiness, relief?

"Rach," she creaked. Her voice was a rasp, unlike her eyes, which were as full of life as ever. "Rachel."

A few tears escaped me, and I wiped them away with the back of my hand. "How are you? How's Kim?"

Ada snorted. "Kim left me nine years ago for some young’un."

I blinked. "Wow. I'm sorry. You two looked so in love."

"How are you?"

"I'm all right."

"Seeing anyone?"

My gaze slumped to a shelf. "No. I haven't really dated since you. I was stupid."

"Oh, Rachel," Ada said sadly. "Life's too short to keep flogging yourself. We all make mistakes."

I met Ada's eyes. "I wish I'd known about you and Kim. Nine years ago! Why didn't you tell me? We could've ..."

"It wasn’t my place to go to you. Anyway, it doesn't matter now, does it? Cancer. Found out last month. Yes, yes, don’t tell me, I should’ve gone to the doctor sooner. I have three months, maybe four. Won't be able to walk by next week, probably."

I knew in that instant what I wanted to do. What I had yearned to do for the past eleven years. I only hoped Ada would let me. "Please," I implored her. "Let me..." I fumbled, searching for the right words.

Ada understood, and she smiled.

"I'll tell everybody," I went on. "Everybody. Jessica, my mother, her pool-boy lover. I'll shout it from the rooftops! I love you, I love you, this wonderful woman, and I want nothing more than to make you happy. Please?"

Tears shimmered in Ada’s eyes, probably mirroring my own. "I still have two things uncrossed on the list. Find the love of my life and die happy. I'm glad that I can cross them both out."

I took Ada in my arms and kissed her.

*****

The next four months were the best and the worst of my life. I took care of Ada, and she took care of me, even as her health deteriorated and she was reduced to little more than a vegetable. I did not care. Above all, I was determined that she would die happy. And she did, in my arms, with a kiss on her lips and an eternal smile in her eyes.

In the hours after Ada's death, I was lost. My purpose was gone. I could not imagine having a future. Then I found a letter from Ada, tucked in the middle of her favorite book. Perhaps letter was not the right word. Ada had made a list for me, a sweet little five-item list, although she admonished me to add to it.

1. Live happy.

2. Die happy.

3. Lose yourself in a crazy, spring-afternoon rain in Rome.

4. Get a dog and a cat at the same time.

5. Go to the supermarket. Go into aisle five, where the snack foods are. Ask out the first woman who enters.

I smiled through my tears. This was what I would do with my life: be someone Ada would be proud of. I would keep Ada’s spirit burning.

Three days after Ada died, her family and I buried her. My mother and Sebastian, her pool-boy lover, came. So did Jessica. They held me up.

In the following months, I visited Rome and lost myself in a rain. Italians and tourists huddled inside, but I ran and ran, for twenty minutes. When I returned to the United States, I adopted a mutt and a kitten from the SPCA.

Then, one year after Ada’s death, I was ready to follow the instructions for number five. I went to the store and to the snack-food aisle. It was empty, but my chest was full with tightness. My heart was wobbling with anxiety and anticipation. Who would round the corner? An old woman, like Ada? A homophobic woman, like one I'd been afraid of meeting all those years ago with Jessica? A twenty-year-old airhead? A plain, mousy Jane? Funny how negative I was. I was still scared.

I waited and waited. No one came, except for a middle-aged man. It made no sense. The time was noon; the store should be bustling. I waited some more. Five minutes passed. Still a ghost town.

"Hell," I muttered. What cruel, sick irony if no woman showed up. Be patient. She will come. The odds guarantee it.

The laughter of children reached my ears, and there the children were, tumbling into the aisle—boys, four shouting, gleeful boys. They looked about four to ten years old. They were all red-headed and freckled. They bled mischief, as many boys do, and two had chins smeared with chocolate.

I cringed. I hoped the boys were with their father, or at least with a man. I would rather go with a woman who did not have four hollering boys. I imagined what Ada would say. Don't be afraid. Embrace life. Welcome the unexpected.

I gulped. Whatever would happen would happen.

A few moments later came a woman, apparently the boys' mother. She echoed their red hair and freckles, and on her long, lean frame hung overalls spattered with dried blue and pink paint. Was she an artist? Or just frazzled? Both? Her hair was askew, as if she had been electrocuted. She kept pleading with her sons to settle down.

She and the boys wandered closer to me, and I got a good look at her eyes—oh, her eyes! They were a beautiful, painful blue. I knew that blue. Ada's blue.

I smiled, and I went up to the woman with the blue eyes and the four rambunctious sons.

THE END

Funeral

When Annie got home, her wife was taking the bed apart. "What are you doing?" Annie asked.

Olivia wiped sweat off her brow. "Preparing for the funeral."

"Who died?"

"Darla."

"Who’s Darla?"

"Think."

Annie thought. And thought. Her wife did not seem too upset, so Darla must be someone they did not know well. What did that have to do with the bed, though? "Darla," Annie said slowly. "Daaarla. Darl-uhh." Sounding out the name was not helping.

Olivia folded the bed frame.

"Darla, okay. But what’s that have to do with the bed?"

"Darla is the bed! God."

Annie remembered now. "Sorry," she muttered. "Sorry." Olivia was the type to name inanimate objects. Their fountain out back was Betsy. The water hose was Noah. Their cars were Luke and TJ. However, Olivia hadn’t referred to the bed by name in a long time. Years, probably. "Did Darla break or something?"

"Or something. Help me carry the mattress to the curb."

Annie shouldered part of the mattress, and Olivia took the other half. She guided them through the doorway, the hallway, down the porch steps and to the curb. "What happened with Darla?" Annie asked again.

"Maybe we should have a proper funeral instead of this curbside funeral. Dig a hole, dump Darla in there. Have a grave marker. You want to make the marker? You’re good with wood."

"We’re burying our bed?"

"We could invite everyone."

"Olivia, what in the hell is going on?"

Anger glimmered in Olivia’s eyes. "Phyllis! Bob!" she called to their next-door neighbors. "Want to come to a funeral?"

Phyllis and Bob wandered over. "A funeral?" Phyllis said. "I’m so sorry."

"Me too," Olivia replied.

"Who passed?"

"Darla. Our bed."

"Your bed?"

"Ever heard of lesbian bed death? It happens to you straights too, right?"

Everything clicked in Annie’s mind. "Oh, Christ." Annie tried to grab Olivia’s wrist, but Olivia twisted away.

"Don’t you touch me, Annie. Don’t you dare touch me." Olivia fished a folded, worn piece of paper from her pocket. "I wrote the eulogy. You staying, Phyllis and Bob?"

"If you like."

"This is Darla," Olivia began. "Well, part of her, anyway. The rest of her is inside."

"She’s pretty," Phyllis said.

"Thanks." Olivia’s gaze dropped to the thick blue mattress. She sniffled and read again from the paper. "Annie and I got Darla from Sears fifteen years ago, right after we moved in together. Darla’s been good to us. We wore her out those first few years. Tested her vigorously. Annie couldn’t get enough of me. Then after Johnny was born, Annie touched me less and less. I dieted and exercised. I lost weight. Annie still didn’t touch me much. I asked her what was wrong. Nothing, she said. I tried to interject some spice into our sex life. I asked Annie to go to the doctor. Nothing. Today, I mourn Darla, victim of lesbian bed death."

"Oh dear." Phyllis looked at Annie accusingly.

Annie could not believe Olivia was doing this, making such a scene.

"Darla’s dead," Olivia said quietly. "We’re dead. Our intimacy is gone."

"Are you leaving me?"

"I don’t want to," Olivia said.

Annie met Olivia’s gaze. So much pain and anguish there. "I’ve been a fool," Annie said. She reached for her wife’s hands. "I didn’t realize this was...let me try. Okay? Let’s go shopping for a new bed. We can start over. Rediscover ourselves."

"Yeah, Bob," Phyllis said. "How about it?"

Bob looked away. "Yar," he grunted. "All right."

"We can bury our bed with Darla," Phyllis said.

"Yar, fine." Bob looked embarrassed.

Annie kissed Olivia, and Annie felt a hard, searching seizure in her toes. "Let’s go in," Annie whispered. "We can use Dakota."

"The couch?" Phyllis asked.

"Yep. The couch."

THE END

The Lesbian Curse

I was thirteen years old and in eighth grade. I'd just snagged the most-drooled-after boy in middle school, so I got cocky. Too cocky. I forgot about my rival, the girl who would stop at nothing to get Brandon. Her name was Becky. We'd been enemies since we were in diapers. We both had perfect families, perfect blond hair, perfect blue eyes, perfect everything. But Becky had always won—until Brandon. He was mine. He saw what an airhead Becky was.

I enjoyed my prize, strutting around with him, lingering with him at my locker, fingering his flannel shirt. Kissing him on the cheek. Showing my boy off.

Becky pretended not to care, but after school, she corralled me in the girls' bathroom. She was furious. Her right eyebrow twitched, and her shirt was the teeniest bit untucked. "You know what, Katy? You won't get away with your crap."

"Brandon doesn't like you. Accept it."

She shoved me, so I shoved her back.

"I curse you!" she exclaimed. "You're gonna become a lesbian!"

"Lesbian? What's that?"

Becky snorted. "You don't know? That's when women like each other. They live together, get married and stuff."

I was stupefied; can you tell my parents sheltered me? "That doesn't happen."

Becky nodded knowingly. "It does too. And lesbians are ugly. They have short hair and buck teeth. They don't wear dresses. They look like men. No one likes lesbians. Now you're gonna be one, unless you let me have Brandon!"

I looked into Becky's blue eyes and shivered. She was dead serious. Still, I refused to let on that I was scared. "You can't curse me."

"I've been taking voodoo classes with my aunt."

"Whatever."

Becky crossed her arms. "It'll start tomorrow morning with your hair. You'll brush it, but it won't shine as much. And you'll change little by little every day."

"Whatever." I stomped out of the bathroom. Stupid, worthless Becky. Still, that gleam in her eyes...

*****

Brandon and I talked on the phone for four hours that night. We chatted about the latest movies, who was mean at school, who was cool and so on. I did not tell him about the "lesbian curse," but it worried me to no end. I was glued to the mirror. I brushed my hair every five minutes. It continued to shine brilliantly. After Brandon and I hung up, I looked up the word "lesbian" in the dictionary.

A homosexual woman.

So I looked up "homosexual." Homosexuals desired people of their own sex.

I really had never heard of such a thing. Like I mentioned earlier, I had a perfect family. Perfect friends, too. My life was sheltered. No homosexuality allowed, thank you very much.

At ten o' clock, I went to say good night to my parents. I hugged them extra tight and wondered if they would still love me if I became lesbian. I tossed and turned all that night.

Buck teeth.

Short hair.

Ugly.

No more dresses.

I loved dresses! And boys.

When I woke up, I dashed to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Dark, purple circles resided under my eyes. Great. They almost made me forget what Becky said would happen first—the dulling hair.

But I did remember. I brushed and brushed my hair with growing dread. My hair was not its usual radiant self. Sure, it shone, but it was missing whatever key element made it stand out. The heterosexual element?

