What Sounds Like Silence
by Anastasia Arellano
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: On a hot Los Angeles night, a girl comes to terms with her sexuality.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: On a hot Los Angeles night, a girl comes to terms with her sexuality.
My right pinkie toe feels numb and I haven’t even begun to dance yet. I’m in the front seat of the car, absent-mindedly fingering the tab on the Coke can in my lap. Outside of the car the 101 is illuminated by the red glow of Saturday night traffic pouring into Los Angeles. The freeway crawls along. Sasha puts her blinker on and tries to squeeze over two lanes to our exit.
“You should’ve gotten over three exits ago,” I mumble.
She ignores my comment, annoyed by my backseat driving.
“Watch it, there’s someone on your right.”
“I know Allie.”
“Just saying.”
She sighs.
We manage to make our exit, turning onto Santa Monica Boulevard. It is another parking lot with everyone headed in the direction of WeHo. Tall palm trees line the boulevard, standing nearly as high as some of the buildings. Beaming billboards serve as visual reminders of the importance of HIV screenings. Mini strip malls full of cheap taco places and hole in the wall Chinese restaurants line the sidewalks, their windows lit up with neon signs advertising late night business. In a few hours they will become meccas for the drunks leaving the party scene.
The air conditioning is too cold for me. I turn it off and roll down the window. A wave of sticky June air wafts into the car. It smells of exhaust fumes and greasy food.
“What are you doing Allie?” Sasha asks. “You’re letting all the cold air out.”
“But I’m cold.”
“Well, I’m hot.”
I glance over at her. I want to say something like ‘yeah you are’ but the look in her green eyes indicates tonight is not the night. I roll up the window. Her fingers glide across the dashboard and for a moment I think she’s about to turn the air back on, instead she raises the volume on the music. The whole car gently hums with the vibrations of dubstep. Still, I continue to finger the Coke can tab, uncomfortable with the silence.
We arrive at Rage a little after 11 pm. A tiny lot with a giant sign advertises $5 parking in bold red lettering. It’s already filling up, with a line of cars still trying to get in. Sasha pulls up into the traffic jam.
“What are you doing? It’s already full.”
“There’s still space.”
“You’re just wasting time. There’s another lot one block that way.”
“But that’s like $15.”
“Yeah well for LA that’s still pretty cheap.”
“Fuck me!” she exclaims and honks, trying to pull out of the line of cars.
“Careful.”
“Yes! I know!” she yells. “God, if you know everything why didn’t you just drive tonight?”
“I asked and you said you didn’t want to get too drunk so you’d be the responsible one.”
“Well I regret that now.” Sasha reaches over and fumbles for the small bottle of Sailor Jerry tucked in between the middle console and my seat. She takes a swig and extends her hand. I pass her my Coke.
“Are we ok?”
“Depends, are you going to keep bringing up Kyra? Because it’s starting to really piss me off.”
I roll my eyes, “For God’s sake it’s not like that at all. I just don’t know how you can stay friends with her. After all she did to you.”
She gets silent again.
“Antonio broke my heart just as bad, and I got him out of my life. It’s impossible for exes to stay friends.”
Sasha’s fingers are gripping the steering wheel tighter. She glances over at me. “That’s bullshit.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. She tagged me in one picture. One.”
“It was a Throwback Thursday photo of your trip together to New York last year. Do you know how insignificant that makes me feel?”
“You’ve made it really clear,” Sasha snaps.
“So delete her, please. I deleted Antonio’s number for you.”
“I keep telling you, I don’t talk to her! We still follow each other on Instagram, but that’s it. She tagged me in one picture, end of story.”
We finally find a parking lot with space available. The parking attendant, an older Hispanic man with thinning hair, walks up to the car window and greets Sasha, his thick accent making it impossible to understand him.
“Buenas noches,” I greet, “cuanto pa’estasionar?”
“Ah buenas noches huerita,” he smiles, “es $15 pero para ti, $10.”
“For you, $10,” he repeats when he sees Sasha’s confused face.
I reach down and fumble in my wallet for a ten, pulling out a couple extra ones. I hand it over and tell him to keep the change. He is very grateful and gives us our parking slip. Sasha does a fantastically terrible job of squeezing in between a Toyota Tundra and a Ford F250.
“I’m texting Mia to see where they’re at.”
“Want any more?” I hold up the Sailor Jerry bottle.
She grabs it out of my hands without a thank you and proceeds to take several giant swigs, her face grimacing but she makes no move for the Coke.
We sit in silence, drinking. I pull down the overhead mirror to check my make up, but the lighting is too dim. I twirl my long brown locks around my fingers, making sure the curls stay curled.
Her phone finally breaks the silence with two faint chimes.
“They’re already in line, almost at the door. Let’s go.”
We both take a last swig and I check my bag for money and ID.
There is no room for me to get out of the car on my side so I end up having to crawl over the seat to the driver’s side. Sasha is tall and thin, easily capable of slipping through a small crack. I still can’t quite fit through and push her car door open further. It taps the Tundra next to it with a soft thud.
“Careful! Don’t scratch my door!”
“Oh I’m sorry, I’m a little more bottom heavy than you. I can’t get out of this crappy parking job as easy.”
“I parked just fine.”
“Look,” I say, adjusting my skirt, “you’re crooked as hell.”
“Next time just drive yourself.”
“Fine, I will. It’ll be less stressful.”
“Pull your skirt down,” Sasha orders, “it keeps riding up.”
I pull my mini skirt down further, the cotton fabric clinging to the curve of my hips.
Sasha pops open her car trunk, changing out of her flip flops into a pair of hot pink wedges. They stand out against her little black dress with the sequined detailing. Even though I’m an average five foot five and wearing four-inch heels, Sasha still towers over me, just shy of six feet tall with her added height.
“You kind of look like a drag queen.” I giggle, trying to break the tension.
Sasha doesn’t say anything. She slams her trunk shut and strides away, her wedges grinding under the gravely asphalt of the parking lot. I trot to catch up with her.
