On the Destructive Nature of Lava

James Nulick

Dirty Pictures

What are you looking at? my sister asked in the loudest voice possible, the abruptness of it as shocking as hearing the metal-on-metal screech of ghetto brakes when one is entering a crosswalk. Jesus Christ, Nicole! Don’t do that! Jesus, I said one more time, for effect, tightening a fist against my cardigan in mock horror. Don’t take the Lord’s name like that, Joey, my sister said, pinching me. Ooh! Dirty pictures! You’re in here looking at dirty pictures? You’re such a perv! Nicole jerked the book, which was quite substantial, from my hands. Oh my god! Is that—Yes. Jesus, I can’t believe Father has a book like this. Now who’s taking the Lord’s name in vain? Nicole punched a bicep I’d already tightened in anticipation. She set the book on a wooden bookstand on Father’s desk, the fine grain cupping the book’s illegality like a glove. I stood as close to Nikki as possible, my chinoed thigh chafing her peach-colored joggers, her fifteen and a half, nearly sixteen, to my thirteen, as she turned the pages, both of us quickly scanning for more illustrations. What is this book about, you perv? she asked, laughing playfully. I don’t know, something about tribes or something. People living together in other countries. Maybe it has something to do with Dad’s work, Nicole said, the word Dad unexpected and babyish in her mouth. You know, so he can learn about people before he bombs them. Father doesn’t bomb people. Well, not personally, but he helps develop weapons that do. He works in the plastics division, I know that, designing guidance components for military weapons. You don’t know what Dad does, and now she had me saying it, my way of getting closer to her, as close as possible without touching. There are other ways of touching. Perhaps if I tried both ways, I could be whole. She was nearly a twin image of me, the same eyes, the same nose, the same slightly cleft chin, as if God had placed His thumbprint on our chins. She was me with a vagina. I surreptitiously pushed my arms closer together, bent slightly, and sniffed the opening of my cardigan to confirm I didn’t stink. My body odor had exploded that summer, my body suddenly deciding to remind me, cruelly and out of nowhere, that my armpits were a thing. Showering and deodorant seemed to do little good, cologne my only friend. Mother, what is a good cologne? Mother considered my question for a moment, happy someone was asking her opinion. I once dated a very handsome young man who wore Chanel No. 19, Mother offered, and without asking her to elaborate, which I’m sure she wouldn’t have anyway, Chanel No. 19 it became, which I still wear, to this day. As I stood next to Nicole, glancing at Father’s primitive tribes photographs, sheathed penises and exposed breasts drooping like strange fruit, explosive images tucked inside a book with perhaps the most boring title ever, I somehow realized there would likely never be another moment like this between us again, alone, in Father’s office, surrounded by his books, Mother downstairs, slightly inebriated as the last of the evening sun disappeared silently under the eaves of the house, my penis hard, bent painfully downward and pushing against my briefs, the briefs Mother chose for me, and quickly placing my hand down my pants to straighten things out would only be even more obvious. Must I wear briefs, Mother? All my friends wear boxers. How gauche, she replied, a young body should be celebrated, not hidden, and you’re only young once, my beautiful baby boy, Mother dismissing me once this most important of lessons had been handed down, a Fabergé egg fondled before being returned to its display case. Could Nikki sense I was tenting standing next to her? Sadly, our days of wrestling on the floor, her sitting on my chest and tickling me until I couldn’t breathe, were long over, it had been years—or was it only a few months? Time is hard to keep track of. You’re not gay, are you? I don’t know. You had to think about it, Nicole said, giggling, which probably means you are. How would I know? It doesn’t matter, Nicole said. But I’d keep it from Father as long as possible if I were you. You know how he is. He would hate thinking he has a gay son, someone who wouldn’t continue his precious name, that’s why you’re the chosen one, because I’ll lose my identity once I get married. Why would you do that? There are so many things you don’t understand, she said, pulling her right fist back in mock UFC, my bicep braced in anticipation. Sometimes I don’t mind getting hit, if I’m in the mood, but most times I dread it, and right as I closed my eyes for the pain, she kissed me instead, on the lips, like a full-on kiss, and it was such a shock I had trouble breathing, a butterfly in a jar, sedated.