I wanted to die. I crawled back into bed and played sick. The next morning, a Saturday, my hair was even duller, and my front teeth suspiciously resembled a rabbit's. I ran over to Becky's house and pounded on her door.

She answered a few minutes later, smirking hugely.

"Take it back!" I begged her. "Please. I don't want to be a lesbian. I want my good hair and nice teeth back. You can have Brandon."

Becky shrugged and flipped back her perfect blond hair. "This is more fun." She slammed the door in my face.

I blinked back tears. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"Fine! I curse you! You'll be a lesbian, too!" I screamed, not caring who else might hear.

The door opened. Becky, still smirking. "You can't curse me. You don't know voodoo."

"Do too," I lied, plotting to sign up for the best voodoo classes ever. "I double-curse you, Rebecca Elizabeth English. You'll be the ugliest lesbian in the world." I meant what I said. My words had the force of teenage anger and confusion behind them. "Tomorrow," I continued, "you'll gain two pounds. You'll get fat."

Becky snickered, but my heart leaped, for I saw fear in her eyes.

*****

On my way home, I passed a group of high school boys. They were all tall, muscular, tanned. More drool-worthy than Brandon. I paid them scant attention, because of the young woman with them. She had long black hair and wore a tight red T-shirt. She was beautiful. I could not take my eyes off her.

She smiled at me. My pulse raced. "Hello," she said—to me! "Are you okay?"

I squeaked in response, and she laughed. Flipped her hair back. Winked.

Only when I got home did I realize what had happened: desire for my own sex. How I hated Becky then.

*****

Brandon broke up with me the next week. I did not blame him. The circles under my eyes had intensified, and my hair was practically falling out. Not to mention what was happening with my teeth. The dentist said they were fine. He saw no difference. My parents did not notice any differences, either. They said my teeth were wonderful and straight. My hair was great. Same as always. I just needed to get a good night's sleep.

I checked out a book on voodoo from the school library. I found nothing on lesbian curses, but there were plenty of general spells that would do. Every night for close to a month, I cursed Becky. Becky, who was now with Brandon. Ugh.

I also tried to uncurse myself. Nothing worked. Becky became more beautiful as the days went on. Taller. Slimmer. Longer-limbed. Smarter. I became shorter and wider. I blushed more and more whenever a pretty girl talked to me.

*****

Right when school got out for the summer, I broke down. I blubbered everything to my mother, through hot thick tears: how I had been cursed, how I didn't like boys anymore. How dresses felt alien. Mother whispered soothingly and rubbed my back. "Gullible Katy. It's all in your head. There's no curse. It's impossible." She bought me dresses, and I pretended to love them.

*****

In July, I went to Becky's house again. I got on my knees and pleaded with her to please, please, please undo the curse. She said no, even after I threatened to quadruple-curse her.

So I became uglier and uglier. A pariah.

The logical part of me lectured myself that Mother was right—such a curse was impossible. How to explain what had happened with me, though? Overnight! But then something even more improbable happened. I entered ninth grade and despite my best, most strenuous efforts, fell head over heels in love with Rebecca Elizabeth English. It was impossible not to. She was so beautiful and smart. Her laugh...

Sometimes she touched me. Oh, not like that. But she'd brush past me, to shove me out of the way. Those moments were heaven. She and Brandon were long over, but she had a new boyfriend every week. All of the boyfriends had close-cropped brown hair. So I cut my hair and dyed it, much to Mother's horror. Her perfect family was falling apart.

"You really are a lesbian," she muttered one day. She bought me more dresses.

*****

Okay, maybe I wasn't in love with Becky. But I certainly had a crush, and it grew and grew. By our senior year of high school, it was unbearable. I would do anything for the girl. Carry her books. Do her homework. Help her cheat on tests. Becky started to like boys with nose rings and tattoos, so I followed suit.

Still, she barely paid attention to me. Never said "thank you" for my help. Mother bought me more and more dresses.

One evening in May, about a month before graduation, Becky summoned me to her house. I went obediently.

"I'll undo the curse," she told me.

My tongue became thick and clumsy. "Why?"

"I'm tired of you fawning all over me."

Tears sprang to my eyes. "Oh."

Becky's gaze was cold. "All right, then."

"You should have told me to leave you alone. I would have."

"You would've started stalking me."

I laughed—not sure why. But laugh I did. "No."

"You might have, though."

"No, Becky. I promise. I would not have."

She brushed her hair back and did a thing with her hands on her neck. "Are you saying I'm not stalk-worthy?"

I rushed to reassure her. "You are. Definitely. You're stalk-worthy."

"Good."

Awkward tension.

I licked my lips. "Please don't undo the curse. I'll leave you alone."

"You like being a lesbian?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I blinked. It was a good question, especially since I had spent the past few years hating being a lesbian. "Why? Well, I don't know. I just don't want to like boys."

"Hmm."

Becky and I were in her room, sitting on opposite sides of her bed. On her nightstand was a picture of Richard, her current boyfriend. Gag.

Becky caught me looking at him. She said nothing, though. Until..."I never cursed you," she whispered. "It was something I made up. I'm sorry."

I kind of knew this already. "Okay. I forgive you."

Becky went over to Richard's picture and snapped it down. Bye bye, Richard. She turned to me. Her right eyebrow twitched. "Did you curse me?"

"Yes. Every night for about a month. I used to really hate you."

"Hmm." She crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. Did the thing again—fingering the nape of her neck. She shifted and fidgeted.

"I'm gay too," she muttered.

I could not believe my ears. "What?"

"Your curses worked."

I got to my feet and stared at Becky. She was miserable to her very core. Ready to cry. I wanted to hug her, but I stayed away. She dabbed at her eyes. "I liked you then," she whispered. "Back in eighth grade. And I wish you wouldn't change yourself to look like my boyfriends. You don't need to be my lap dog. Be yourself."

My knees wobbled. "You liked me? You like me?"

"Yes." Becky tucked her hair behind her ears. More fidgeting. "I'm sorry I've been so mean to you."

"It's okay." I took tentative steps toward her.

"I hate kissing my boyfriends. Have you kissed a girl already?"

I stuffed my hands into my jean pockets. I couldn't kiss her. Not here, not now. No way. Not without mental preparation. This was not part of the plan. I was supposed to keep pining after Becky until I went off to college and met the girl of my dreams. Oh, well. Screw the plan.

"Do you want to be gay together?" I asked her. "It's not bad. Not a curse at all. We can kiss lots."

She laughed. Nodded, just a little. "I would love to be gay with you."

THE END

Polly Wanna Cracker

Polly was a bird. A parrot, to be exact. Some parrots could talk, but not Polly. She hated when visitors came up to her at the Lawsons's house and teased: "Polly wanna cracker? Ha ha ha."

One of the Lawsons would reply: "Oh, Polly can't talk. She's not that kind of parrot."

The visitors usually clucked and said something to the effect of: "Why not get a parrot that can talk? What does this bird do?"

Polly hated the stupid visitors. She hated the tweedledum Lawsons. The only one she could halfway tolerate was Faye, the eldest child. Faye was seventeen years old and a senior in high school. Polly lived in Faye's room most of the time. Whenever Faye's visitors asked: "Why not get a parrot that talks?" Faye would answer, "Talking's overrated. Polly's perfect the way she is."

*****

One Sunday, Faye cleaned her room, and Polly watched with interest. Faye cleaning was nothing unusual, to be sure. She had friends over at the house all the time, and her parents had taught her the virtues of a spotless, fresh-smelling bedroom.

But.

This cleaning was different. It was like an attack. A determined, methodical attack. Polly had never seen Faye this focused. Faye dusted and vacuumed, not once, but twice. She even cleaned the dust off her ceiling fan.

After Faye was finished, she grinned at Polly. "I'm bringing someone over after school tomorrow."

Ah. One of these clumsy boys who'll fumble with you on the bed. Great. Those boys never tired of chortling: "Polly wanna cracker? Ooo. Polly can't talk. Ha ha."

"I'm nervous." Faye took Polly out of her cage. "I'm not bringing over a boy. It's a girl. We’re in the same English class. Her name's Elise. She's wonderful. She's pretty. She…" Faye's expression turned dreamy. "She has long brown hair. Big brown eyes."

Polly was shocked. You're a dyke?

Faye bit her lip. "Polly, I think maybe I'm gay."

Your parents wouldn't like it. Their little girl a lesbian. Ha ha.

"Do you think I'm gay?"

Sure. Whatever. Why are you asking me? I'm just a bird.

Faye twirled hair around her finger. She was an okay-looking girl. Nothing spectacular. Nothing hideous. A few pounds overweight. Could use more-fashionable glasses.

"Polly," Faye began again, "do you think I'm gay?"

Polly shrugged as only a parrot could.

"I can't stop thinking about Elise."

Not my problem.

"I think she likes me too. Do…should I ask? Or maybe just try to kiss her?"

Sure, buddy. Knock yourself out.

"I should shower now. You think the room looks nice?"

Polly inclined her head in a nod.

Faye beamed. "Thanks. You're the best, Polly!"

*****

When Elise came over the next afternoon, Faye locked the bedroom door behind them. Elise was a pretty girl, just as Faye had said. Long brown hair, big brown eyes. Frail-looking, too. Pale.

Faye and Elise stared at each other for a couple of awkward seconds. Then Faye said, "Uh…this is Polly." She indicated the cage.

"Right. Yeah." Elise approached Polly and bent to Polly's eye level. "Hey there, Polly."

Polly inclined her head. Hello.

"She's a parrot, right? Can she talk?"

"No. Talking's overrated, anyway."

Elise laughed. "I couldn't agree more."

Polly perked up. I like this girl.

"You want anything?" Faye asked. "Diet Coke, water?"

"Water would be great."

*****

After Faye left, Elise addressed Polly. "So, Faye's cool, huh? And you. You seem cool too. You're pretty. What shade of blue is that?"

Polly preened. She batted her eyelashes as only a parrot could. Elise was better than the boys. She had a naturalness about her, a warmth. A softness.

"Is…" Elise stopped. Hesitated. Started again. "Does Faye talk about me any?"

So you like her back. Faye and Elise in a tree, kissing…

"Does she talk about me?"

Polly nodded.

Elise's face lit up. "Really?"

Yep. Faye cleaned her room extra-special for you.

Faye returned, toting two water bottles. She locked the door again.

*****

What followed were two of the most torturous hours of Polly's life. Downright painful. Faye and Elise were awkward. Clumsy. Nervous. They sat on opposite sides of Faye's bed. Barely looked at each other. They mumbled their history study questions and answers.

If that's love, Polly thought, I want no part of it. Damn it, girls. Just get it on!

At six o' clock, Elise went home.

Faye lay back on the bed and inhaled deeply. "God, Polly," she moaned. "I don't know what to do. Elise doesn't like me."

Are you blind? She's crazy about you. Stop your stupid whining.

"Dinner in ten minutes!" Mrs. Lawson called from the hallway. "Come set the table."

"Be right there, Mom!"