“You know I was totally kidding,” I say.
I put my hand on her arm but she jerks away.
She looks at me; her green eyes ice me out. “We can’t keep Mia and the girls waiting.”
“Sasha, come on. I was kidding. You know I-”
“No, I’m so not in the mood to do this with you right now.”
“Alright fine, I’m sorry.”
We walk down the block dodging the revelers all around us. Normally I’d have my hand in hers, but tonight there is no hand holding. We walk side by side like strange acquaintances. Even though we’re only centimeters apart and our arms bump every now and again, I feel there’s a whole universe of space between us. The streets of West Hollywood are loud, filled with the sounds of sirens, the low pounding thump of techno music escaping from various clubs, and people’s shouts in all directions. But Sasha and I are stuck in a bubble of silence. We walk past the corner of Robertson Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard, just outside WeHo’s most famous club The Abbey. There is a large crowd of homophobic protesters, picketing the repeal of Prop 8 with big signs. Sasha grabs my hand and we keep walking. Further down the street, towards the corner of Hilldale Avenue and Santa Monica, there’s a fight that breaks out amongst some guys and the protesters.
One of the people in the fight gets shoved in our direction, barely missing me. Instinctively, Sasha pulls me close to her, and guides us around the brawl.
“Are you ok?”
“Yeah I’m fine,” I answer.
I feel Sasha’s mood start to lighten a bit. She throws her arm around my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her waist. The black sequins of her dress scratch me. I look up at her.
“So we’re ok?”
“Yes,” she smiles. “We’re going to have a good night tonight.”
“Ok. And I’m sorry I keep bringing up the whole Kyra thing. It’s just stupid insecurities. It’s just the crazy in me. Half Latina,” I joke.
“Let’s just stop talking about it. We’re fine.”
“Ok, I’m sorry.”
“No it’s fine. I love you,” she kisses me.
We approach the long line outside Rage, scoping out the crowd for Mia and her friends.
“Hey!” Mia waves to us from the line, her overly animated actions indicating she’s reached a decent level of intoxication. Sasha and I approach the line, hand in hand.
“You guys look so great together,” Mia slurs. “There’s so many cute girls here. I have to get laid tonight.”
“I’ve got the cutest one,” Sasha remarks, giving my hand a squeeze as we cut the line.
I look up at Sasha, remembering the first time we met. It was the previous semester in college, in the back of Math 100. I had taken one of the last available seats in the final row. I was wearing a purple hoodie and sunglasses, still nursing a hangover from the night before. Sasha was the perfectly put together blonde girl next to me, her posh wardrobe and fabulously blown out hair intimidated me when we first made eye contact.
“I hate math so much,” were the first words she spoke to me.
“It’s the worst,” I replied.
“I’m Sasha.”
“Allie,” I smiled.
After that moment, she seemed less intimidating. We began to talk more, first bonding over our hatred of math, then bonding over more personal stuff like our failing relationships. We made a miserable pair and I began to look forward to those Tuesday and Thursday classes when we would get to talk about how much love sucks.
The talking quickly transitioned into something deeper, a real connection. I’d come into class a little late one day, slipping in the door while the professor’s back was turned writing graphing examples on the white board. As I took my seat Sasha leaned over in her chair and whispered, “What’s wrong?”
I shrugged my shoulders, fighting back tears. “I finally talked to him after a week of silence.”
“And?” she encouraged.
“It’s over. Two years, gone,” I barely got the words out.
“He’s a moron who doesn’t deserve you,” she replied before the teacher shushed us.
After class Sasha treated me to a Caramel Frappuccino on the campus Starbucks and spent almost forty minutes listening to my tearful account of my break up.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, shifting around in her seat. “To tell you the truth, Kyra dumped me too.”
“Oh my God, when?” I asked.
“Last weekend. She didn’t want to wait for me to finish the semester so she left and is now backpacking through Southeast Asia without me.”
“What a bitch!” I said.
I remember Sasha’s shrug. It was very lackadaisical.
“It is what it is,” she replied. “I’m just glad I met you and we have each other to talk to.”
“Seems like we’ve both been put on Cupid’s blacklist,” I sniffled.
She grabbed my hand briefly. I did not pull away. And as I stared into her green eyes, I felt myself plunge into a romantic vortex. It was all the oxygen needed to turn an ember into a passionate flame. I almost failed Math 100 that semester because I fell in love with Sasha Reed.
The bouncer checks our IDs without great scrutiny before letting us into the club. I hold Sasha’s hand as we walk into the pulsating beat of techno music. Young Twinks, shirtless and with Adonis bodies control most of the dance floor, their perfect muscles glittering with sweat in the glow of the strobe lights.
“They really need to have a policy against no shirts,” Sasha says, “no one wants to see that.”
“I think they’d beg to differ,” I nod to the older Bears standing around the bar like lions hunting at a watering hole.
“Let’s get a drink,” she leads me towards the bar. I follow her, my toes pinching in my shoes as I navigate the sticky floor. Sasha and I find a nook at the bar and wait for the bartender.
“What do you want?” Sasha asks.
“You already know.”
“Right,” Sasha leans in and orders me a margarita and a vodka tonic for herself.
I fumble around in my clutch for some cash. Sasha pushes my hand away.
“Come on,” I say.
“No, it’s on me.”
“But you drove and didn’t let me pay for gas. Plus you bought the rum and Coke.”
“I got you.” She hands over her card to the bartender, telling him to keep the tab open. He mixes up our drinks rather quickly. We make our way out to the dance floor with the rest of Sasha’s friends. Sasha gets flirty, grinding her body against mine. She places her hand on my hip and draws me in for a kiss.
Every time she does this, I think of the first time we went out dancing together at Ripples in Long Beach. It was a normal Thursday morning in Math class and she’d asked me what my plans were for that evening. I had none, other than to catch up on some procrastination reading I had for an American Lit class. She invited me to join her and some friends at the gay club on Second Street.
“I’ve never been to a gay club before,” I quietly confessed to her while the professor droned on about the quadratic formula.
