Twenty-Two

I'm twenty-two, taller (but still short), comfortable in my own, expanding skin. Joey and I play house and I write until 4:00 a.m. and wake up at 10:00 a.m. to join rehearsals and possibility and the familiarity of a small town. I'm happier than I've ever been. We take turns orbiting each other, making each other better. I stand down his fears, arms folded, and he pushes back against mine, knocking my fears to the ground as if they are his high school bullies.

I settle into the pages, the boating, the mindless revelry. I imagine myself loving Joey forever and it looks like my favorite movie. We crush on boys and make too much noise; we dally and sink our teeth in and then pull ourselves back, always coming back to center. With no roadmap, it seems wrong, but it feels right, and so despite the questions -- theirs, and our own -- we dig our heels in deeper, deeper, deeper, and press on.

Joey knows about the gold, but here, in his home town, I worry that it makes him nervous. I think he wants me all to himself, and there's no telling where my powers will take me. So I take another hit and sink back into the lazy awesome that is our young, made-up life.

I fall into a rhythm of writing, rehearsals, shows, parties, writing, rehearsals, shows, parties, touching base at the Blind Munchies every day, notebook in hand. I meet another Joe, this time in flannel, who likes girls and chain smokes and sucks down cup after cup of black coffee. We trade barbs and my blood feels electric. We bicker like Han and Leia and I fall for the sadness behind his eyes and all of the words unsaid as we dance around each other, never quite finding a place to land. We play rummy for hours and from the way he looks at me, eyes sharp with longing, I know that he can see it, too. My secret, Midas Girl. But it's worse: he sees that I keep giving her up.

I'm so frustrated I want to run, but instead I pile into a car with Joey, Zoe and Vicky and drive until we spot the first blush of green on the trees. We bypass Devil's Den, Arkansas, last year's haunt, and make our way to a campground, near a lake. In various altered states, the days stretch before us, blending, turning, taking us over. With our powdered donuts and sleeping bags, we are content to stay like this forever, never reaching our potential, never seeing the world.

When our heads clear for five minutes, Zoe and I realize we're just three hours from Memphis, so we pack up and drive to Tennessee. In no time we're on Beale Street, tossing Mississippi love beads around, carrying our giant cups from bar to bar, looking for more, more, more. The night is magic, the kind you only hear about from people you admire. We sing our hearts out, we flirt, we fall off chairs. We dance a soul train line, smoke a joint behind BB King's with Ruby, the headliner, and after Vicky disappears with a doughy stranger, we follow two lesbians in their car to an all-night bowling alley/bar.

And then it happens. Wanda, the proprietor, is tall in her faux leopard ensemble, wild red curly wig rivaling Dolly Parton. She sits with us and we feel like VIPs. It's 4:22 a.m. when Wanda looks into my eyes and I feel her speaking to my soul. Without a word, she lays it all out for me, like a dare. I think she may be a witch. I feel a click, the forever kind, and suddenly -- just like that -- I remember who I am.

I wake up the next morning, the taste of truth serum still in my mouth. "I will never be the same," I say out loud, to no one.

And that is how I got to know her, the one. As me. All me. At the Munchies I still play rummy with Joe and the others, I still write and pretend like life goes on forever. But this time, I turn my head to the left and see her, the girl who likes girls and my mix tapes and drinks Velvet Hammer, black. I see her as if we've only just met. She smiles shyly, her eyes ducking down under the weight of it, and for the first time, ever, I don't hold anything back.