Faye did not leave the bedroom. She undressed. Completely.

Not again. You're a decent-looking girl, okay? Geez.

Faye stood in front of her full-length mirror. She pinched her extra helpings of fat. She studied her butt. Sighed. Frowned. She pulled her clothes back on. "Elise really doesn't like me," Faye whispered. "Not like that."

"Faye!" called Mrs. Lawson. "Come on."

Faye clutched her hands to her stomach. "I'm not feeling well, Mom."

The doorknob rattled, but the door was locked. "Let me in!" Mrs. Lawson called.

Faye opened the door for her mother, and Glenda Lawson swept in. While Faye was a plain girl, Glenda was gorgeous. Tall and slender. Looked half her age, more like Faye's sister than her mother.

"What's the matter?" Glenda Lawson asked her daughter.

"Not hungry. Maybe I'm getting sick."

"How did studying with Elise go?"

"Fine. I don't wanna eat dinner, okay, Mom."

*****

Elise came over again the next afternoon. More mumbled study questions and answers. More nervous, furtive glances.

Polly's frustration grew. Just kiss, damn it. Kiss! Get on with it!

No kisses. No touches. It went on like that for a week. Faye moped more and more. Skipped more dinners.

Polly had never wished more that she could talk. She wanted to scream at Faye: "Elise likes you! She's head over heels in love with you, you idiot!"

One morning, while the Lawson children were at school and Mr. Lawson at work, Glenda visited Faye's room. She did this sometimes—to pick up dirty laundry, to drop off clean clothes, whatever. Little things. Not snooping-type things.

On this day, however, Glenda Lawson snooped. Glenda got on her knees. She searched under the bed.

In dresser drawers.

In desk drawers.

She burrowed into corners.

Into the recesses of the closet.

Nothing.

She said to Polly: "Oh, don't look at me like that. It's my house. I've a right to look around. Now, where is that diary?"

Polly knew where the diary was, of course, and was salivating at the possibility of Glenda finding it. It'd lead to an interesting fight between mother and daughter. My little girl's a lesbian! We can't have that!

Whenever Glenda got close to the diary, Polly squawked at the top of her bird-lungs. Warm, warm, warm … cold. Hot hot hot!

Glenda did not understand. "Shut up, you stupid bird! Shut up!"

Fine, you old cow.

But Glenda eventually lifted a carpet corner and found the diary. "Here we are!" She plunked on the floor. She skimmed the first page of the diary—an entry from at least a year ago—and flipped to the last few pages.

Polly braced herself for Glenda Lawson's outburst. When Glenda got mad, she got mad. And very funny. All red-faced, veins bulging. A caricature. When Glenda was mad, she yelled and threw things around. Never at Polly, though.

Polly smiled a genuine beak-smile and watched. She waited, her spine tingling.

Glenda read, her eyes widening. She went still. "Jesus," she breathed. She lifted her gaze from the diary and stared into space. "Jesus."

Come on. Snap out of it, woman. Break a lamp. Do something.

Glenda shakily got to her feet. She had to use the bed as support. She looked right at Polly. "Is it true? Faye's a lesbian? She likes Elise?"

Yes! Now will you throw something?

"She's a lesbian. My daughter's a lesbian. No. It's just a phase. Right?"

Stop talking and do something! Hey. Go get Faye from school, hmm? Bring her back here. Have a great big row.

Glenda plopped onto the bed. Very unceremonious. She covered her face in her hands. "Oh, God." She left the room a few minutes later.

Don't worry, Polly told herself. When Faye gets home…hoo boy.

*****

About noon, Glenda returned to the bedroom and replaced the diary. "You know, Polly," she said, "I'm thinking maybe I won't say anything to Faye."

What? Come on! You're not going to stand for your daughter being a dyke, right?

"I don't think I'll tell Marvin, either," Glenda whispered. "He wouldn't understand."

Marvin was, of course, Mr. Lawson, Faye's father. He was an eternally red-faced, tough-talking man. Mean and big. A shouter. Made everyone around him unhappy.

Glenda grinned sheepishly and could no longer meet Polly's gaze. "I, uh...you know, Polly. It's got to be a phase. I went through the same thing."

What? Are you serious?

"I'm serious."

Tell me more. Now.

"Her name was Amanda," Glenda began slowly. "We...it was in college." Glenda sniffled. "I don't know. Marvin's...well, he...I don't know. So what if Faye's a lesbian? As long as she's happy. I won't be jealous. I won't. Not of my own daughter."

Polly stared in horror as Mrs. Lawson crumpled into tears. Come on! You can do better than this. Okay, so you're a closet muff diver. Why don't you—

"I should call Amanda," Glenda mumbled. "It's been a while." Glenda took a deep breath. "Yeah. I'll call Amanda. Come with me, Polly. Be my moral support."

*****

They went to the living room. Glenda took her sweet old time finding Amanda's number in the address book. Then Glenda took her sweet old time staring at the phone.

Finally, though, she gave Polly one last pleading look. You're pathetic, Polly thought. Moral support? I'm just a bird, and...fine. Whatever. You want to be a wuss, go right on ahead.

"Wish me luck," Glenda whispered. She punched in the phone number. Then..."Hello? Is that you, Amanda? Yes, yes, it's me, how did you know?"

A laugh. A giggle. Big smiles.

"Yes, it has been a long while. Five years, right? This isn't a bad time, is it? Oh, good. Well, I was just..."

Polly listened for a few minutes but had to tune out. The conversation was too much like the ones between Faye and Elise. Nervous, too much left unsaid. But one question brought Polly back into the conversation.

"Am I happy?" Glenda Lawson was repeating. "Why, yes. What's that supposed to...yes, of course. Aren't you? What? Oh. You're not? Oh. Wow. She cheated on you? That's awful. I'm sorry. Marvin...well, I'm sure he has a girl or two on the side. But, I don't know, Amanda. I should. I know. Most days, I want to leave him."

Glenda listened for a few minutes. Then: "Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I better go. Talk to you soon. Bye."

Glenda hung up, and her eyes were wet with tears. She had herself a good cry right in front of Polly.

*****

When Faye and Elise got home from school, Polly was back in Faye's room, on her usual perch. The girls took their accustomed spots on Faye's bed but did not get out their textbooks.

Passion flushed Faye's cheeks. "I can't believe you told Mark yes," she cried. "He's a dweeb!"

"He's okay."

"He's a dweeb!"

"What do you care anyway?" Elise retorted.

"I'm your friend."

"My friend would be happy for me."

The squabbling escalated, and Polly found herself wishing for Glenda's crying. The crying had gone on and on, but it was so much better than this waste of—

Wait. What I did I miss?

The room was deathly silent now. Faye and Elise stared at each other.

"You do?" Elise asked. "You really do?"

"Yes," Faye replied.

Elise's lips curled into a grin that showed no signs of stopping.

A rap sounded. "Let me in!" Glenda.

Faye gave Elise a longing look, then went to the door. She unlocked it.

"Come study in the living room," Glenda ordered. Her expression was cool, and her gray eyes were hard. "Being cooped up here all the time is unhealthy. Come on. Now."

*****

The next morning, Glenda took Polly into the living room again for moral support. Amanda telephoned at ten forty-five.

She and Glenda talked and talked. About the old days, about the current days. About Amanda's life, about Marvin, about Faye, about Marvin Jr., the younger child. Glenda cried. Amanda probably did, too.

The conversation lasted right up to three p.m. It ended with Glenda whispering: "Yes, I promise. I'll fly out next week. Promise. I can't wait to see you. Wouldn't it be nice if I stayed forever and...really?" A laugh. "Well, I just might, then. Will you...you'll kiss me? Like you used to, that nibbling trick and—ha ha. Yes."

Yeah, right, Polly thought. You won't go anywhere. You're all talk and no action.

*****

That afternoon, when five-year-old Marvin Lawson Jr., or MJ, got home from kindergarten, he took Polly's cage into his room. MJ was a lovely looking child, with his mother's delicacy and fair skin. He was also irresponsible, as most children his age were.

He opened Polly's door and held his finger out. "Come sit."

Polly did not come sit. She flapped out. Round and round the room.

Whee whee whee whee is that window open? Please please please yes it surely is. Polly had no intention of staying outside long. She had watched plenty of nature shows and knew she would not survive long. But a lap or two outside, around the house, would be great.

To the window!

BONK

Polly crashed against the (closed) window, she saw stars, and then her world went black.

*****

Polly awoke to MJ's anxious face towering over her. "Polly! Polly! Wake up."

I am awake, you idiot. Can't you see my eyes are open?

"You're awake!"

And you're a genius, kid.

MJ's eyes widened. "Wow. Say that again!"

What?

"Wow! What else can you say?"

Oh, come off it, you dumbass—wait. Polly's heart leaped with a belated realization. She took a deep breath. "Hello. Hello."

"Polly can talk!" MJ screamed. "Mommy! Mommy! Faye! Polly can talk! What's a dumbass?"

*****

Polly's first request was to be left outside her cage at all times. "I don't like it," Polly explained. "I'm a thinking, living, breathing being with needs. Mirrors, brightly colored ladders and toys don't do it for me."

"Okay," Mrs. Lawson said. She had not recovered from the shock. Her face was still pale, and her hands trembled. Faye had reacted similarly.

"We could take Polly on TV. Or the circus!" MJ enthused. "Mommy! Can I take Polly to show and tell tomorrow? Can I call Daddy and tell him?"

"No, honey. Not right now," Glenda said. She turned to Polly, who was on the coffee table. "I don't understand. Polly flew into the window and then she could talk."

"It's a miracle," Polly said. She liked the sound of her own voice. Deep and sultry.

"I don't know what we'll do with a talking bird," Glenda said.

"We'll keep her, won't we?" Faye asked.

"A talking bird. We can't have a bird that talks in complete sentences."

"Why not?" Faye was indignant. "Polly's fine the way she is, talking or not."

Glenda sighed. "A talking bird."

"What do you care anyway?" Polly said. "You'll be gone next week." Oops.

Faye's brows furrowed. "Mom?"

"Polly's talking crazy."

"Your mom likes women," Polly said. "Maybe you got it from her. Ask her about the plane ticket. And about Amanda."

"Amanda?"

Glenda shoved Polly into the cage and grabbed her car keys.

*****

Polly knew she had gone too far. Maybe talking was overrated, after all. "What are you doing? Please don't hurt me. I won't say any more," Polly pleaded. "Whatever you do, don't kill me."

Glenda said nothing. She drove, her eyes slits, her hands fisted white around the steering wheel. After about fifteen minutes, she said: "You can't play with people's lives like that."

"And you're not playing with your husband's life? Your children's? Amanda's?" Shit. Polly, you gotta learn when to shut the hell up.

"You're a bird! This isn't supposed to happen."

"Please don't kill me."

"I love Amanda. I've never loved Marvin. He's never loved me, either. We got married out of convenience. Because we were expected to."

"Sure, sure." Polly hoped she sounded soothing. "Marvin will understand. He'll be happy. So will you. With Amanda." Please don't kill me.