Nervous Deer

In the bedroom I shared with my sister Nicole, watching her prepare for a date, observing her from the perch of my bed, ignored and totally harmless because I was her baby brother, pulling her hair slowly, the downward strokes, angel falls to the floor, me moving imperceptibly against the mattress, slowly rubbing the head of my penis against the mattress fabric, studying her hands, the single ring on her finger, a girl’s ring, the ring I bought her for her fifteenth birthday, because I was thirteen and didn’t know any better and asked Mother what a girl would want for her fifteenth birthday and Mother said buy her jewelry, girls love jewelry, and would she hold him with my ring on her finger, the pearlescent teeth of her comb, because it was like she was eating herself before any boy could get to her, the plucking, all the imperfections slowly removed, the great fearful crimping of the eyelash curler, me wondering in my idiotic pubescent state what would happen if she sneezed, would she become a bald albino freak, things only a boy would wonder, the adjusting of the bra, help me with my zipper, Mother downstairs, drunk and seething, make sure you’re home by eleven, Nicole, and I would wait patiently, the drift of my sister’s dress nearly touching the floor, because my father demanded it, he didn’t understand the more something is hidden, the more desirable it becomes, and when she finally left, giggling and blowing me a kiss, headed downstairs and out the front door, with her safely gone I would move towards the window, pulling my pants—mother’s favored khakis—halfway down as I peeked through the curtains, fingering the lace while spying the boy outside, opening his car door, absently flattening his shirt with his palm while walking to the front door, hoping he would look up, willing him to look up, to see me in full bloom as he rang the bell, flummoxed by the strange boy in the upstairs window, ringing the bell because my father demanded it, and when the car inevitably pulled away towards their private destination, only then would I lock our bedroom door and strip to my briefs, the briefs Mother chose for me, removing everything that defined who I was, everything that told the world this is Joey, stand before the full-length, move a foot forward, like my sister, a nervous deer, my body unrecognizable in a girlish contortion, consider my body from impossible angles, as if I were looking at someone else, wondering if someone could desire me the way they desired her, undress me and turn me into a piece of furniture they filled with themselves …

Alien in a Thirteen-Year-Old Body

There is an alien strangeness to the body when one is thirteen. Is one a boy, is one a girl, is one a mollusk? Is there a difference? Do our clothes betray us, allow others to see what we are thinking, our thoughts, even the sexual ones, externalized? Do we subconsciously put ourselves on display without knowing it, a refrigerated corsage in a clamshell, a strange fruit tucked behind form-fitting cellophane, to be fingered, pinched, and thumped by strangers in a supermarket, only to be ultimately rejected? I never felt strange undressing in front of my sister when it was time for bed, Mother’s chosen briefs Saraning my body, and because of Mother’s strict Catholicism, a t-shirt, followed by a pajama top pulled over my head and buttoned, and pajama bottoms, elasticized for easy peeing. I don’t remember if there was a fly flap, I have always pulled the waistband of my briefs, and later, boxers, down to pee … fly flaps are for weird old men. Nicole, fifteen, would undress in front of me as if I didn’t exist, dousing herself in a slinky nightgown before disappearing under a pintuck marshmallow quilt the color of lychees, though sometimes, and perhaps I am perfectly wrong, it seemed as though she were putting on a burlesque for me before disappearing below, her butt an unclassifiable fruit, the kind found in a supermarket so strange, so colorful, it almost begged you to touch it, to feel its drupelets against your nose. When considering my sister’s body, I felt things I could not understand, weird, dark, uncataloged things, and at times I would pull my covers over my head, boring milkblue blankets with boyish designs, to hide from the world, disappear, let everyone forget I existed. Music is very important when one is thirteen, perhaps the most important thing in the world, a way to escape reality without using drugs or alcohol, earbuds obliterating the ugliness of the world, a boy trapped inside his head, just him and the singer in an otherwise empty auditorium. I have always had kitchen duty, for as long as I can remember, even as far back as five or six, an Ethan Allen pulled to the basin, me standing at the sink, washing dishes after dinner. Miss Clearfield came only twice a week, and it was expected we would learn responsibility through action. One isn’t just in the world, one is also part of the world, Mother said, and I won’t be here forever. Father taught me manly outdoor things, like mowing the lawn, trimming hedges, raking fiery orange leaves that dropped to the ground in fall, and removing abandoned wasp’s nests hanging like grey biscuits under November eaves, a shoebox stowed on a shelf on my side of the closet filled with three or four paper cities. You’re so weird, collecting those nests, Nicole said, you’re never gonna get a girlfriend doing stuff like that. Maybe I don’t want one. Mmm hmm, whatever. Mother taught my sister how to iron, sew, replace a button that had loosened from its post, zippers and buttons the safeguards of decency, how to vacuum, correctly julienne carrots for a salad. My father would never dream of having Nicole mow the lawn. Boys do boy things and girls do girl things. I did not make these rules.