Sasha’s eyes widened, “Then you have to come with us.”
“I will. What should I wear?”
“Whatever you want. I’m going super casual, probably jeans and a flannel shirt. You know, stereotypical lesbian wear.”
I smiled.
That afternoon, I spent three hours at the Brea mall down the street from campus, shopping for a flannel shirt. In the evening I met Sasha and her friends in Long Beach, parking my car a block away from the Tiki-inspired building and its rainbow colored dolphins that hung over the sign outside. I had a hoard of butterflies flitting around my stomach as I walked down the street towards the tiny, sweaty club. I felt like all eyes on the street were watching me, judging me, knowing exactly where I was headed to and why. I adjusted my flannel shirt with some degree of anxiety, nervous to explore this other side of myself.
But once inside, things were much different. I found Sasha, and she introduced me to her close-knit group of girls, Mia being one of them. Sasha bought me a drink, complimenting my brand new purple plaid shirt by saying, “That’s very cute. You bought that today, didn’t you?”
“Of course not,” I lied. “It’s been hiding in my closet for ages.”
“Glad you’re finally coming out of the closet.”
My eyes widened in panic at her response, “What?”
“I said I’m glad your shirt is finally coming out of the closet,” Sasha replied with a smile.
“Oh, I thought you said something else.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind, it was dumb.” I took several giant gulps of my margarita.
An older Diesel Dyke in her forties tried hitting on me at the bar. Sasha grabbed me by the hand and pulled me away. I caught myself smiling at the intertwining of our fingers. We found ourselves on the dance floor, the sounds of Rhianna’s ‘We Found Love’ setting the tempo for our bodies to get closer, our faces to almost touch. Sasha put her hands on my waist, pulling me towards her. I had only ever kissed another girl once in high school, but it was more of an innocent peck on the lips. Sasha was different. It felt different. The anticipation of her making a move sent a million bolts of electricity surging through my veins. When she leaned in and kissed me, the electrical fuse in my heart blew wide open.
Standing so close to Sasha now, I feel like I did at Ripples. I give her a kiss, and whisper in her ear, “Do you want to go sit somewhere?”
She nods, her hand still around my waist, pulling me through the crowd till we’re back by the bar. There are some giant purple couches off towards the side, mostly occupied by couples making out or individuals trying to sober up. She and I find a sliver of couch space where I take a seat and she sits on my lap. We cuddle together, finishing our drinks.
“I’m going to get us another,” I say.
“Don’t, I got a tab open.”
“But-”
“Seriously Allie, I got it,” she gets up.
I open up my clutch and check my phone. In the two hours that we’ve been inside Antonio has texted me twice.
The first one says, Hi baby girl, I miss you.
The second, I’m shipping off to Afghanistan again. Got any good books you recommend reading?
A knife pricks me somewhere in the heart. My stomach starts to knot itself. All kinds of emotions come flooding back. I know I should just ignore it, or block his number, but there is something I can’t quite let go of, though I’ve convinced Sasha he’s out of my life for good. Even though I’m fully invested in her, there’s a part of me that continues to keep Antonio as my dirty little secret.
I look towards the bar. Sasha is still leaning against the countertop, waiting for the bartender.
I quickly text back I miss you too. Definitely read The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway, it’s my favorite.
I send it and shove my phone back in the bag. I look around the seating area. There’s a group of Hispanic girls standing in the corner, taking turns sitting on one of the purple ottomans. All of them are relatively dressed up in high heels and ridiculously short dresses except for one who’s in a white button down shirt, her hair tucked under a snapback hat. She’s drinking a beer while the rest of her friends drink cocktails. She makes eye contact and comes over.
I pull out my phone to try to deter her, but she walks up to me.
“Hey mama, why you all alone?”
“I’m not.”
“Yo, let me buy you a drink.”
“No thanks. My girlfriend is already getting me one.”
“So you’re like bicurious or something.”
Sasha comes back from the bar with our drinks. She nods at Snapback saying, “She’s with me.”
Snapback looks at us and sneers. “Two femmes, figures,” Then walks away.
“Was she hitting on you?”
I nod. “Tried to. Called me bicurious.”
“Oh that’s a step up from everyone thinking you’re straight,” Sasha hands me my drink.
“I guess I’m slowly making my way up the Kinsey Scale.”
She and I trade places, and this time I take a seat on her lap and she wraps her arm around my waist.
“Speaking of the Kinsey Scale, would it help if I was there with you?”
I roll my eyes, “I’m not telling my parents I’m bi. I’m not ready.”
“I just…I don’t get it. Why don’t you want to tell them? It makes me nervous.”
I put a hand on Sasha’s knee and look her in the eyes, “Trust me, my parents aren’t cool like yours. My dad is an old school Mexican, super Catholic. And my mom, well she’s uncomfortable with her own brother who’s gay.”
She sighs, “I honestly don’t get any of it.”
Sasha rests her head on my shoulder. I kiss the top of her forehead, loving the familiar scent of her Pantene shampoo as I rest my cheek on her. We continue to cuddle while finishing our drinks. Sasha occasionally checks her phone, which is lighting up with a blitzkrieg of drunk texts from Mia.
“I guess they left and went over to The Abbey,” Sasha shows me the phone screen.
“That’s close to where we parked. Do you want to join them or just get out of here?” I ask.
She straightens up, looking into my eyes and kissing me softly on the lips. We kiss again, this time more passionately.
“I take that as a ‘just get out of here’?”
“Wasn’t it Pablo Neruda that said ‘I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees’?”
I smile, “Someone’s been reading the poetry book I gave her.”
Sasha whispers in my ear, “I don’t think I can wait till we get home.”
My head feels light and fuzzy. In part from all the alcohol I’ve consumed, but also in part from the strong desire I’m feeling for Sasha.
“You are so bad. Let me use the bathroom and then we’ll go. Watch my stuff please.”
Sasha kisses me once more, and I head off in the direction of the bathroom. There is a long line. It takes me almost fifteen minutes to get in and out. When I get back I see Sasha’s face illuminated by the glow of my phone screen. Her brows are furrowed as she scrolls through my phone.