"People will talk. Glenda Lawson left her husband for a woman."

"It happens. Who cares what people think, as long as you're happy?"

Glenda turned off the road and parked. "What is it you want, Polly?"

"Huh?"

"Out of life. You're four years old now."

"I don't know. I never thought about it."

"I doubt you want to spend your days with us and our petty problems. I'll give you your freedom. Just leave me and my family alone."

Polly swallowed. She would never survive out in the wild. Predators all around. A domesticated bird such as she would last two seconds. "You're sending me to my death," Polly said. "I'll take your petty problems any day. Please."

"I like you, Polly. I really do."

"I like you too, Glenda. Let me help you."

Glenda slumped against her seat. She looked weary beyond her years. "I don't want to go back home. I'm tired of being second, of putting Marvin's and the children's needs ahead of mine."

"Go to Amanda now. Give yourself your freedom."

Glenda Lawson smiled slowly. "Yeah. Give myself my freedom. That sounds good, doesn't it?" She turned to study Polly. "Amanda will like you. She said the children could visit all they liked. Live with us, even. Amanda has a bird, too. A canary. But it can't talk."

"I'm good company. I don't mind silent types."

Glenda laughed, worry and anger draining from her face. "You're something else, Polly. Up for a long drive?"

"You bet."

Glenda started the car up and got back on the road. "Los Angeles and Amanda, here we come."

THE END

Haunted

Haunted people? Sure, they're everywhere. Haunted houses? Oooh, spooky. Good movie fodder. Excellent for campfire scares. Haunted cars? They’re not unheard of.

But haunted pens? And I don’t mean pig pens or baby pens (though they sound ridiculous, too). I mean the pens you use for writing.

Yeeeeah, right. That’s what I would’ve said, too. Would’ve. Before I found that damn pen. It was nothing much to look at. It read BIC, SoftFeel, med. It produced black ink. Well, at first it did, when it was trying to pass itself off as a normal, non-threatening, non-haunted pen. I was out for a jog on a crisp fall day; the leaves' colors had peaked the week before. I rounded my block, and there, right in the gutter, was the pen. It was nice, shiny and looked brand new. The cap was on.

You probably would not have picked it up. You’re you. But I’m me, Linda, who picked it up. I’m forever losing pens, and having another around is always nice. I slipped the pen in my pocket and went on my merry jog. Later that night, I got out my checkbook and a whole mess of envelopes and stamps. I paid bills and wrote a couple of birthday cards. My "new" pen wrote good and smooth. There were no inkblots, no choking, no messy swirls. I addressed the envelopes and put stamps on them. I stacked everything on the kitchen counter. I don’t remember where I put the pen. I went to watch TV. The shows were good, nothing extraordinary. I headed back into the kitchen for a glass of water before bed.

The pen was on the floor. I bent down to pick it up. I put it on the counter, and that’s when I noticed the note, written in beautiful, flowing cursive.

Hello, Linda! Thanks for picking me up. We’ll have fun!

I reread the note and got scared. Someone had broken into my place, someone who was playing games with me. My first instinct was to search my apartment, but that would be plain dumb. I’m one of those people who yell at the movies: "No! No, you freaking idiot, don’t run up the stairs!"

I scurried right out the door and into the hallway of my apartment building. The time was near midnight, and I was in my faithful jammies: blue sweat pants and a white T-shirt I’d had since my high school softball days. A large, gold-plated mirror hung in the hallway, and sure enough, I fit the horror movie damsel in distress. The reflection greeting me was as frightening as the note. I was unnaturally pale. I looked like I’d seen a ghost. My eyes were big and round, and my hair was mussed from my evening on the couch.

My gaze fell to my sock-clad feet, and I felt like a fool. Go back in, I coaxed myself.

No, I thought. You know what you saw. Someone’s in there. Or was in there. I took a deep breath. What was a girl in my situation supposed to do? I was twenty-five years old and two weeks new in town. Town being Washington, D.C., and me being a congressional aide whose chief duty was to answer mail. I lived in a Capitol Hill rowhouse that had been converted into apartments. And I was shy. Painfully shy. Meeting new people was nerve-wracking. I wasn’t going to go knocking on doors at this hour. I considered calling the police. No. The police wouldn't do crap. My next thought was to call my sister back home.

I heard light footfalls ascend the steps below me, and my heart froze. What if the writer of the note was returning to kill me? I forced myself in the direction of the staircase. I wasn’t going down without a fight. If I attacked first, I would have the element of surprise on my side.

A lovely man and an equally lovely woman walked up the steps. They were laughing and giggling in the manner of friends or sweethearts. The man was tall and chiseled. He had wavy brown hair and wore corduroy pants and a white sweater. The woman had brown hair too, but hers was so dark it was almost black. She wore a charcoal business suit that hugged her long, lithe body in all the right places. What a great time to be in pajamas.

The beautiful man and beautiful woman reached the top of the stairs and looked at me. The man furrowed his brows. The woman smiled at me. Her eyes were green, and her smile managed to be coy, friendly and slightly feral all at the same time. That was enough. I was in love, a goner.

"Locked out?" she asked. Her voice was soft, smooth, rich.

Somewhere, vaguely, in the cobwebs of my mind, I remembered the note. I would not tell them about it. I would handle this problem on my own.

Of course, what I ended up doing was not much better. "Yeah, kind of locked out," I mumbled.

"Kind of?" The woman's eyes twinkled. "Well, hey, Byron and I can help you get back in."

"That's not necessary. But thanks for offering."

"All right," the man said. "See you." He turned to leave, but the woman didn’t budge.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Do...ah, have you been fighting with someone?"

I felt my cheeks burn. "No. I just wanted fresh air."

"The fresh air is outside."

"I know that. I was on my way out."

She glanced at my sock-clad feet. "Without shoes?"

"Christ, Victoria," the man muttered. "Why do you have to make a case out of everything?"

"I’ll be all right," I said. "Thanks. See you around." I threw them a little wave and rushed down the steps. I again considered calling my sister. But she’d be grumbly and pissed at being woken up.

"Crap," I seethed. "Crap, crap."

Someone came down the steps. It was the woman.

"Tell me what’s going on," she said. "Fight with your boyfriend?"

I looked away.

"What?"

I glanced back at her. "I live alone. No boyfriend."

"What is it? You’re worrying me."

"Oh, it’s..." I flapped my hands. "It’s nothing. It’s silly. But, you know, uh...I’m fine. Really."

"I'm Victoria," the woman said. "Wanna come up to my place?"

"I couldn’t. I’m sure you and your husband need to get to sleep."

"Him? That mean old lug’s not my husband. He’s my brat of a brother. Little brother. He’s visiting. Come on. He’s gone to bed, but I’m a night owl."

I was not sure how to reply. Like I said before, I’ve never been good at meeting people. I certainly wasn’t used to perfect strangers inviting me in. Plus, the timing seemed too coincidental. What if this woman and her so-called brother were involved with the note? What if she was luring me in with her big smile and friendliness?

Thoughts jumbled my brain, but finally I found myself saying, "Have you ever..."

"Have I ever what?"

"No. Never mind."

"Come on. Tell me."

"All right. I was watching TV all night, and I think someone broke into my apartment. Maybe he’s still there. I don’t know."

Victoria’s eyes went wide. "Did you call the police?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"What am I going to tell them? That I was watching TV and went into the kitchen to see a note that hadn’t been there before?"

"Well, yeah!"

I swallowed. "You would have called the police. You're you, but I'm Linda. Silly, stupid Linda."

"What did the note say?"

I could not remember exactly. "Something about being picked up."

"Let’s call the cops."

"No. They'll think I’m being silly."

"Who cares? You have a cell?"

"Yes."

"Call the cops."

"I don’t know the number," I protested lamely.

"Call information, then."

*****

When I laid eyes on the policeman, I knew I was in trouble. He had big, red-veined eyes and a bulging beer belly. He walked with a lazy, shuffling gait and looked close to retirement. The vibe I got from him was nothing I could put into words, but I knew he would not believe me. He’d claim I’d written the note myself and that this was a ploy for attention.

I led him and Victoria to the front door of my apartment.

"What were you doing before you saw the note?" he asked.

"I’d been watching TV all night. I was about to go to bed. I went into the kitchen to get some water, and right on the counter was a note. A note that hadn’t been there before."

"What’d it say? You recognize the handwriting?"

"It was..." I paused a moment, marshalling my thoughts. "It was beautiful handwriting, almost like calligraphy. Flowing cursive. The note said something like ‘Thanks for picking me up.’ Something like that." I shrugged apologetically. "I don’t remember it word for word."

"Well, let’s have a look." The cop went into my apartment.

I stayed behind. He’s not going to believe me. He’s not going to believe me.

The cop returned. "Show me where the note is."

"Shouldn’t you go through the place first, see if anyone’s there?"

He growled. "Let's do this my way, lady. All right? Where’s the note?"

Victoria gave me an encouraging smile.

"On the kitchen counter still. Can you find it yourself? I don’t want to go in the apartment."

"It’s okay," Victoria said. "I wouldn’t want to go in, either."

The cop sighed and disappeared. He was back a minute later. "There’s no note, and nobody in the apartment."

"What? No note?"

"Lady, we’re busy people, you know. I could write you up for making a false report."

"You’ve got to believe me!" I whirled to Victoria. "Don’t you believe me?"

She nodded. "Linda’s telling the truth. Look, whoever wrote the note must’ve taken it with him. We’ve been downstairs a while. There’s another way out of this rowhouse, that staircase down that hall. It would’ve been easy."

The cop barely glanced at Victoria. "Like I said, we’re busy people. We don’t have time to deal with the likes of you. Consider this a warning." He shuffled his way to the staircase, and his heavy footfalls reverberated in my ears.

"No note," I whispered. "But there was a note."

"I know, I know," Victoria said soothingly. "I believe you."

I looked at her, fear almost choking me. "What do I do?"

"Stay with me tonight. Byron’s sleeping on the couch, but we can share my bed. I won’t bite."

My chest tensed, and my earlier suspicions of Victoria flooded back. What if she was involved with the note? What if Byron was the one who had removed the note?

She arched a fine, delicate eyebrow. "Interested?"

Victoria seemed nice. But something about her was off. Something about her gave me the willies, especially now that she had invited me to stay with her. And she was so lovely. Beautiful women have always scared me. Beautiful women always seem to get their way. This one would not, at least not tonight.

"I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t impose on you."

She waved her hand. "It’s no imposition. Or..." A thoughtful gleam entered her eyes. "You stay in my apartment. I’ll stay in yours, keep an eye out."

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"I’m going to stay in a hotel tonight. But thank you for the offer. I’m going to go in and get my things. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do."

Victoria's gaze bore into me, and my stomach tingled. Beautiful women always get their way. Victoria flipped back her hair. "All right. That’s a good idea." She gave a self-conscious chuckle. "I can see you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. You’re smart not to. But I hope I’ll see you around. Want to do dinner tomorrow? Byron and I will cook for you at my place."