Givenchy Paris by Way of Balenciaga

Me and Fernando went into the city to see a skate movie about being thirteen. We were both thirteen and suddenly I felt strange being around him when I never felt strange before, like some undefinable weirdness had come over me almost overnight. His body looked different, muscular, somehow more male—it was like there was something magical and forbidden hidden under his clothing and I wanted to know what it was. On our way to the theater, we passed a vintage boutique clothing store called PRELOVED FABRIC when I spotted a tank top emblazoned with the face of a Doberman draped over the chest of a skinny white mannequin. Oh my god, that shirt totally rules! I screamed at Fernando, waking him from a walking daze. Jesus man, you scared me! We shared a large bag of popcorn, my body electrified each time our fingers touched, Fernando totally clueless. During the entire time we watched our movie, all I could think about was the shirt, how I absolutely had to have that shirt. I called Mother on my popcorn greasy handheld after our movie. Mother, it’s over, can you please come pick us up? Does Fernando need a ride? Of course. I will be there in a few minutes. We’ll be standing in front of PRELOVED FABRIC, Mother. Please don’t make me wait, Joseph. In the clothing store, Fernando at my side, I asked the girl behind the counter if I could please see the Doberman shirt. May I please try that shirt on, pointing towards the mannequin. It’s very expensive, she said. My mother is coming, she’ll buy it for me. Then you’d better wait for her, she said, turning her back to me, a dismissal. Suddenly hot, my scalp prickling. That’s messed up, Fernando said to her back. She half-turned briefly and rolled her eyes at us. You two need to leave before I call the manager. Outside the shop window, I watched Mother as she carefully parked her black 2018 Mercedes Benz S 560 near the curb. Wait here, Fernie. Breathless, I ran out to Mother before she even had the car door open. She bumped the window slightly, an inch between her and the world. What is it, dear? Mother, there’s a shirt in this shop I must absolutely have but the girl said I can’t afford it, she wouldn’t even let me see it. Mother gathered her handbag from the front passenger seat. Wait inside, I’ll be right there. The shop door jangled behind me, the girl texting someone on her handheld, her back still to us. There were no other customers in the store. Mother entered the shop, a black Balenciaga oversized faux fur coat cinched against the October cold. Mother removes her bug-eye Cobains. Young girl, fetch your manager. The girl turns, her mouth dumbly open, horrified. Fernando and I return to the mannequin wearing the Doberman tank. Damn bro, your mom is letting her have it. I know, she deserves it, she’s a dumb bitch. Maybe she’s a racist, Fernando says, laughing. Are you deaf, young lady? I asked for your manager, immediately. I’m sorry, ma’am, my manager is offsite. May I help you with something? You advised my son he couldn’t afford something in your store? I’m sorry? I should have brought an extra hearing aid—Mother slowing her words—You informed my son he couldn’t afford something in your store? I deeply apologize, ma’am, they were—Never mind that, fetch the item, would you. I wave at the girl, pointing to the shirt. Yo, it’s over here. Joseph, mind your language. The girl, a hat rack in a green dress, approaches the mannequin, carefully removing his arms, one at a time, placing each disembodied arm on the floor, slowly drawing the shirt over his body, his head, exposing his belly. Fernando, laughing hysterically, Yo, bro, this mannequin has nipples. The girl carefully folds the shirt and hands it to me. Thank you. Hey Mom, this is so freaking cool, look! Joseph, please. Bring it to me. I strut towards Mother, limboing my body, the back of my head nearly grazing the floor, the shirt mock-draped over my chest, a striptease in reverse. I remove the Doberman tank draped atop my shirt and hand it to Mother in the most respectful manner possible—Joseph, Mother shaking her head at me, that shirt is filthy! I am, generally, a very well-behaved boy. Look Mom, the tag says it’s a Givenchy Riccardo Tisci Abstract Doberman tank, pronouncing it Ji-VEN-chee while displaying the priceless paper tag pinned to the inner collar label. See, look, GIVENCHY PARIS, Mom. It’s Zhee-VAHN-shee, Joseph, Mother corrects. My son has excellent taste, wouldn’t you say, young lady? Mother exposes the label to the girl. Yes, ma’am. What is your name, young lady? Alicia. Alicia, do you know how to use a credit card machine? Yes, ma’am. Wonderful—why not prove it by ringing this up. The girl rings up my Givenchy Paris size XS Riccardo Tisci Abstract Doberman tank, carefully placing the shirt, along with the receipt, inside an industrial-looking puffy black bag that reminds me of the body bags one sees on late-night courtroom dramas. Be grateful I’m not reporting this incident to your manager, young lady. You’re a celery stalk in a cheap dress. Don’t be so quick to judge others by their appearance—you never know what they may have in their wallet. Do we understand each other, young lady? The girl, eyes wet—and now I feel kind of bad for her—can only blubber Yes, ma’am. Mother places her bug-eye Cobains back on and does a swift about-face. We’re leaving, children, she announces. Fernie runs and holds the door open for Mother, also holding it open for me, then lets it close after I walk out onto the sidewalk. The shopfront behind us burns to the ground. You haven’t any pencils or knives or anything sharp in your back pocket, do you, Fernando? No Mrs. Osbium. Me and Fernando settle inside the rear interior of Mother’s S 560, a nightclub on four wheels. Damn, Mrs. Osbium, you really decimated that lady. Your language, Fernando. Yes, ma’am. In the rearview, the tiniest smile on Mother’s lips, nearly undetectable. Never let anyone treat you that way, boys, Mother says. I’ve never heard her use the word boys before, so common, so familiar—it’s almost as if she’s human underneath her Sub-Zero shellac.