“What the fuck?” she asks looking up.
I yank my phone away from her. “I could be asking you the same exact thing. Why are you going through my phone? I would never do that to you.”
“It kept vibrating so I checked it and guess whose name was on the screen?”
“Look, it’s not like that.”
She storms out. She disappears into the crowd at the cross walk and I briefly lose sight of her.
“Sasha! Sasha!” I continue to shout, my heels clacking along the pavement trying to catch up with her.
“Please let me explain, I can’t pretend like that part of my life never happened. I was in love with him. I wanted to marry him. It’s not that easy letting go.”
She stops in the middle of the sidewalk. There are tears in her eyes. She just looks at me, a despondent smile crossing her face.
“God, why did I fall for you?”
I don’t know what to say in response. We just stand there. People walk past us. Someone tries to hand us a flier about the importance of safe sex. A food truck is parked alongside the curb. The smell of burgers and fries is heavenly, but there’s a crater in my stomach.
“Are you guys in line?” A random girl asks me.
“No, go ahead,” I say.
I am thinking of what I can say in response to Sasha, when my phone vibrates again. Sasha’s eyes dart down to my clutch and she just snorts.
“I can’t do this.”
“Please Sasha,” I beg, “give me a chance to fix this.”
“How am I supposed to trust you?”
“I don’t know.”
Sasha shakes her head and wipes away the black streaks running down her cheeks. “I really can’t do this,” she moans.
She continues to walk down the sidewalk. I’m trailing a few feet behind her. I feel a small blister starting to form on the back of my heel. My feet slide around uncomfortably in the shoes, angering the blister. The city traffic blares all around us, but all I hear is our silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t talk to me. Just don’t,” she says. Sasha doesn’t even turn around to face me. She just keeps walking.
The crowd of homophobes outside The Abbey has dwindled to less than ten, all six individuals still highly committed to picketing love with their hateful signs. This time, Sasha makes no move to protect me from anything.
“Sasha, wait for me.”
She turns around and begins to yell.
“Allie you’re a fucking hypocrite! You’re still texting him! Even after you swore you’d deleted his number.”
“I did, for like a week, but he kept texting me.”
People walking by, stare at us. Someone across the street randomly shouts, “Lesbian drama!”
“Can we not do this here?”
“So now you give a shit what others think?” Sasha flips her hair, “Oh, and I saw the boob picture you sent him. So classy.”
“That was a drunk mistake a couple days ago, I shouldn’t have sent him that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
One of the bouncers from The Abbey tells us to move it along or else he’ll call the cops. We both apologize and continue towards the car. Sasha is walking at a very brisk pace. I try my best to keep up. I can’t stand the silence anymore.
“I saw him,” I confess.
“What?”
“Two weeks ago, he was home for a few days for his cousin’s funeral.”
“So you saw him?”
I nod.
“And you didn’t say anything.”
“I knew you’d be mad.”
“Of course I’d be mad. I’m pissed. You have been lying to me, and on top of that you had the nerve to call me out for still being friends with Kyra.”
She pulls her keys out of her bag, “You had sex with him, didn’t you?”
My silence confirms her question.
“Fuck you Allie!” She screams, “Fuck you!” Sasha walks away but then stops.
“God, this is why I kept asking you to tell your parents about us. I wasn’t your girlfriend, I was just your gay experiment, wasn’t I?”
“It was never like that. Antonio was a mistake. I love you. You have to believe me.”
“Why should I? Everything else has apparently been a lie.”
I suddenly feel a little bit of anger brewing within.
“Well maybe if you’d been a little more supportive with me figuring out who I am exactly, then maybe I wouldn’t have done something stupid.”
“Ok, so now you’re turning this around on me?”
“I’m just saying, you have been pressuring me for months to tell the world that I’m dating a girl. And you’re constantly reminding me that I’m the first closeted girl you’ve been with and how it’s so weird for you. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t come out at fourteen to super chill parents. I don’t have your life. I can’t compete with that.”
“No one was asking you to.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Every goddamn day Sasha, somehow you always find a way to bring up the importance of me coming out.”
“Ok so maybe I do bring it up a lot, but only because I was afraid of this right here: bicurious bitches screwing you over for their ex-boyfriends.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
“I don’t know Sasha. I just need a little time to figure it out. This is totally new for me.”
“See, that’s what I can’t do. You’re either gay or you’re straight. And I’m done being your experimentation.”
Sasha stands in the middle of the parking lot, her car keys in her hand softly jangle with her movements.
“Let’s go home,” I say. She follows me. I open up the door, flinging my bag inside. I feel a hand roughly grab my arm and pull me away from the car.
“What the hell?”
“You’re not coming with me.”
“For fuck’s sake Sasha, you can’t leave me here!”
“Watch me.”
She walks around to the driver’s side and gets in, locking the car. I yank on the door handle and scream at her to let me in. She backs out of the parking space, nearly running over my feet.
“How the fuck am I supposed to get home?” I throw my shoe at her rear window.
Her brake lights go on and for a second I worry she’s going to reverse over me.
She rolls down her window and tosses my bag out shouting, “Call Antonio!” before speeding away. Off in the distance, the shimmery lights of downtown cling to the low haze in the Los Angeles skyline. A couple of blocks south there’s the Scientology building standing tall, its illuminated name lords over the quiet parking lot. I hobble over to my shoe, slipping it back on. I pick up my bag from the ground and pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Antonio and one voicemail. I listen to the message.
Hey baby girl, I know it’s late but I can’t stop thinking about us. It meant a lot that you came out to Jesus’s funeral. I miss you baby. I love you.
I call Sasha but she doesn’t pick up and I don’t leave a voicemail. I text a long overdue message to Antonio.
I lied to you. Sasha isn’t just a phase. I’m gay. I have a real shot at happiness with her and I need to see that through. I wish you all the best luck in life and I hope you find an incredible girl. You deserve one.