I had the most overwhelming urge to say no. At the same time, I wanted so badly to say yes. The thought of sharing dinner with this gorgeous woman sent my stomach into knots. My indecision led to a long, awkward moment of silence.

"All right," Victoria said. "Come by at seven if you want. I hope to see you. I’m in 204."

I stood in place for quite a while after Victoria returned to her apartment.

204.

Only three doors down. It was a shame I didn’t already know my neighbors. But that’s how it usually was with me. I turned to my own apartment door. The cop had left it halfway open, and I took a small, mouse-like step.

There had been a note. I had seen it! I was not going crazy.

I crossed into the place. Most lights had been on when I fled earlier, and they were still on. Holding my breath, I made my way to the kitchen.

No note.

Just like the cop said.

Another kernel of suspicion wound its way into my mind. Had the cop taken the note himself, figuring its convenient disappearance would save him a bunch of trouble? No. Now I was truly being ridiculous. "Calm down," I told myself. "Get what you need, then get the hell out of here."

My first stop was the bedroom, where I planned to change out of my pajamas. I flicked on the lights, and there, in the middle of my neatly, perpetually made-up bed, was a stack of yellow Post-it notes. On top of the stack was the pen I’d found earlier.

I froze.

And I stared.

204. That was where Victoria was. All I had to do was turn around, and I could be at her place in five seconds.

But.

But.

I couldn’t trust her. Couldn’t trust her brother.

As if I were in a trance, I stepped toward the bed. I shifted the pen aside. Sure enough, on the top note was a message in that beautiful cursive.

Here is the first thing I want you to do, Linda. I’ve been lonely. Get me some more Bics. I want friends. I can make them communicate with me.

I blinked. I reread the note, the words blurring in my confused brain. Then the pen moved. It rolled itself over to the note. It righted itself and wrote:

Please. Please, do this Linda. We’ll have fun!

"Oh, God," I gasped. The next thing I knew, I was rapping frantically at Victoria’s door.

*****

Byron answered, his eyes full of sleep. "What is it? Quit making that racket."

I ran past him into the living room. "Oh God, oh God." My breaths came in heavy pants. "Where’s Victoria?"

Victoria appeared in the doorway. She wore a white T-shirt and plain black boxers. Her hair was tousled, and she rubbed at her eyes. "Linda, what is it?"

"The pen, the pen!"

"What?"

"The pen’s the one who wrote the note!"

"Well, uh...ah." Victoria coughed. "The pen?"

"I went into my bedroom. And there was a note. Another note! And then the pen started writing on its own."

"Victoria." Byron’s weary voice sounded on my left.

She threw her brother a smile. "Go sleep in my bed, all right?"

"Yeah, okay." Byron made his way past Victoria and into her bedroom.

Victoria clasped her hands together. "Now, what exactly happened?"

I told Victoria my tale, my words tripping over one another. One minute later, I was out of breath, and she was studying me with...I don't know. It was as if she believed me.

"Take me to the pen," she said.

"What are you going to do?"

"I want to see what’s going on."

"Uh-huh. I’m not going back there."

"I understand," Victoria said, and her eyes gleamed. It wasn’t an evil gleam, or even a menacing one. Just...spooky. It sent chills up my spine. She was curious. Genuinely curious. Not afraid. That unnerved me.

"Stay here," Victoria told me. "I’ll be back soon."

Off she went, walking tall and strong, with nary a trace of apprehension. I wasn’t sure what to do, and I prayed Victoria would be back soon. What if the pen got her? Impossible. How does a pen "get" a nearly six-foot-tall female who seems as strong as an ox? But there were ways. Pens made good weapons. I imagined that little grayish-black Bic stabbing Victoria through the heart, and I shuddered. What had Victoria been thinking, going off by herself?

I remained rooted in her living room. I wasn’t going after her. No way, no how. I was not setting eyes on that pen again if I could help it. Several painfully long minutes passed, and no sounds reached my ears.

Then Victoria was back.

Somber.

Not frightened, but not happy, either.

One of her hands was behind her back, and she brought it in the open to reveal the pen.

I shrieked. "Why’d you bring that back here?"

"Linda, don’t be scared. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s lonely."

"He? He?" I couldn’t believe my ears. "The pen is a he?"

Victoria considered. "Well, maybe not. The writing is feminine."

"This is a game to you. You think I’ve gone crazy. Fine. Fine. Whatever. Just, please, humor me. Destroy the pen. Burn it. Make sure it’s gone forever!"

"Destroy it? I couldn’t. Just because it’s different—"

"Destroy it!" I screamed. "Please. Just do it."

"Linda. Calm down and listen to me." The rationality in Victoria's voice was sorely missing from mine. I didn’t care. There was nothing she could say that would make me listen.

"Linda, the pen wrote to me," she explained. "He just wants someone to write back."

I laughed to cover my growing disbelief and confusion. "This is a dream," I muttered. "Yes, that’s it exactly. I’ve fallen asleep watching TV on the living room couch. You don’t exist. Byron doesn’t exist. And that’s a normal pen, not a crazy, haunted pen."

The pen tumbled from Victoria's hand and found a sheet of paper. It wrote industriously:

Forget Linda. She's a party pooper.

I gasped indignantly. "Am not!"

"You should write your answer," Victoria chided me. She jotted:

Give Linda some time. Please? I really like her. She's cute and sweet.

I blinked at Victoria's words.

I really like her.

"Do you like me, Linda?" Victoria asked.

Yes, yes, yes. "I do," I squeaked.

"This pen brought us together. The least we can do is get it some friends, hmm?"

I thought a long, long moment. If I said yes, would that be crazy? Maybe so. Probably. But was being crazy so wrong? It was better than simply being a boring congressional staffer. I could have Victoria. And a...

A haunted pen?

The pen wrote:

I'm pretty cool. But I'm lonely.

I studied its words. Beautiful, flowing calligraphy. Maybe it could teach me to write like that.

My heart pounded, and I told Victoria, "Yes, we should get it some friends." Somehow, I managed to invite Victoria back to my apartment. The pen came with us.

Now, many months later, I still wonder if I am dreaming. I hope not. I love Victoria, our growing brood of pens, and being crazy.

THE END

What Girlfriend?

Bobbie awoke to snores. What was the girl’s name? Mary, maybe. Or Maria or Martha. Bobbie had a hangover and did not want to think too hard. She hoped the girl would wake up soon. The girl was a tiny thing but produced earth-shaking snores. Their night in bed had been okay. A few kisses, some eating pussy. Bobbie had not reached orgasm. They had met at a lez club, after they were already hammered. The girl was cute, so why not take her home? "Meredith?" Bobbie whispered. That's the name. Has to be.

Bobbie studied her guest. In the morning light, Meredith was not as cute as she looked last night. She had closely cropped dull brown hair. Like Kirsten. Like Frieda. Like Nancy. Like all of Bobbie’s exes. Bobbie supposed this new girl—maybe her name was Marnie?—would end up being her girlfriend. That was how it seemed to happen. Not only to Bobbie, but most of her friends. Girl meets girl, they end up in bed that night. Presto, relationship.

Bobbie sighed. She had wasted ten years on relationships that started like this. Time to stop. I can do it. When she wakes up, I'll tell her—

Marnie or Meredith or Mary, whatever her name was, opened her eyes. "Hi there."

Bobbie did not hesitate. That was the kiss of failure. "Don’t take this personally. It’s not you. It’s me. You seem very nice, and last night was all right. But I don’t need a girlfriend. I don’t want to do the U-Haul thing, okay? Like you’ll have moved in by next week and we’ll have a dog in six months. Then in a year, we’ll start therapy, and in two years, one of us—or both—will cheat. We’ll realize we never should have been together. So. I’m saving us both the trouble. We’re nothing. Got it? Not even friends. I’m not interested. And don’t tell me your name. Thanks. Get dressed and leave."

The girl smiled and rubbed sleep out of her eyes. "Fine by me. I was planning on leaving, anyway."

The girl’s reaction surprised Bobbie. No expression of disappointment. No petulance, no complaints. The girl rolled out of bed and pulled on her underwear. Her body was great. Hard, firm. Breasts like apples. Bobbie had second thoughts. Maybe she should—no.

The girl was fully dressed within thirty seconds. "See ya. I’ll walk myself out."

Bobbie was astonished. "You’re okay with this? Really?"

"Yep. I laid in bed for a few minutes this morning, pretending to sleep. Trying to figure out a way to avoid the whole relationship trap."

"So you don’t think I’d be a good girlfriend."

The girl shrugged. "We’ll never know."

"Are you using reverse psychology?"

The girl laughed. "Boy, you’ve been in some bad relationships, huh?"

Bobbie followed her to the door. "Yeah. Maybe. Um, did I tell you my name?"

"Nope. I don’t want to know, either. See ya." The girl walked to the bus stop in front of Bobbie’s apartment.

Bobbie began to panic. This was obviously a confident, well-adjusted girl. What if she, Bobbie, was making the biggest mistake of her life by letting this prospect go? "Hey!" Bobbie called. "What’s your name?"

"Get back inside. We’re not doing this." The bus, number 95, pulled up, and the girl got on. She did not even wave goodbye.

"Shit." Bobbie watched the bus become a dot in the distance. She’s the one for me, and I let her go. Plans whirled through Bobbie’s mind. She would return to the bar that night and track the girl down somehow. She had to. They were meant to be together.

Bobbie went to her closet. She would pick out clothes to impress the girl tonight. She had tried on three outfits when a knock sounded on the door. Bobbie’s heart leaped. She’s back.

"Hey," the girl said. Her expression was sheepish. "I was thinking..."

"Me too."

They stared at each other for a minute. This is the same old thing again, isn’t it? But we have to do it. It’s the lesbian thing.

"I’m Mickey," the girl said.

"Bobbie. Nice to meet you."

Mickey stepped inside and surveyed the living room. "My love seat would go good there."

THE END

Fortune

Jackie wanted her fortune read first. "You have a question," the fortune-teller, Mother Cera, began.

"Yes," Jackie whispered, her eyes shining. She was a sucker for this stuff. Inwardly, I groaned. Mother Cera was making an easy buck off Jackie.

"You have a secret admirer," Mother Cera said.

My ears perked. No way Mother Cera could have known.

Jackie licked her lips. "Yeah, I do."

"You’re here because you want to know who this admirer is."

"You're exactly right."

Mother Cera gazed into her crystal ball. It turned from white to a light blue. What a crock. Mother Cera probably had a hidden foot pedal or button so she could change the ball’s color as she wished.

I took Jackie aside. "Let’s go," I urged her in low tones. "She’s swindling you. She made a lucky guess, whoop-de-doo."

"You’re mad I didn’t tell you about the admirer until right before we came in here."

"Hey! That’s it. She must’ve overheard you."

Jackie was incredulous. "There were five people in front of us. Mother Cera wasn’t in hearing range. She wasn't in the same room!"

"An accomplice told her. Or she bugged the place."

Mother Cera joined us. "The admirer sends you a rose at work every day," she said.

Big deal. Jackie had told me that in the waiting room.