Nicole Osbium / What movie did you see with your boyfriend?

In our shared bedroom, Nicole on her stomach on her bed, pushing her bare feet against the wooden ribs that comprise the bottom of my mattress, her orange toenails having already punched several holes through the batting, her black Mary Janes, jagged and goth, overturned on the shag like a car accident, Mother never venturing into our room, KEEP OUT! poster puttied on the door, chatting with a friend on her handheld. Speak of the Devil … she pushes her feet even harder against the mattress of my top bunk, nearly lifting it off the railing. Can you believe my mother dropped five hundred dollars on a t-shirt for him? A freaking used t-shirt! Oh well yeah, he’s her little angel. I think I’m going to ask my father for my own private island.                                                          ? Oh yeah, of course he does. He’s the chosen one. You know what I got when I was thirteen? Shit is what I got!                                  ? It’s a Ji-VEN-chee tank top with a stupid Doberman face on it. It’s Zhee-VAHN-shee, retard, saying it loud enough for Nicole’s friend on the other end to hear. You’re just jelly, I say, because mom loves me more, springboarding off Nikki’s mattress onto my bunk, a 9.5, Nicole shouting I’LL CALL YOU BACK, punching me in the thigh, instant Charlie horse, I push a besocked foot into her face, you’re just jelly Mom loves me more, the agonizing crunch of her nose under my foot, and NOW she is violently pulling me off my bunk, dragging me onto the blush shag with her, artificial as everything else she surrounds herself with—two pink panda bears, Hello Kitty plush, pink marshmallow quilt, a Fall Out Boy poster puttied to the wall enclosed by her bunk, daisy stickers on the case of her handheld, daisy stickers on her wall. Fall Out Boy sucks! They’re so gay! I scream in my gayest voice, and now she is sitting on my stomach, her fingers in my armpits, in my sides, tickling me, pinching my legs—YOU’RE GAY, she says, laughing, a demon in pink Dickies. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! I’m laughing and snorting like an idiot, mucous bubbling from my nostrils. You’re so gross, pig boy. What movie did you see with your boyfriend? He’s not my boyfriend, get off me! What movie did you see with your little boyfriend Fernando? His name bouncing between her teeth like forbidden fruit. You’re dumb, I say, laughing. Do you give? Do you give? No! Never! And now her fingertips are piranhas in my armpits. OK I GIVE, I GIVE! Nicole rolls off me, her back on the shag. I am panting for effect, defeated, pretending to play dead when suddenly I pounce on her, A-framing her torso between my kneecaps, my fingers in her armpits, tickling her so violently she starts screaming. Shut up, you want Mom up here? I don’t care, she says, giggling. I lightly brush my fingers against her bra strap. You still got your training bra? You’re such a perv—it’s NOT a training bra. I’m tickling her sides, cordoned off by my legs. I pull her arms over her head, her wrists tiny, delicate as sparrow bone. Despite her being two years older, I am stronger. Citizen’s arrest, I say. She laughs in