My finger hovers over the Send button. A tear runs down my cheek as I delete the message. I turn back to the Scientology sign in the distance. I stare, hoping for some big revelation to hit me, but it never comes.
“You should’ve gotten over three exits ago,” I mumble.
She ignores my comment, annoyed by my backseat driving.
“Watch it, there’s someone on your right.”
“I know Allie.”
“Just saying.”
She sighs.
We manage to make our exit, turning onto Santa Monica Boulevard. It is another parking lot with everyone headed in the direction of WeHo. Tall palm trees line the boulevard, standing nearly as high as some of the buildings. Beaming billboards serve as visual reminders of the importance of HIV screenings. Mini strip malls full of cheap taco places and hole in the wall Chinese restaurants line the sidewalks, their windows lit up with neon signs advertising late night business. In a few hours they will become meccas for the drunks leaving the party scene.
The air conditioning is too cold for me. I turn it off and roll down the window. A wave of sticky June air wafts into the car. It smells of exhaust fumes and greasy food.
“What are you doing Allie?” Sasha asks. “You’re letting all the cold air out.”
“But I’m cold.”
“Well, I’m hot.”
I glance over at her. I want to say something like ‘yeah you are’ but the look in her green eyes indicates tonight is not the night. I roll up the window. Her fingers glide across the dashboard and for a moment I think she’s about to turn the air back on, instead she raises the volume on the music. The whole car gently hums with the vibrations of dubstep. Still, I continue to finger the Coke can tab, uncomfortable with the silence.
We arrive at Rage a little after 11 pm. A tiny lot with a giant sign advertises $5 parking in bold red lettering. It’s already filling up, with a line of cars still trying to get in. Sasha pulls up into the traffic jam.
“What are you doing? It’s already full.”
“There’s still space.”
“You’re just wasting time. There’s another lot one block that way.”
“But that’s like $15.”
“Yeah well for LA that’s still pretty cheap.”
“Fuck me!” she exclaims and honks, trying to pull out of the line of cars.
“Careful.”
“Yes! I know!” she yells. “God, if you know everything why didn’t you just drive tonight?”
“I asked and you said you didn’t want to get too drunk so you’d be the responsible one.”
“Well I regret that now.” Sasha reaches over and fumbles for the small bottle of Sailor Jerry tucked in between the middle console and my seat. She takes a swig and extends her hand. I pass her my Coke.
“Are we ok?”
“Depends, are you going to keep bringing up Kyra? Because it’s starting to really piss me off.”
I roll my eyes, “For God’s sake it’s not like that at all. I just don’t know how you can stay friends with her. After all she did to you.”
She gets silent again.
“Antonio broke my heart just as bad, and I got him out of my life. It’s impossible for exes to stay friends.”
Sasha’s fingers are gripping the steering wheel tighter. She glances over at me. “That’s bullshit.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. She tagged me in one picture. One.”
“It was a Throwback Thursday photo of your trip together to New York last year. Do you know how insignificant that makes me feel?”
“You’ve made it really clear,” Sasha snaps.
“So delete her, please. I deleted Antonio’s number for you.”
“I keep telling you, I don’t talk to her! We still follow each other on Instagram, but that’s it. She tagged me in one picture, end of story.”
We finally find a parking lot with space available. The parking attendant, an older Hispanic man with thinning hair, walks up to the car window and greets Sasha, his thick accent making it impossible to understand him.
“Buenas noches,” I greet, “cuanto pa’estasionar?”
“Ah buenas noches huerita,” he smiles, “es $15 pero para ti, $10.”
“For you, $10,” he repeats when he sees Sasha’s confused face.
I reach down and fumble in my wallet for a ten, pulling out a couple extra ones. I hand it over and tell him to keep the change. He is very grateful and gives us our parking slip. Sasha does a fantastically terrible job of squeezing in between a Toyota Tundra and a Ford F250.
“I’m texting Mia to see where they’re at.”
“Want any more?” I hold up the Sailor Jerry bottle.
She grabs it out of my hands without a thank you and proceeds to take several giant swigs, her face grimacing but she makes no move for the Coke.
We sit in silence, drinking. I pull down the overhead mirror to check my make up, but the lighting is too dim. I twirl my long brown locks around my fingers, making sure the curls stay curled.
Her phone finally breaks the silence with two faint chimes.
“They’re already in line, almost at the door. Let’s go.”
We both take a last swig and I check my bag for money and ID.
There is no room for me to get out of the car on my side so I end up having to crawl over the seat to the driver’s side. Sasha is tall and thin, easily capable of slipping through a small crack. I still can’t quite fit through and push her car door open further. It taps the Tundra next to it with a soft thud.
“Careful! Don’t scratch my door!”
“Oh I’m sorry, I’m a little more bottom heavy than you. I can’t get out of this crappy parking job as easy.”
“I parked just fine.”
“Look,” I say, adjusting my skirt, “you’re crooked as hell.”
“Next time just drive yourself.”
“Fine, I will. It’ll be less stressful.”
“Pull your skirt down,” Sasha orders, “it keeps riding up.”
I pull my mini skirt down further, the cotton fabric clinging to the curve of my hips.
Sasha pops open her car trunk, changing out of her flip flops into a pair of hot pink wedges. They stand out against her little black dress with the sequined detailing. Even though I’m an average five foot five and wearing four-inch heels, Sasha still towers over me, just shy of six feet tall with her added height.
“You kind of look like a drag queen.” I giggle, trying to break the tension.
Sasha doesn’t say anything. She slams her trunk shut and strides away, her wedges grinding under the gravely asphalt of the parking lot. I trot to catch up with her.
“You know I was totally kidding,” I say.
I put my hand on her arm but she jerks away.
She looks at me; her green eyes ice me out. “We can’t keep Mia and the girls waiting.”
“Sasha, come on. I was kidding. You know I-”
“No, I’m so not in the mood to do this with you right now.”
“Alright fine, I’m sorry.”