"The admirer keeps you awake at night. Your pulse races. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in a long time. Maybe the admirer is Louis, you think. Or Michael. Perhaps Ian. You don’t want it to be any of them, though. Maybe it’s Jamie, from work. You wouldn't mind Jamie. Nice eyes, great body. Or maybe..." Mother Cera shot me a sly, meaningful glance.

My throat constricted. Crap. It was like Mother Cera knew. Really knew. "Let’s go, Jackie. This so-called psychic is pulling BS out of her ass."

Jackie sat back down, and Mother Cera followed suit. After a moment's reluctance, I joined them. "Tell me who my admirer is," Jackie implored.

"Ask Emma."

Jackie turned to me. Her expression was questioning. "You know who my admirer is?"

"No."

Mother Cera's ball turned red. "Emma is your secret admirer. She is in love with you and has been since you two met at Camp Carefree."

I leaped to my feet. "You have no right! No right at all!"

*****

Jackie was silent as she drove me home. I gazed out the window, wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into. "Twenty years." Jackie turned into my driveway. "Twenty years we’ve known each other."

"It isn’t true."

"I can’t imagine it is. You've never given me any sign that..."

"Because it's not true."

Don, my husband, was mowing the front yard. His shirt was off, as usual for when he mowed. Sweat glistened off his six-pack abs. His body was perfect, like it had been sculpted from clay. He looked years younger than thirty-five. "You love Don, right?" Jackie’s tone was earnest.

"Of course I love him. He’s my husband."

Jackie backed the car out of the driveway. She drove to a Burger King a few minutes away and cut the engine. "So why are you sending me roses? And this." Jackie drew out a folded paper from her purse. She read: "Jackie, you light up my life. Your every smile, your every laugh, melts my heart. Here is a rose for my rose."

I took the paper and blinked tears back. I had spent a weekend coming up with the words on the paper. I had burned through what was probably literally hundreds of drafts. "It isn’t me. It’s not my writing." I had gone to great pains to disguise my flowing cursive by using bulky block letters.

"It’s you. You’re my secret admirer."

"You’re crazy."

Jackie fished another piece of paper from her purse. "Dear Jackie," she began. "You laughed today, and—"

A rap interrupted, and I lifted my gaze to meet a pair of brown eyes I had not seen in years. My heart sank.

"I thought so!" exclaimed Calliope Jones, the eyes’ owner. "Jacqueline Larson and Emma Callahan. How the heck are you?"

*****

Calliope, Jackie and I went in Burger King and ordered. I got water and small-size fries. My system couldn’t handle anything more. Calliope had not changed; she had been a talker at Camp Carefree and still was.

"Fancy seeing you two! I was thinking we should have a reunion. Get all the Camp Carefree folks together, see what they’re up to."

"Gordon Clark committed suicide last year," Jackie muttered.

My stomach clenched. This was news to me. "He did? You didn’t tell me. Why not?"

Jackie’s eyes darkened. That was all the answer I needed. As an unspoken rule, we did not discuss Camp Carefree days. We did not discuss our past.

"Gordon Clark, pssh," Calliope said. "Now, my Ronald, he’s converted, no doubt about it. Such a stallion! We have five children. Gretchen, she’s thirteen. Lloyd and Donna, they’re twins. Eleven years old. I might send Donna to Camp Carefree next year. I caught her playing doctor with a girl."

I balled my hands into fists. "Excuse me." I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I took deep breaths and mentally counted to ten.

One, you’re fine.

Two, it’s okay.

Three, why today, why Calliope?

Four, does she really think Ronald’s converted? He’s flaming.

Five, that poor daughter of hers. Camp Carefree will kill her spirit.

Six, stop thinking.

Seven, you’re okay.

Eight, you’re fine.

Nine, I’m not okay.

Ten.

I pasted on a cheerful smile and rejoined Calliope and Jackie. "Sorry about that. I had stomach pains."

Calliope was showing Jackie an updated brochure for Camp Carefree. "It's for sale. I'm hoping whoever buys it will let me be a counselor," Calliope said. "Those were great days." Her eyes sparkled, and her beam could not have been wider.

"Are you really happy?" I asked.

"Of course I am. Camp Carefree saved me from a life of sin. As it did you both. Right?" She gave us both penetrating looks. "Oh. Oh. I see. You’ve slipped. You both."

Jackie’s upper lip trembled, and she sipped from her drink to conceal it. "That’s ridiculous. I’m happily married, and so is Emma."

Calliope’s lips set in a grim line. "I saved you from doing something bad in the car. Didn’t I? I thought your heads were a bit too close. Unnaturally close."

Jackie stood. "It sure was swell seeing you, Calliope. Maybe I’ll see you at the reunion if there’s one. Let’s go, Emma."

*****

Jackie drove us to a playground. We got on side-by-side swings. Dusk was settling in. "How did Gordon do it?" I asked.

"Shot himself. I thought you’d have seen the obituary."

"Stopped reading them a few years ago."

"Oh," Jackie said.

"You should’ve told me. You know he was my...my boyfriend." I had lost my virginity to Gordon at Camp Carefree. We had been thrilled it happened. Gordon and I high-fived each other. "I love you," he had said.

"I love you too."

"You have a beautiful body. Great breasts."

He was lying, of course. He hated the sex, as did I. We were not in the least bit attracted to each other.

"We stayed in touch," Jackie said. "He was in and out of rehab all his life. Cocaine and booze."

"Ah." Gordon had been kicked out of Camp Carefree. He was busted in bed with Ben Brown, another camper. Jackie had lost her virginity to Ben.

"Every time Ben and I did it, I thought about you. I fantasized it was your lips on mine, your hands touching me," Jackie said.

"You shouldn’t be saying such things."

"You’re sending me roses and writing me notes," Jackie pointed out.

"Who's Jamie?" Mother Cera had mentioned someone named Jamie from Jackie's work.

"Jamie's one of the architects."

"Is Jamie a he or she?"

Jackie did not reply.

"Do you like her? In that way?"

"She's great. Very nice. She's out and proud, too."

"Oh." When I was fourteen, my ultra-Christian parents found me kissing my step-cousin and sent me to Camp Carefree for one summer. It was drilled into me that same-sex attraction was awful. Horrible. Sinful. I was bad and unworthy of my parents’ love if I dared fall for a girl. My mother made me write on a chalkboard or paper for hours every day: I will not think about a girl in a bad way. I will not touch or kiss a girl. If I kiss a girl, it means I am going to hell. I will burn in eternity.

I preferred my father's whipping.

"It's funny you wrote me notes," Jackie said.

"Why?"

"I wrote a whole bunch, too. Didn't have the guts to mail them or give to you. They were more like therapy. Didn't help. I had no idea you felt this way. You're a good actress."

Jackie and I had kissed, once. We were fifteen, and it was the last day of Camp Carefree. We were alone in a cabin. "Bye," Jackie said. "I'm sorry, but I have to do this or I'll die." Her lips pressed against mine, and they were soft, sweet, and tasting of cherry Chapstick. My toes curled.

Afterward, I drew back, feeling my face flush. Emotions crowded my body—pleasure, arousal, guilt, shame. Anger, overwhelming and profound, at myself. "Don't do that again!" I snapped. "I'm heterosexual. I've converted."

Then it was time to go home.

I was not "converted," of course. That kiss still burned within me, in my mind, in my pussy. Most of my masturbation fantasies started with it.

"You liked the kiss." Jackie said now. "You kissed me back. You kept it going."

I stared at a cluster of trees in the distance. Anything to avoid Jackie's gaze. "We kissed on August 17. I get depressed on that day every year."

"That's when I got the first rose."

"I don't know why I sent the rose. I'm sorry. It was like I wasn't in my own mind or body. The rational part of me kept saying it was foolish. I'm a thirty-five-year-old woman."

"I really had no idea it was you."

I nodded. Jackie shouldn't have had an idea. Throughout the twenty years of our friendship, I had tried to give no sign I was attracted to her.

"You said in your first note that I light up your life," Jackie said carefully.

"Yes."

"You light up my life, too. I hate to see you unhappy. I have a fantasy where you come over for wine. We end up slow dancing. My arms are around you, and your hair smells like strawberry. We kiss. This time, you don't rebuke me. You say you love me."

I gave her a look. "You really have that fantasy?"

"Oh, yeah."

I decided to share one of mine. "I have one where you come to me. You announce you're pregnant. You break down and say you wish it were my baby. I hug you and whisper in your ear that I'd love to help you raise the baby. Us. Together. And we do. We're in love and have the happiest family in the world."

"I wish Tucker and Marilyn were yours. You have no idea. When I look at you and Catherine, every fiber of my being aches. She should be ours."

"I got home the other day. Don and Catherine were napping on the couch." Catherine was five years old and my only child. She looked like her father. Same dirty blond hair, same blue eyes.

"What happened?"

"I asked myself how I would feel if she came out as a lesbian. I would be jealous. Isn't that awful? I'd be jealous because Catherine would have a freedom I refused myself."

"I have another fantasy," Jackie said. "In this one, you and I open our own camp. It's a place where people can be themselves. Gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, whatever. Everyone is accepted."

"That sounds like heaven."

"Do you think we could? Someday?"

"Ask Mother Cera," I said with a laugh.

"Be serious."

"It's well and good making up stories in our heads. But actually doing them, I don't know."

"I've been looking up therapists. I've made an appointment. You could come with me if you like."

"I hate therapists." The worst had been Dr. Linkhoffer when I was in high school. He had beady black eyes. His trademark was showing me pictures of penises. "The penis is an exciting organ. It will make you happy," he said. I invented tales about a boyfriend named Brian to keep Dr. Linkhoffer and my parents at bay.

"Think about coming with me," Jackie said. "Please."

"Okay." My butt was starting to hurt from sitting in the swing, so I stood.

Jackie got to her feet as well. "I have to use the bathroom."

"I'll be here." The bathrooms were in a wooden building a few feet away.

Jackie took my hand. "Come on." The bathroom was dark, but Jackie flicked the switch. After several fits and starts, the light came on. The bathroom had one toilet. No stalls. Jackie locked the door. Her eyes were serious. Intent. "I want you. I need you. Now."

She brought her mouth to mine. She still tasted of cherry Chapstick. She was fastidious about that kind. Her mouth was wet, hungry. Mine was stiff and hesitant. "I love you," she said. "So much."

My life flashed before my eyes. Seeing Gretchen, my step-cousin for the first time. Her ripe red lips, her full breasts. She was mature for a fifteen-year-old. The disappointment, the shock in my parents' eyes. Their screams and cries. The dullness of Camp Carefree, where there were no kites. Boys were taught to fish and play baseball. Girls were forced to wear dresses and skirts. We took cooking lessons and courses in makeup. "You must make your husband happy," the counselors said.

Meeting Don at a church mixer. His perfect body, his perky cock. His flat personality. His roving eye—for men. I married him because he was gay. Maybe he thought I had no idea. Whatever. I did not care if he slept around, as long as that meant my sleeping with him was kept to a minimum.

I unbuttoned my shorts, and Jackie's fingers entered me.