my face. You’re retarded, Doberman boy. At least I don’t wear shoes for crippled retards, I say, giggling, stoking the flames in her eyes. When I move against her, I realize I’m hard. Deeply embarrassed, I roll off her. Lost in the bagginess of my Dickies, I only hope she doesn’t notice. If she does, she doesn’t let on. We’re both breathing hard, our backs against the shag, glow-in-the-dark stars push-pinned into the popcorn ceiling—with Mother’s approval—by both of us long ago. I was in fifth grade at St. Catherine’s at the time, Nicole already in seventh, playfully ignoring each other’s existence at school, my interest in astronomy and celestial bodies arriving as quickly as it left, my solar system posters replaced by Nirvana and Death Cab once puberty hit, science dismissed for music. We saw                                   , I say, my arm resting against hers. Was it good? Yeah, it was really good. Would you see it again? Heck yeah I would! Wanna see it together, maybe next weekend? I’ll have Mother drive us. Just you and me? Yeah, of course. I can never tell if she’s putting on because I’ve always thought it was supremely uncool to have a thirteen-year-old baby brother tagging along with his fifteen-year-old sister, like all the girls she hangs with would think I’m gross or something. Yeah, that would be awesome, she says, no indication of joking around, and just for a small moment, I find my hand in hers.

Spring Roll

I am thirteen, standing at the sink, washing dishes, earbuds pushed in my ears like strange jewelry, Father upstairs in his library, these damned stairs, how quickly one forgets an irritating yet beloved phrase once someone is forever gone, Mother in her bedroom, avoiding Father, a song from a forgotten rock band blasting iridescent holes in my head when Nicole comes up behind me, wraps her left arm around my chest, and with her right hand grabs my penis through my pants, my favorite pair of sidewalk-scarred Dickies I wear for chores and lounging, Mother saying more than once, You really mustn’t wear those anymore, pinching the head between thumb and forefinger, and suddenly I am a foam-wrapped guava in a supermarket. It feels like a spring roll, she says, laughing. I elbow her with my left arm, just under her ribs, and as if anticipating my attack, she pushes me into the sink basin, my belly against Mother’s Corian, Nicole’s weight forcing me into adulthood. Now you know what it’s like for girls, she says, giggling, and we are at it, me pushing her against the refrigerator, refrigerator magnets exploding off the surface like fireworks, just this morning I had arranged a special message for Nicole, Nicole is dumb, Mother obviously seeing it and leaving it unmolested, and as I tickle her armpits I sense the artificiality of a bra strap, boys have it easier, she begins screaming, raising a kneecap I manage to avoid with remarkable expertise. Shut up, my hand over her mouth, her eyes amber millefiori, our eyes saying what our mouths cannot, and I am only five foot four, one hundred and twenty pounds, and will remain this way for nearly two years, the smallest kid in class, carrying all the weight that comes with such a designation.