We walk down the block dodging the revelers all around us. Normally I’d have my hand in hers, but tonight there is no hand holding. We walk side by side like strange acquaintances. Even though we’re only centimeters apart and our arms bump every now and again, I feel there’s a whole universe of space between us. The streets of West Hollywood are loud, filled with the sounds of sirens, the low pounding thump of techno music escaping from various clubs, and people’s shouts in all directions. But Sasha and I are stuck in a bubble of silence. We walk past the corner of Robertson Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard, just outside WeHo’s most famous club The Abbey. There is a large crowd of homophobic protesters, picketing the repeal of Prop 8 with big signs. Sasha grabs my hand and we keep walking. Further down the street, towards the corner of Hilldale Avenue and Santa Monica, there’s a fight that breaks out amongst some guys and the protesters.
One of the people in the fight gets shoved in our direction, barely missing me. Instinctively, Sasha pulls me close to her, and guides us around the brawl.
“Are you ok?”
“Yeah I’m fine,” I answer.
I feel Sasha’s mood start to lighten a bit. She throws her arm around my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her waist. The black sequins of her dress scratch me. I look up at her.
“So we’re ok?”
“Yes,” she smiles. “We’re going to have a good night tonight.”
“Ok. And I’m sorry I keep bringing up the whole Kyra thing. It’s just stupid insecurities. It’s just the crazy in me. Half Latina,” I joke.
“Let’s just stop talking about it. We’re fine.”
“Ok, I’m sorry.”
“No it’s fine. I love you,” she kisses me.
We approach the long line outside Rage, scoping out the crowd for Mia and her friends.
“Hey!” Mia waves to us from the line, her overly animated actions indicating she’s reached a decent level of intoxication. Sasha and I approach the line, hand in hand.
“You guys look so great together,” Mia slurs. “There’s so many cute girls here. I have to get laid tonight.”
“I’ve got the cutest one,” Sasha remarks, giving my hand a squeeze as we cut the line.
I look up at Sasha, remembering the first time we met. It was the previous semester in college, in the back of Math 100. I had taken one of the last available seats in the final row. I was wearing a purple hoodie and sunglasses, still nursing a hangover from the night before. Sasha was the perfectly put together blonde girl next to me, her posh wardrobe and fabulously blown out hair intimidated me when we first made eye contact.
“I hate math so much,” were the first words she spoke to me.
“It’s the worst,” I replied.
“I’m Sasha.”
“Allie,” I smiled.
After that moment, she seemed less intimidating. We began to talk more, first bonding over our hatred of math, then bonding over more personal stuff like our failing relationships. We made a miserable pair and I began to look forward to those Tuesday and Thursday classes when we would get to talk about how much love sucks.
The talking quickly transitioned into something deeper, a real connection. I’d come into class a little late one day, slipping in the door while the professor’s back was turned writing graphing examples on the white board. As I took my seat Sasha leaned over in her chair and whispered, “What’s wrong?”
I shrugged my shoulders, fighting back tears. “I finally talked to him after a week of silence.”
“And?” she encouraged.
“It’s over. Two years, gone,” I barely got the words out.
“He’s a moron who doesn’t deserve you,” she replied before the teacher shushed us.
After class Sasha treated me to a Caramel Frappuccino on the campus Starbucks and spent almost forty minutes listening to my tearful account of my break up.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, shifting around in her seat. “To tell you the truth, Kyra dumped me too.”
“Oh my God, when?” I asked.
“Last weekend. She didn’t want to wait for me to finish the semester so she left and is now backpacking through Southeast Asia without me.”
“What a bitch!” I said.
I remember Sasha’s shrug. It was very lackadaisical.
“It is what it is,” she replied. “I’m just glad I met you and we have each other to talk to.”
“Seems like we’ve both been put on Cupid’s blacklist,” I sniffled.
She grabbed my hand briefly. I did not pull away. And as I stared into her green eyes, I felt myself plunge into a romantic vortex. It was all the oxygen needed to turn an ember into a passionate flame. I almost failed Math 100 that semester because I fell in love with Sasha Reed.
The bouncer checks our IDs without great scrutiny before letting us into the club. I hold Sasha’s hand as we walk into the pulsating beat of techno music. Young Twinks, shirtless and with Adonis bodies control most of the dance floor, their perfect muscles glittering with sweat in the glow of the strobe lights.
“They really need to have a policy against no shirts,” Sasha says, “no one wants to see that.”
“I think they’d beg to differ,” I nod to the older Bears standing around the bar like lions hunting at a watering hole.
“Let’s get a drink,” she leads me towards the bar. I follow her, my toes pinching in my shoes as I navigate the sticky floor. Sasha and I find a nook at the bar and wait for the bartender.
“What do you want?” Sasha asks.
“You already know.”
“Right,” Sasha leans in and orders me a margarita and a vodka tonic for herself.
I fumble around in my clutch for some cash. Sasha pushes my hand away.
“Come on,” I say.
“No, it’s on me.”
“But you drove and didn’t let me pay for gas. Plus you bought the rum and Coke.”
“I got you.” She hands over her card to the bartender, telling him to keep the tab open. He mixes up our drinks rather quickly. We make our way out to the dance floor with the rest of Sasha’s friends. Sasha gets flirty, grinding her body against mine. She places her hand on my hip and draws me in for a kiss.
Every time she does this, I think of the first time we went out dancing together at Ripples in Long Beach. It was a normal Thursday morning in Math class and she’d asked me what my plans were for that evening. I had none, other than to catch up on some procrastination reading I had for an American Lit class. She invited me to join her and some friends at the gay club on Second Street.
“I’ve never been to a gay club before,” I quietly confessed to her while the professor droned on about the quadratic formula.
Sasha’s eyes widened, “Then you have to come with us.”
“I will. What should I wear?”
“Whatever you want. I’m going super casual, probably jeans and a flannel shirt. You know, stereotypical lesbian wear.”
I smiled.