"You're dripping wet. Oh my God."

I had not had sex with my husband in close to a year. "Hard. Harder. Harder!"

*****

I did not know how long Jackie and I went on. Felt like a minute, felt like all night. In that grimy playground bathroom, we ate each other. We fingered. We kissed and kissed and kissed. We came and screamed and whooped and cried.

After we were done, Jackie and I had trouble meeting each other's eyes. We dressed hurriedly. This was not the way to go, sneaking around.

"Think about it." Jackie buttoned her shorts. "I see the therapist next Monday at five o'clock."

"I'll go with you."

She grinned. "Really?"

"Camp Carefree's up for sale, like Calliope said. We could buy it and make your dream become reality."

Jackie's eyes shone. "Oh, Emma."

We walked out of the bathroom, our hands entwined. I could not go on lying to myself and the world. I loved Jackie, and nothing was wrong with my love for her. I was ready to face the world and be my true self.

THE END

Lili from the Future

Lili came to me one afternoon at McDonald's. I was finishing my super-sized hamburger and fries, and going through my usual guilt trip.

i.e. You fat lardass, you didn't need to eat all that shit.

So I didn't immediately notice that someone had joined the table.

"Okay if I sit here?" were Lili's first words to me.

Startled, I snapped my head up. I looked into blue eyes—lively blue eyes, unlike my own brown eyes.

She smiled widely. "I'm Lili."

She seemed familiar. Too familiar. Her identity tickled the end of my tongue, but I was lost. Finally, I said: "My name starts with Lili, too, but people call me Beth."

"You're Lilibeth. So am I. You know that time machine you've been working on?"

I stared at her, at the gleam in her eyes. Her smirk.

How exquisitely lovely she was.

"No," I muttered in disbelief, even as my heart leaped, even as I wanted to jump from my chair and scream to the world—I did it! I did it! Well, not yet—but I will! I will! This woman is me, from the future!

And she's pretty. Beautiful! My future self is drop-dead gorgeous!

"It can't be," I breathed.

Lili winked. Very confident, very flirtatious she was. "Oh, it is true. Now, can we go someplace more private?"

*****

Lili and I went to my apartment. Why not? Yes, it was a messy, dirty craphole, and I usually was too embarrassed to have people over.

But this woman, this Lili, was not "people."

She was me.

Still, she surveyed my apartment with distaste. Sat gingerly on the couch. Politely declined my offers to fix her a drink or two.

I had to fix myself one, though. To celebrate. To help absorb the news. I whipped up a rum and Coke, which had always served me well. I joined Lili on the couch and gulped down my concoction.

"Do I still drink?" I asked. "God, you're beautiful. How much weight have I lost? Like a hundred pounds? Where did you get those contacts? I can't tell they're contacts. Shit. You're, what, forty-five? And you look ten times better than I do!"

Lili smiled—mysteriously. "I have much to tell you."

And so she did.

When she turned thirty, a switch clicked on in her brain. She looked in the mirror and saw nothing but a vile, loathsome blob of flesh. "We were up to four hundred pounds," she informed me. "Could hardly get out of bed to go to work. So I got a gastric bypass. I nearly died."

"Oh, no," I whispered.

She shrugged. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"But why are you here?"

"To get you started now. Lose the weight now. Get in shape. Don't wait. Charlotte…"

My stomach clenched. "What about her?"

"She'll leave you next year because you can't see what you're doing to yourself. With your eating and no exercise. Working all the time. The irony is that her leaving pushes you over the edge. You practically move McDonald's into the laboratory and balloon up."

I studied Lili for a long moment, her serious blue eyes, the grim set of her jaw. She was not lying. Charlotte would leave me. The woman I believed was my soulmate. My partner for life.

I wanted to scream.

Lili picked up a framed photo of Charlotte from the end table. She glanced over the photo and flinched, just a little.

Lili was still, very obviously, head over heels in love with Charlotte.

I scooted over on the couch, so that Lili and I were touching, and we studied the picture together. The sight of Charlotte would usually make me feel happy and whole. Not this time. I was numb, dead inside, but in the photo, taken at Disney World, Charlotte was animated as could be.

She was wearing Mickey Mouse ears and grinning that Charlotte grin. Her lean, tanned face was the one I wanted to wake up with every morning.

What a beautiful, kind woman she was. My soulmate. I could not imagine losing her.

"But we're engaged," I whispered. "She asked me last month to marry her, and—"

"I know. I was there, remember?"

"She really leaves me? Because I…because I continue to gain weight?"

"She hates what you've been doing to yourself. All your eating. The obsession with your work. The lack of exercise. But it doesn't have to happen, okay, Beth. Let me help you."

"Deal," I said, and Lili grinned, like a Cheshire cat.

She really was a lovely woman. So unlike me now.

*****

Lili moved in. Our agreement was that she would stay until I slimmed down from my present two hundred and ten pounds to one hundred and twenty pounds. We cleaned the apartment and got it spic and span. We went shopping for better-fitting clothes and makeup. I visited the hairstylist for a flattering haircut.

"Spend less time at work," Lili advised me. "Take care of yourself first. Love yourself, and then you will truly earn Charlotte's love. You are a beautiful, wonderful woman. Remember that."

I did not tell Charlotte I had a temporary roommate. Chances were low she would find out, anyway; she had been over to my apartment only twice. Her house was bigger, cleaner and definitely more beautiful.

In the first week, I lost five pounds. Three pounds the next week. Charlotte could not get enough of me. Our sex went from good to awesome.

Lili and I exercised every day. We started off walking around my neighborhood, but before long, I was able to jog. Lili did not go out much because we could not let anyone find out who she was. I stayed home a lot too, to keep her company. It was no huge loss. Even though the sex with Charlotte was great, I found myself wanting to stay home more. Lili was wonderful company—such a beautiful, warm, intelligent, funny woman.

You know how some people say they would date themselves?

I would date myself.

But would Lili date me? Me, who was still a good thirty pounds from one twenty?

Month by month, I steadily worked my way down to one twenty-five.

It would only take a month, maybe a month and a half, for me to achieve one hundred and twenty.

"I wish you didn't have to go," I whispered one night to Lili, our lips only inches apart. We shared the same bed because my apartment was so tiny, and the couch was bad for our backs.

"Hmm," Lili said. Her breath was soft and sweet on my face.

"When you return home," I continued, "You'll be married. You'll have children with Charlotte. You'll be happy."

She sighed. Did not answer. Lili had a look in her eyes. The same look Charlotte got whenever she was jealous.

With a start, I realized Lili desired me.

Me.

Just as I desired her.

Lili reached out a finger. Traced my jaw.

I trembled.

"What would you do if I kissed you?" she asked.

"Um….probably, uh…"

"Probably what?"

"I'd kiss you back."

*****

Over the next twenty-four hours, Lili and I made love.

Not once.

Not twice.

Not three times.

We did it twenty wonderful, hot, sweaty times. We moaned and groaned, we licked and sucked, we thrusted and explored. I had described my sex with Charlotte as great, but words could never approximate what it was like between Lili and me. We made love and fucked right up to the time the alarm beeped to wake me for work. We moved to the shower and fucked some more.

After showering, we went into the kitchen for breakfast and made another round of fucking. I called in sick to work. It was perfect, because she was I, and I was she.

*****

I never got to one hundred and twenty pounds, though I could have gotten to one hundred ten if I wanted. On purpose, I stayed right around one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Lili said nothing. We just continued falling head over heels in love with each other. I loved how she moved. How she breathed. Her laugh. So similar to me, but with a subtle difference that sealed the deal. I went out with Charlotte less and less.

"Have you met someone?" Charlotte asked on our three-year anniversary, about a year and a half after Lili moved in.

"No," I said quickly—guiltily—and stuffed some steak into my mouth.

"You have. You've lost all this weight, and people are noticing you."

"I'm not seeing anyone. Just you."

Charlotte sighed. Sipped from her wine. Then: "You still want to marry me, don't you?"

"Of course," I said.

We kissed.

*****

When I got home that evening, I sat Lili down. "We have to talk."

She understood. Her expression was grave.

"I'm breaking up with Charlotte," I whispered.

"No."

"Why?"

Lili blinked back tears. "Because I can't stay forever."

"You could. Just—"

"No, Beth," she said sadly. She ran her fingers through my hair. Kissed me fiercely. Her mouth was so warm, so hot. So…me.

"I forgot," she murmured.

"Forgot what?"

"Just how idealistic, just how, ah…romantic, I was when I was younger."

I stared at Lili. At her downcast blue eyes. We had never said "I love you" to each other. Our "relationship" was rarely spoken of, save for the occasional jokes about how it was nothing more than masturbation.

Now I said to Lili: "I love you. With all my heart and soul. Do you love me back?"

She rose from the couch. "I do love you. Very much. But this is not my time. Not my place. Beth…"

"What?"

"Whatever happens, please remember that I love you. I do. More than anyone in the world. We just can't be together."

A knock sounded at the door. A rap, really. Fierce, loud, demanding.

Lili went pale. "That's probably Charlotte. I better hide."

*****

Charlotte was indeed the person at the door. No smile. No hello. She shoved past me.

"Where is she?" Charlotte demanded.

"Who?"

Charlotte's cheeks flushed with anger. Rum laced her breath and slurred her words. "The whore you've been fucking! Who else?"

"Did you drive over here? Let me take you home."

"Jesus. The place looks nice. What did you do?"

I shrugged. "Been better about cleaning regularly."

"Why haven't I been here in more than a year, huh? A fucking year."

"You never liked it. Too cramped. Too messy. Too out of your way."

"You didn't even tell me you'd—okay. Never mind. Like I asked earlier, where's the fucking whore?"

"There isn't one!" I protested.

"Where is she? I'm going to fucking kill her! How could you do this to us?"

"You're one to talk! You would have left me!"

"Huh?"

"You would have! Because I gained even more weight and got a little down on myself."

Charlotte shook her head slowly. Some of the fire in her eyes died. "I love you. I wouldn't do that."

"Wanna bet?"

Charlotte's fury returned tenfold. "Don't justify your cheating because of something that never happened."

I realized then that I had to come clean. I owed Charlotte that much.

"Okay," I whispered. "You're right. Kind of."

"Kind of?"

"I've been seeing someone. But…" Nervousness and fear made me blunder: "But it's just been masturbation, okay? More or less."

"Masturbation?"

I went to the hall closet where Lili was hiding. I took a deep breath. Tried to still my pounding heart.

Please let this be the right thing to do.

I opened the closet door, half-expecting Lili to be gone.

She was not. She was there, so beautiful. So fragile. My heart broke for her. "Charlotte," I said, "Meet Lili from the future."

*****

While I was a physicist, Charlotte was an investor. A banker. She worked with money. She had no idea just what all my laboratory research entailed.

Time machine?

That was alien to her.

It took about an hour for her disbelief to thaw into bewildered acceptance. She sat on the couch, in numb shock. Near her was Lili. Lili could not take her eyes off Charlotte—it had been more than twenty years, after all.