You’re Only Sixteen

What was the real reason Mother and Father crowded three empty rooms with useless garbage, forcing Nicole and I to share a bedroom for as long as I can remember? Was it to keep boys away, Father not willing to give his daughter to the world, or was it something else? Were they attempting to create an unbreakable bond between us so that when they were gone, we would survive their absence? When Nicole left for university, two hours north of the city, I was sixteen. Although she was only two hours away, it felt like an eternity, and something inside me died. Now it was just me and Mother, and occasionally Father, in a very large, emotionally empty house. I had no one to confide in, no shadow body to masturbate to, the only ties to my childhood, gone. I experienced my first orgasm when I was eleven years old, Nicole in the twin-over-full bunk bed below me, below me because I’m older, I don’t want to be going up and down a ladder all the time just to pee. I pretended to protest, when in reality I was grateful for the top bunk, a prince surveying his tiny fiefdom, a five-rung ladder extended over her head into the painted darkness, don’t make so much noise, a phrase I’ve heard so often I’ve finally learned to live by it, a phrase that takes on a different meaning as one gets older.

On the Destructive Nature of Lava

My body suspended above hers, a white box floating in space, and when I was positive she was asleep I would imagine her body, because it was the only body other than my own I was familiar with, she was thirteen, me eleven, her breasts quite small, a kitten’s paws pushing through gauze, and as I imagined her below me, sleeping, dreaming of whatever it is sisters dream of, pulling my briefs between my buttocks, the ceiling hovering less than two feet from my face, nearly breathless from the pressure tightening around my waist, slowly moving the band of my briefs up and down the frenulum of my penis with both thumbs, a program I’d watched on television earlier that evening about a strange-looking bird living on lava flows in the Aleutians called a crested auklet, a friendly bird that seemed almost cartoonish, with its bright eyes and orange bill, a tuft over its head like a pompadour, the narrator’s soothing British voice echoing through my head as I replayed the program behind the screen of my eyelids when suddenly my body shuddered with an unexpected joy I had never known, a warm jet of watery fluid wetting my belly through my t-shirt. Despite the intense pleasure, I was horrified. Had I peed in bed? Mother would be angry, intensely embarrassed by her bedwetting son, and I instinctively knew I must hide the t-shirt and briefs, pretending to lazily change them in the morning while Nicole was in the shower, wad the offending articles into a ball and push them deep into my chest of drawers only to safely throw them away later, undetected, the t-shirt stiff the next morning, the briefs tight against my body, pulling away from my skin like a crime, a mental abacus subtracting one from eight, would Mother realize a pair of my briefs was missing? Did she pay attention to such things as the laundry? Would Miss Clearfield know? And what of the shirt?