That afternoon, I spent three hours at the Brea mall down the street from campus, shopping for a flannel shirt. In the evening I met Sasha and her friends in Long Beach, parking my car a block away from the Tiki-inspired building and its rainbow colored dolphins that hung over the sign outside. I had a hoard of butterflies flitting around my stomach as I walked down the street towards the tiny, sweaty club. I felt like all eyes on the street were watching me, judging me, knowing exactly where I was headed to and why. I adjusted my flannel shirt with some degree of anxiety, nervous to explore this other side of myself.
But once inside, things were much different. I found Sasha, and she introduced me to her close-knit group of girls, Mia being one of them. Sasha bought me a drink, complimenting my brand new purple plaid shirt by saying, “That’s very cute. You bought that today, didn’t you?”
“Of course not,” I lied. “It’s been hiding in my closet for ages.”
“Glad you’re finally coming out of the closet.”
My eyes widened in panic at her response, “What?”
“I said I’m glad your shirt is finally coming out of the closet,” Sasha replied with a smile.
“Oh, I thought you said something else.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind, it was dumb.” I took several giant gulps of my margarita.
An older Diesel Dyke in her forties tried hitting on me at the bar. Sasha grabbed me by the hand and pulled me away. I caught myself smiling at the intertwining of our fingers. We found ourselves on the dance floor, the sounds of Rhianna’s ‘We Found Love’ setting the tempo for our bodies to get closer, our faces to almost touch. Sasha put her hands on my waist, pulling me towards her. I had only ever kissed another girl once in high school, but it was more of an innocent peck on the lips. Sasha was different. It felt different. The anticipation of her making a move sent a million bolts of electricity surging through my veins. When she leaned in and kissed me, the electrical fuse in my heart blew wide open.
Standing so close to Sasha now, I feel like I did at Ripples. I give her a kiss, and whisper in her ear, “Do you want to go sit somewhere?”
She nods, her hand still around my waist, pulling me through the crowd till we’re back by the bar. There are some giant purple couches off towards the side, mostly occupied by couples making out or individuals trying to sober up. She and I find a sliver of couch space where I take a seat and she sits on my lap. We cuddle together, finishing our drinks.
“I’m going to get us another,” I say.
“Don’t, I got a tab open.”
“But-”
“Seriously Allie, I got it,” she gets up.
I open up my clutch and check my phone. In the two hours that we’ve been inside Antonio has texted me twice.
The first one says, Hi baby girl, I miss you.
The second, I’m shipping off to Afghanistan again. Got any good books you recommend reading?
A knife pricks me somewhere in the heart. My stomach starts to knot itself. All kinds of emotions come flooding back. I know I should just ignore it, or block his number, but there is something I can’t quite let go of, though I’ve convinced Sasha he’s out of my life for good. Even though I’m fully invested in her, there’s a part of me that continues to keep Antonio as my dirty little secret.
I look towards the bar. Sasha is still leaning against the countertop, waiting for the bartender.
I quickly text back I miss you too. Definitely read The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway, it’s my favorite.
I send it and shove my phone back in the bag. I look around the seating area. There’s a group of Hispanic girls standing in the corner, taking turns sitting on one of the purple ottomans. All of them are relatively dressed up in high heels and ridiculously short dresses except for one who’s in a white button down shirt, her hair tucked under a snapback hat. She’s drinking a beer while the rest of her friends drink cocktails. She makes eye contact and comes over.
I pull out my phone to try to deter her, but she walks up to me.
“Hey mama, why you all alone?”
“I’m not.”
“Yo, let me buy you a drink.”
“No thanks. My girlfriend is already getting me one.”
“So you’re like bicurious or something.”
Sasha comes back from the bar with our drinks. She nods at Snapback saying, “She’s with me.”
Snapback looks at us and sneers. “Two femmes, figures,” Then walks away.
“Was she hitting on you?”
I nod. “Tried to. Called me bicurious.”
“Oh that’s a step up from everyone thinking you’re straight,” Sasha hands me my drink.
“I guess I’m slowly making my way up the Kinsey Scale.”
She and I trade places, and this time I take a seat on her lap and she wraps her arm around my waist.
“Speaking of the Kinsey Scale, would it help if I was there with you?”
I roll my eyes, “I’m not telling my parents I’m bi. I’m not ready.”
“I just…I don’t get it. Why don’t you want to tell them? It makes me nervous.”
I put a hand on Sasha’s knee and look her in the eyes, “Trust me, my parents aren’t cool like yours. My dad is an old school Mexican, super Catholic. And my mom, well she’s uncomfortable with her own brother who’s gay.”
She sighs, “I honestly don’t get any of it.”
Sasha rests her head on my shoulder. I kiss the top of her forehead, loving the familiar scent of her Pantene shampoo as I rest my cheek on her. We continue to cuddle while finishing our drinks. Sasha occasionally checks her phone, which is lighting up with a blitzkrieg of drunk texts from Mia.
“I guess they left and went over to The Abbey,” Sasha shows me the phone screen.
“That’s close to where we parked. Do you want to join them or just get out of here?” I ask.
She straightens up, looking into my eyes and kissing me softly on the lips. We kiss again, this time more passionately.
“I take that as a ‘just get out of here’?”
“Wasn’t it Pablo Neruda that said ‘I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees’?”
I smile, “Someone’s been reading the poetry book I gave her.”
Sasha whispers in my ear, “I don’t think I can wait till we get home.”
My head feels light and fuzzy. In part from all the alcohol I’ve consumed, but also in part from the strong desire I’m feeling for Sasha.
“You are so bad. Let me use the bathroom and then we’ll go. Watch my stuff please.”
Sasha kisses me once more, and I head off in the direction of the bathroom. There is a long line. It takes me almost fifteen minutes to get in and out. When I get back I see Sasha’s face illuminated by the glow of my phone screen. Her brows are furrowed as she scrolls through my phone.
“What the fuck?” she asks looking up.
I yank my phone away from her. “I could be asking you the same exact thing. Why are you going through my phone? I would never do that to you.”
“It kept vibrating so I checked it and guess whose name was on the screen?”
“Look, it’s not like that.”