I hated how my future self looked at Charlotte. Lili, so obviously still head over heels in love. Lili who felt Charlotte's abandonment so painfully she had been compelled to travel back in time to prevent it.

But what about me? What about the love Lili and I shared? Was it nothing, after all?

Couldn't Lili see she, not Charlotte, was my soulmate?

My jealousy burned red-hot. I wanted to get a knife and stab them both. Because I knew, I just knew, they were both lost to me. They would end up together, future Lili and present Charlotte.

"You lied to me!" I squawked at Lili. "You fucking lied to me! Charlotte didn't leave me because she hated what I was doing to myself. She left me for someone else. You!"

Lili refused to meet my gaze, but she muttered: "The first time, she left you for the reasons I said."

My future flashed before my eyes. I would eventually travel back in time and meet my younger self to steal Charlotte away. How many cycles had we been through already, me, Lili and Charlotte?

Stupid time machine.

THE END

Lizzie

My best friend cracks Betty’s head open, and I gasp. "Why’d you do that? Betty was my first doll!"

Carl shrugs. "You have too many dolls."

He's right. I do. But how can I tell Mama that I don’t care for dolls, especially porcelains? They’re not fun to play with. They can’t be played with. At least Carl found something to do with Betty. I need to be angry, though, because Carl had no right to destroy my doll. However, before I can renew my protest, Carl grabs Ramona, my little sister’s Barbie. He yanks Ramona’s head off.

Now I really am mad. "Carl! You know Jill loves Ramona."

Carl sticks his tongue out, and he suddenly looks much younger than his twelve years. His eyes are so clear and innocent that I forget for a second who he can be.

Carl’s lips twist into his horrible smile. "Hey, Shel," he says.

"What?" I hate that I’m drawn to Carl’s shining eyes.

He slices a hand across his throat. "Let’s behead someone."

"No!" I ignore the thrill of rebellion gnawing its way up my spine.

"Why not?"

"Beheading’s messy," is first thing that blurts from my mouth.

Carl frowns. "We’ll do it another way, then."

"Like how?"

"We’ll push someone." Carl shivers with excitement. "We’ll go by the river now."

"Whatever."

"There’ll be someone we can push in."

"Don't be silly. It’s three a.m. No one’s gonna be there."

"Someone will be there," he replies with a chilling conviction.

"What if no one is?"

"Someone will be."

So we sneak out of the house. We are quiet; my parents and my sister are long asleep. The summer darkness is nice and warm, but I pay my surroundings little mind as Carl and I scurry to the park a few blocks over. When the murmurings of the river reach my ears, my heart skips a beat. We are here to kill someone. No one will be around, of course. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. But does Carl mean all this for real?

I slow my pace, and he looks at me. His blue eyes are wide and limpid. It is just a look. Simple, plain, nonjudgmental. I wish he had scowled. "Scared, are you?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No."

Carl’s pink lips part. "Chicken."

"I’m not a chicken!"

Carl giggles. "Bawk, bawk, bawk."

"Shh. We don’t want anyone to hear us."

Carl runs his tongue over his perfect teeth and nods in approval. "That’s right." The moon escapes from the clouds, spraying brilliant white light on him. He should look angelic. He doesn’t. Oh, no, he doesn’t. Carl truly means to kill.

His eyes narrow. He points a finger. "There."

The moon has moved its spotlight onto a creature more beautiful than Carl. I had not realized such a thing was possible. Her hair is as fair as Carl’s, and it hangs long and straight. Her features are as pale as Carl’s. She is wearing a skimpy, see-through lace dress. Her legs are crossed, and she stares straight ahead. I cannot breathe.

"Her," Carl says, his voice shaking. Not from fear. From ecstasy.

I blink. The moon gallops away, leaving only blackness. The woman’s silhouette still haunts the picnic table she is sitting on. She must have heard us, and the thought gives me hope. Go now, I will her. Go now, before he—

"Before I what?" Carl hisses.

Oh, no. My hands slacken.

"Hey!" Carl cries out, startling me. "Hey, lady!"

The woman does not move. Carl jogs over to her. "Lady, I lost my flashlight over by the river. Will you help me find it?"

My chest is tight. He is going to do it. He is going to kill her. The woman turns to look at Carl, and the moon darts back to meet her face. I cannot believe how much she looks like Carl. Not only the hair and the pale skin, but her expression. Her bearing.

"Help me, please?" Carl implores.

I flex my fists. I am not going to let Carl push this woman. No. Someone such as her should not die at the hands of this grubby boy.

"Your flashlight, you say?" The woman's voice is soft, lyrical. But there is an undertone to it.

Eager, puppy-dog nods from Carl. "I set it down and turned it off to look at the stars. And then—"

The woman notices me and jerks her head. "Who’s that?"

"My best friend. She’s blind. She can’t help me look."

I take a step back. Blind?

"Ah." A smile touches the woman’s lips. "I’m blind, too. I can’t help you, either."

My jaw drops open.

"You’re not blind!" Carl protests.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, ‘cause...‘cause...you looked at me. I’ve seen blind people before. Their eyes are empty."

"You shouldn’t lie," the woman murmurs to Carl. "Are you blind?" she calls out to me.

"Yes." I lie because I don’t want to face Carl’s wrath later.

"Has your best friend really lost his flashlight?"

"Yes."

"Why does he need it? After all, the darkness is your home. Can't you help him find his way back to wherever he came from?"

"I don’t know this place. We’re lost."

"And out late," she points out.

"My flashlight, please," Carl interjects, perhaps sensing that he’s being outfoxed.

"Ah, yes. Your flashlight." The woman jumps to her feet.

I cannot move. This impossibly beautiful creature is going to die. Carl is going to kill her. Yet she smiles, her lips twisting and curving upward. Her teeth are nice, white and straight. They could be Carl's teeth, for all I know. Her smile is more sinister than Carl's, though. It is as if she knows what is coming, and she is finished having her fun with Carl. "Let’s find your light!" she exclaims.

I want to warn Carl, tell him that she might push him instead. Carl could be the one to die. But my tongue is paralyzed.

The woman and Carl go off into the darkness. I hold my breath and wait for a sound, any sound. I wait. And I wait some more. I sense a half-hour's passing. Finally, I cannot bear the tension any longer. I want to run far, far away, but instead I tiptoe toward the hungry gurglings of the river. The moonlight helps me make out the woman. She is standing atop a particularly steep ridge. She looks ghostly, with her pale skin and white dress fluttering in a slight breeze. So beautiful she is—how did I ever find Carl lovely, when he is nothing compared with this woman?

I wonder if I am in love.

She turns. Her eyes burn into me. "Well, hello again." There is amusement in her voice.

I do not see Carl.

Now is the time to escape, before she pushes me too. But I cannot resist this woman, and I stumble to her. My heart pounds. I force myself to look down at the river, but there is only black water swirling among jutted rocks. There is no crumpled body of a twelve-year-old boy.

"Are you a jumper or a pusher, Shel?" the woman asks.

I am not surprised that she knows my name. And I love how she says it. Shel, Shel, Shel. I want her to say my name again.

She cocks an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I’m not sure. Which are you?"

"I am whatever you want me to be," she murmurs. "I did push Carl, though."

My heart stops cold. How can she seem so indifferent to murder?

"Oh, don’t be like that," she admonishes me.

I don’t like the smirk on her face, but it makes me more curious about her. "What’s your name?"

"What do you want my name to be?"

"I don’t understand."

The woman runs her tongue over her lips. "I have one request. Please give me a better name than you gave Carl."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sweetie, you know Carl was never real. And you know he was beginning to make your parents suspicious, with all those broken toys. But I’m real. And I’m more careful than he is. Promise."

I meet her shining eyes, so much like Carl’s. I glance down again. This time, the moonlight outlines the broken body of a twelve-year-old boy.

"Okay," I whisper. "But make absolutely sure you’re more careful. Mama really doesn’t like—"

"Don’t worry. Let’s go home. We'll sleep together." She holds out her hand, and I intertwine our fingers.

"Lizzie," I decide. "Lizzie is your name."

THE END

CHECK OUT Q. KELLY'S OTHER WORKS

Waiting: Caris Ismay, 30, is falling in love with a woman she dares not pursue, and at exactly the wrong time. Caris knew that life after having her baby would be different, especially since her wife did not love her anymore. But Caris never expected post-baby life to be this difficult. Dale, her wife of three years, is in a coma that turns into a vegetative state. Lena, Dale's 29-year-old daughter, is put in the awkward position of revealing Dale's secrets to Caris.

Caris and Lena share a perfect, passionate kiss that they cannot stop thinking about. Plus, they can help each other in ways no one else can. They try to build a friendship, but their growing attraction gets in the way. Can Caris and Lena move past the taboo of their attraction and find their path together?

*****

Strange Bedfellows: What happens when the queen of the ex-gay movement decides to come out of the closet? The person who helps Frances Dourne with this enormous task is a call girl Frances hires. A call girl with a secret of her own. Can they learn to trust each other enough to find the love they seek in each other's arms?

Frances is grappling with something else, too. Her daughter, Marissa, has been gone eleven years. She was kidnapped by her father on her third birthday. Frances hopes her coming out will ease the way for Marissa's return.

*****

The Odd Couple: Morrisey Hawthorne and her four-year-old son, Gareth, have a pretty good life. Then one day they meet Charlene Sudsbury, who is trying to move on from the suicide of her son, JP, three years before. Gareth is nearly the mirror image of JP, and Charlene connects instantly with him. Not quite so with Morrisey, who can't escape fast enough after Charlene shows her a picture of JP. Charlene is convinced Morrisey is hiding something and sets out in search of the truth.

Despite the circumstances, the two women form an unusual bond and end up with a lot more than they bargained for. But when an old friend of JP's resurfaces, he challenges the fragile trust Morrisey and Charlene have been building. Can these two women overcome the obstacles that separate them from the happiness they seek?

*****

Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories: Seven short stories are in this compilation. The lead story is "Miss Lucy Parker."

"Miss Lucy Parker" Miss Lucy Parker is a prim, proper elderly lady. When a Volkswagen Beetle—the new kind, and pink—PINK!—turns onto the winding road that leads to Lucy's farmhouse, Lucy is sure the car's occupants are lost. And that the car contains hippies, because hippies drive Volkswagen Beetles. Lucy plans to tell the hippies to get lost. She has no need for their odd speech, beads and marijuana aroma. Except hippies are not in the car. A woman is, a woman wearing a short, blood-red dress that hugs her body. Thus begins Lucy Parker's great adventure.

"A Weird Situation" Karen does not believe her boyfriend when he tells her that he turns into a woman for seven hours every day.

"The Interview" The person interviewing Debby has a giant booger. Should she tell him and risk not getting the job?

"First Day at Work" A security guard's first day at a bank has repercussions for him and three workers.

"Every Day" A man struggles every day to follow through on a promise to himself.

"The Doctor" A doctor salivates at the prospect of delivering bad news to a twelve-year-old girl and her mother.

"Guardian Angel" Gabriel fancies himself a guardian angel. But is he really?

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Email her at yllek_q@yahoo.com