Caramel

Eleven is light-years away from sixteen. When Nicole left for university, leaving me to an empty house filled with two adults who rarely spoke to each other, thinking of Mother’s mysterious, very handsome young man each time I doused myself with Chanel No. 19 before leaving for school, sometimes jerking off quickly before my friend Fernando arrived to pick me up, I felt betrayed. Nicole was the only person in the house who loved me, I mean genuinely loved me … Father an icicle in a bespoke suit, Mother a capable drunk—not a mean drunk, just a sad one—who thought of me as a beautiful trinket she demoed every Christmas for guests, a silent mannequin she loved to drape in designer clothes. When I occasionally spoke, she seemed genuinely shocked, as if she thought my lips were sealed upon birth, only a suggestion for the infrequent kiss she bestowed upon me three scotches in, her eyes moist, distant, searching for a man who wasn’t there. You’re wearing Chanel, my beautiful boy? Of course, Mother. Usually I’d be waiting outside for Fernando before he arrived, leaning my butt against the red brick fence with the white stucco center in front of our home, my school uniform pressed and spotless, his text on my way sending me out the door, though if I was still in the house, for whatever reason, a quick beep from his fine German sedan, shaking my mother to the core—has that young man not any manners? My driver has arrived, I’d say to Fernando as I slid shotgun, placing my backpack on the floorboard next to my shoes, knuckling him playfully on the arm, incredibly thankful for his friendship yet always failing to show it. You wish, man, and now when I imagined a shadow lover’s body, it was the body of my oldest friend Fernando Nevarez, at night, in the lower bunk, as if night somehow made such sinful imaginings more forgivable, my rosary necklace, with my savior’s body on it, safely off my body and stowed in the drawer below my head—Nicole’s drawer, mine was to the right, though both drawers were now mine, Nicole never to return, permanently abandoning my eagle aerie for my sister’s bed, our twin-over-full bunk now mine alone, Nicole two hours north of the city, at university, my body cocooned in her marshmallow quilt, the scent of her in my nostrils, the nearness of sisterhood falling away, dreaming of Fernando next to me, nestled in Nicole’s former universe, slowly becoming what my sister said I would become, Fernando’s arms, his chest, his caramel belly, the white knobs of his kneecaps, closing my eyes as the dueling peaches of his ass bounced in navy mesh shorts on the handball court of Archbishop Murphy High School, pulling the drawer open below my head and guiltily moving Jesus aside, grabbing a sock from my sister’s old drawer and Morse coding the syllables of Fernando’s name against the roof of my mouth with my tongue while coming into it, discovery unlikely because I was sixteen and was now responsible for my own laundry, Miss Clearfield helping Mother with cleaning only, not laundry, on Wednesdays and Fridays, and besides, I wouldn’t want that old bag nosing through my socks and underwear to catalog the dirtiest, most private parts of me, as if the sexuality of a person can be ascertained by divining rod, in the folds of underclothes that cloak the innermost secrets of the body.

The world’s Youngest Knife Thrower

My father was a difficult man to know. He loved me, and told me so on several occasions, in private. He was not showy with his love, like Mother was, which I interpreted as meaning it was genuine. You are Mom’s favorite, Nikki would say, when we were children, the word Mom sounding forced, infantile. Was she suggesting I was still a child? Mother’s beautiful baby boy, she giggled, pinching me, stop it, I’ll stop when you stop being a child. You think you’re so cool with your stupid Doberman shirt. I run into the kitchen open the silverware drawer pull a Wüsthof from the lefthand reservoir and throw it at her as violently as possible while she walks away from me down the hall. I am thirteen. Our parents are not home, mother shopping, father at work, and luckily, I miss, the heavy knife only scoring the ancient highly polished wood floor. Nicole grabs me by my shirt collar, drags me to the guest bathroom, near the stairwell, kicking the door lifting the lid and forcing my head into the toilet, the water shockingly cold, knocking the top of my skull against the vitreous china until I scream as if she were killing me. Stop! Stop! My father’s dog, Mocha, runs from her secondary perch in the kitchen, barking at us, adding her play-by-play commentary. She comes to my rescue, licking my forehead, her tongue a small pink ham resting in her mouth. I push her away, laughing, Mocha no! And like many furious incidents between brothers and sisters, it’s over just as quickly as it began, unpredictably and without consequence, both of us winded as I break from her grip and collapse to the floor in the hallway, my back against the wall, lifting the wet flap of hair off my forehead, my bangs plastered to my skull. I resemble a trauma patient, half my head sliced away in a transport accident. Nicole leans her butt against the wall, breathing heavily, picking the Wüsthof off the floor. I can’t believe you, she says, her voice trembling, and suddenly she is laughing, huge gut-destroying laughs, the kind that come only after surviving some great trauma. I’m greatly relieved, laughing along with her. I’m sorry. I fully withdraw into five foot four, making my voice as small, babyish, and innocent as possible. We were a lot of things, but neither of us was innocent. Please don’t tell Mom or Dad. I won’t, promise. And as far as I know, she never did.