She storms out. She disappears into the crowd at the cross walk and I briefly lose sight of her.
“Sasha! Sasha!” I continue to shout, my heels clacking along the pavement trying to catch up with her.
“Please let me explain, I can’t pretend like that part of my life never happened. I was in love with him. I wanted to marry him. It’s not that easy letting go.”
She stops in the middle of the sidewalk. There are tears in her eyes. She just looks at me, a despondent smile crossing her face.
“God, why did I fall for you?”
I don’t know what to say in response. We just stand there. People walk past us. Someone tries to hand us a flier about the importance of safe sex. A food truck is parked alongside the curb. The smell of burgers and fries is heavenly, but there’s a crater in my stomach.
“Are you guys in line?” A random girl asks me.
“No, go ahead,” I say.
I am thinking of what I can say in response to Sasha, when my phone vibrates again. Sasha’s eyes dart down to my clutch and she just snorts.
“I can’t do this.”
“Please Sasha,” I beg, “give me a chance to fix this.”
“How am I supposed to trust you?”
“I don’t know.”
Sasha shakes her head and wipes away the black streaks running down her cheeks. “I really can’t do this,” she moans.
She continues to walk down the sidewalk. I’m trailing a few feet behind her. I feel a small blister starting to form on the back of my heel. My feet slide around uncomfortably in the shoes, angering the blister. The city traffic blares all around us, but all I hear is our silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t talk to me. Just don’t,” she says. Sasha doesn’t even turn around to face me. She just keeps walking.
The crowd of homophobes outside The Abbey has dwindled to less than ten, all six individuals still highly committed to picketing love with their hateful signs. This time, Sasha makes no move to protect me from anything.
“Sasha, wait for me.”
She turns around and begins to yell.
“Allie you’re a fucking hypocrite! You’re still texting him! Even after you swore you’d deleted his number.”
“I did, for like a week, but he kept texting me.”
People walking by, stare at us. Someone across the street randomly shouts, “Lesbian drama!”
“Can we not do this here?”
“So now you give a shit what others think?” Sasha flips her hair, “Oh, and I saw the boob picture you sent him. So classy.”
“That was a drunk mistake a couple days ago, I shouldn’t have sent him that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
One of the bouncers from The Abbey tells us to move it along or else he’ll call the cops. We both apologize and continue towards the car. Sasha is walking at a very brisk pace. I try my best to keep up. I can’t stand the silence anymore.
“I saw him,” I confess.
“What?”
“Two weeks ago, he was home for a few days for his cousin’s funeral.”
“So you saw him?”
I nod.
“And you didn’t say anything.”
“I knew you’d be mad.”
“Of course I’d be mad. I’m pissed. You have been lying to me, and on top of that you had the nerve to call me out for still being friends with Kyra.”
She pulls her keys out of her bag, “You had sex with him, didn’t you?”
My silence confirms her question.
“Fuck you Allie!” She screams, “Fuck you!” Sasha walks away but then stops.
“God, this is why I kept asking you to tell your parents about us. I wasn’t your girlfriend, I was just your gay experiment, wasn’t I?”
“It was never like that. Antonio was a mistake. I love you. You have to believe me.”
“Why should I? Everything else has apparently been a lie.”
I suddenly feel a little bit of anger brewing within.
“Well maybe if you’d been a little more supportive with me figuring out who I am exactly, then maybe I wouldn’t have done something stupid.”
“Ok, so now you’re turning this around on me?”
“I’m just saying, you have been pressuring me for months to tell the world that I’m dating a girl. And you’re constantly reminding me that I’m the first closeted girl you’ve been with and how it’s so weird for you. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t come out at fourteen to super chill parents. I don’t have your life. I can’t compete with that.”
“No one was asking you to.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Every goddamn day Sasha, somehow you always find a way to bring up the importance of me coming out.”
“Ok so maybe I do bring it up a lot, but only because I was afraid of this right here: bicurious bitches screwing you over for their ex-boyfriends.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
“I don’t know Sasha. I just need a little time to figure it out. This is totally new for me.”
“See, that’s what I can’t do. You’re either gay or you’re straight. And I’m done being your experimentation.”
Sasha stands in the middle of the parking lot, her car keys in her hand softly jangle with her movements.
“Let’s go home,” I say. She follows me. I open up the door, flinging my bag inside. I feel a hand roughly grab my arm and pull me away from the car.
“What the hell?”
“You’re not coming with me.”
“For fuck’s sake Sasha, you can’t leave me here!”
“Watch me.”
She walks around to the driver’s side and gets in, locking the car. I yank on the door handle and scream at her to let me in. She backs out of the parking space, nearly running over my feet.
“How the fuck am I supposed to get home?” I throw my shoe at her rear window.
Her brake lights go on and for a second I worry she’s going to reverse over me.
She rolls down her window and tosses my bag out shouting, “Call Antonio!” before speeding away. Off in the distance, the shimmery lights of downtown cling to the low haze in the Los Angeles skyline. A couple of blocks south there’s the Scientology building standing tall, its illuminated name lords over the quiet parking lot. I hobble over to my shoe, slipping it back on. I pick up my bag from the ground and pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Antonio and one voicemail. I listen to the message.
Hey baby girl, I know it’s late but I can’t stop thinking about us. It meant a lot that you came out to Jesus’s funeral. I miss you baby. I love you.
I call Sasha but she doesn’t pick up and I don’t leave a voicemail. I text a long overdue message to Antonio.
I lied to you. Sasha isn’t just a phase. I’m gay. I have a real shot at happiness with her and I need to see that through. I wish you all the best luck in life and I hope you find an incredible girl. You deserve one.
My finger hovers over the Send button. A tear runs down my cheek as I delete the message. I turn back to the Scientology sign in the distance. I stare, hoping for some big revelation to hit me, but it never comes.
About the Author
California-born Anastasia Arellano is a graduate of the MPhil in Creative Writing at Trinity College, Dublin. She has recently completed a YA novel. She says when she’s not writing, she’s thinking about writing.