But there I was, running to catch up with them. There I was, some scared-as-shit girl. I was some scared-as-shit child. Running in wrong shoes up the trail. Scared to be left alone.
And there were the guys, waiting for me.
Then the woods opened up and we were in a place. It was like childhood. Not mine, of course, but the childhood I wished I’d had.
There was what one could call a clearing, and there were trees. There was what one could call a waterfall.
And there was me looking at the waterfall. There was the friend looking at it too. There was the guy sticking his hands into the water.
I didn’t want anything in that moment. I mean I didn’t want to want anything. I don’t know exactly what I mean.
I know I wanted to be a different person than I was.
I wanted to see the waterfall as beautiful.
I wanted to be less beautiful than the waterfall.
I wanted to want to be that.
But when my arms began to ache, for we’d been all day hiking, I said, My arms.
The guy said, Your arms.
The friend said, What do you mean your arms.
He walked over to me.
He said, It should be your legs.
He said, Where.
I held out my arms. He touched them. And the guy just watched. He did nothing to stop it. He too was too scared.
After the hike, we drank in the car. And after we drank, we went for a ride. It was early evening and summer and perfect. And I loved in that moment the sound of the crickets. I loved in that moment the color of the sky. And the back of both guys’ heads in the front.
As a child, I could never make up my mind. I would want both toys. I would want both dolls.
Old maid, my father always said.
You’ll end up with nothing, he always said.
Or both, I always said.
If one was truly charming, one could have both.
Just look at me charming my father’s ladies as a child.
Look at them giving me things to keep.
I would hold out my hands, which were filled and refilled.
And look at me getting the toy and the game.
Getting both new dolls.
Getting both dumb guys.
Look at me hiking up my skirt.
Look at them now all scared of me.
Look at me running through woods.
I was utterly disgraceful.
Just look at the sun about to set.
Just look.
The guy had to piss. The friend pulled off to the side. The guy went into the woods. The friend and I stood by the car. At first it was nothing, just standing. But then he lifted me onto the hood of the car. It was just to be funny, I was thinking. But I wasn’t thinking. I mean to say there was no thought.
But that’s not true. Because I was thinking something as he lifted me up.
I was thinking of something wrong to think.
And when his face was near mine, I thought of the guy.
And when he said, Pretty face, I thought, Pretty face.
And when I said to stop, he said, Stop what.
And when it was me on the hood of the car, it wasn’t me on the hood of the car.
And when I was a girl on the hood of the car, I was a guy on the hood of the car.
I didn’t know where to put my hands.
The guy had come out from the woods by then. He was standing at the woods’ edge. He was looking at us like I don’t know what.
Like, Fuck you two. Like, I will kill you two.
I want to say I was drunk. But I was more that thing after drunk. That thing between drunk and sleep. Or drunk and regret. Or drunk and drunk again.
And the truth is I knew where to put my hands.
Because I was predatory.
That’s not the word.
I was perverted.
That’s not it.
I was something though.
Just some little thing.
Just some charming little thing.
I wish I could give you a climactic moment. But there is no climactic moment in this. There is no such thing here as climactic. In a story about a hike, there is only a circling around and around.
In a story about me and guys, there is only a circling around.
And in a story about a story.
In a story about the father.
Mine taught me all the wrong things.
Mine taught me how to be that girl.
Mine taught me how to be that guy.
So thank you, Father, thank you, thank you.
And thank you, trees, for not noticing me.
Thank you, birds, for not noticing me.
Thank you, windows, for keeping the universe on its side.
For keeping me on mine.
My father would wake me mornings, his face too close, shout, Rise and shine, in my face, and I wanted his face far away.
And I wanted it farther and farther.
And when it was as far away as it could be, it still wasn’t far enough.
It was still right there, my father’s face, in front of my face.
My father ready to give me away.
My father ready to throw me away.
Whenever you’re ready, he always said.
I’m waiting, he said.
Old maid, he said.
Still waiting, he said.
Then he died.
I should say there were moments in childhood worth something. I made tents from sheets like anyone. I dug holes in the yard.
My father threw me into the air, caught me.
He threw me into the air, caught me.
He threw me into the air.
It wasn’t so different in moments. I wasn’t so different from you.
I was falling, like you, for something.
The guy stood by the edge of the woods. I wanted him to stop looking at us. I wanted him to stop looking like that. And I would have said something smart, like, Take a picture. But I was thinking instead that he could get hurt. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was the shadows on the road. Or his smallness next to trees. I was thinking of the stories of the woods at night. I knew what could happen in the woods. There were monsters. There were witches. There were killers.
So I sent a thought to the universe. And I sent it again. I sent it again.
And when he moved from the woods, I was a believer in something.
And when he reached the car, I was not.
Because then I remembered.
What.
I just remembered.
What.
Desire is desire for recognition, and I was controlled by desire just like you.
I was fucked up just like you.
The guy walked up to the car, said, What’s going on, and I said, What.
And he looked at the friend and said, You know what, and the friend laughed and said, What.
Now, I see why this was wrong. All of it. I see.
But in that moment I was too in love.
I don’t mean with the friend. I don’t mean with the guy.
The ride home was the radio loud. It was none of us saying a word. It was my drinking what was left to drink. It was the friend dropping the guy off first. It was the guy slamming the door.
Then it was just me and the friend in the car. And we pulled up to my place. He followed me inside.
I swear I was thinking, No, and, No.
I swear.
This is not the time to ask me what I was. Though if you did, I might say a child. I might say the child I was as a child, landing hard on the grass and lying there until the world went dark.
It was my father who said to send your thoughts.
It was he who said to tell the universe what you want.
Back then I wanted the things one wants: a doll, a dog.
Back then I pictured the universe as a thing one could understand: a two-dimensional scene with grass at the bottom, stars at the top.
My father would say, Don’t tell me, as he stumbled across the yard toward some lady waiting on the grass.
He would say, Tell the universe what you want, as they stumbled to the car.
Night would scatter across the grass, across the house.