Full.

I sit in the driver’s seat of my first car, affectionately named Walter after my grandfather, who had passed away and left the vehicle in my name. One leg is bent, my knee mashed against the doorframe, my foot falling asleep beneath my right thigh. The steering wheel feels hot in the warm, Texas moonlight. I grip it tightly, trying to stay awake, Ryan Adam’s voice carrying through the stereo as I drive through the vast wastelands of the south. Fourteen hours of driving west from Waco will land you in Las Cruces New Mexico, a small border town with excellent Hispanic dining. The town right before it, El Paso, provides you with a clear view south of the border from the freeway, displaying Mexico as a dingy mirage that wavers in and out of focus in the distance. I have absolutely no idea what town I am currently roving through. There are no signs welcoming me to this unfamiliar territory, nor do there seem to be any gas stations or rest stops. In abundance, however, are the yellow-green bugs that smash and die against my windshield every six seconds, their miniscule lives ending in a matter of painful, blurry moments. I curse, and turn on the wipers, which only smear the entrails of my road trip companions even further across my line of vision.

For the first time in my life, I feel a tiny glimpse of what it must be like to be free. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, save for miles and miles of stretching, unpaved road ahead of me, and, as far as I can see with my car stuffed to bursting with suitcases and hanging bags, even less behind me in my rearview mirror. The road is never unkind to a traveler seeking answers. It is soothing to spend hours of the day spinning by farmland and cloud formations, watching the changing climate around you while you maintain homeostasis within the microcosmic world of your vehicle.

When I was small, the only thing I ever dreamed of doing with my future was to get out of my hometown, get out on my own, and go someplace far, far, away. I wanted to run away to a better life in a place where I could be lawless, unabashed, and uninhibited. I would watch the Wizard of Oz and shake my head at Dorothy for wanting to go back to Kansas to live with her hick, un-tornado-proofed family when she could have easily sparkled in the Emerald City for the rest of her life. “If it was me”, I whispered to myself, as I watched in horror while she clicked those gorgeous ruby slippers together once, twice, three times, and was transformed into a feverish, black-and-white version of her once beautiful, Technicolor self, “I would keep the heels, run away with the Scarecrow, and find myself a happily ever after somewhere over the rainbow.”

Today, I find myself hypocritically whispering, “There’s no place like home,” as I make my way through four states towards the house I grew up in. My eyes fill up with tears, and I can taste the Pacific. I shiver. Another burst of freedom overwhelms me, and I stare ahead at the glowing horizon, my heart set on California, my gas tank marked full.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Ma'i

The first coyote to be born into the world was given the name Ma’i. Guiltless and prowling, he stalked the nights without conscience. Ma’i was nervous, hungry. So was the man I fell in love with when I was not quite sixteen. On all fours, he encircled my silent,trembling frame, observing my every angle before pouncing. I saw his eyes flash yellow before his lips collided with mine, enveloping any and all words I could have gasped. My heart raced, my breathing grew shallow, jagged.

It had been nearly a year since I had last slept. He came to me in the time of the Santa Anas, born to Los Angeles Octobers like Ma’i to the desert. Existing to lick through my long, dry fingers and begin fires in the California hillsides, the Santa Anas blew ashy breath onto the dry sprigs of fall, blew newspapers out of stands and into the streets, blew something dangerous and dirty into the season. They were the mile marker of new history to begin. The Santa Anas have devastated thousands of lives. I should not have listened to the winds. My mind and body have always been overcome by the sensation that the dry, desert winds are pushing me around at fifty, sixty-five, eighty miles an hour. I cannot think of the last time I have taken something slow. Forgetting how to tip toe has become a problem; where others step cautiously, I jump, I dance, I fall, I fall, I fall.

“So, are we dating now?” I ask.

The boy looks up at me hungrily, pants, nods yes, the green in his irises showing his human side, saliva contained within his mouth for now. I pat him on the head, and fall asleep. I do not dream, but I wake up and he is still behind me, his head nodding into the back of my neck. I try to get off the couch to make myself some breakfast; it is past five o’clock, the fading orange sun is shining through the blinds. He snarls, his hands gripping my waist. I gently move them, finger by finger, until he is relaxing alone on his back; one arm flopped over his head, shielding his eyes from the evening sun. I pace my kitchen alone, searching for crackers, thinking about the coming Monday at school. My stomach is in knots. His girlfriend will be there, and I do not want to spend the rest of my sophomore year labeled as the rat, the gutter-trash-nobody, Whitney-Who? I peek over the edge of the sofa. He is breathing through his mouth now, sighing softly and kicking his socked-feet. Smiling, I pat his head again. He is sort of cute, despite the large nose taking up half his face, his wide forehead, his bad skin, his lopsided haircut, a Mohawk-gone-wrong. Ignoring the warning signs—his current relationship, his lack of self-confidence, the Santa Ana winds—I like him. I shake off the feeling that Monday is going to be a disaster, and work on getting this kid on my couch a ride home.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Twice

I’m with a person who makes me wish I had a different life. With the movement of his lips, his steady hands, his careful words, his protective hold, he makes me wish I deserved a fraction of what he gracefully gives me. We drive out toward Los Angeles at night, his hands on the steering wheel, my skin on fire from the burn of the lights reflecting off the freeway.

“Where do you want to go?”

In the rearview mirror, my eyes are black like a doll’s. He sees me as something better than what I am, as a girl who didn’t give her freedom away in exchange for shameful love. But I have. I wish I could tell him how pathetic I used to be, like a baby spider, clinging, swaying, wanting constantly. If I had a scarlet letter, I would wear it, I would let him know. Instead, I tell James to keep driving, and we wind down Mulholland onto Sunset Boulevard.

In another life, a million miles away, I once fell into a disturbing, deviated love with the man that came before James. He was nothing like the ocean-eyed marguerite tracing the outline of my hips and waist as we drive, stuck in traffic, through Hollywood. This other man didn’t even have a name. Half hypocrite, half vampire, he led me into a haze of obsession, of love unreturned. I fell for his charm, as all young girls do. No one had bothered to tell me that a fist -fight could never be romantic, that chains were ashamed of their prisoners. To say that he took everything I am would not accurately describe what I let him do. I no longer lived through myself. My lungs only accepted the air that had passed through his first.

James lays down the back seats of his car, and holds on to me. I am not used to this. I wish I could make him leave, make him realize that he could do so much better than an infectious parasite like me. But he doesn’t let go. He whispers, “I love you,” kisses my collarbone, says it again, “I love you.” I close my eyes, and when I open them, he is still breathing next to me.

I will forget the first man, the coyote that howled and cackled in the night as I tell him that I’m finally leaving. He will not follow me; I know this well. I say goodbye for the last time, and even as his yelps continue long after I am gone, I abandon him there in the desert.

A young boy sells oranges off the west of the road as we drive back home down the Pacific Coast Highway, offering to trade the clanging silver in my pockets for the Camarillo fire softly glowing within his.

“I love you too, James, darling,” I say.

Tonight, I am not that sappy, hungry, empty girl. He will never know her. I will make sure he never does.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Original

Asphalt at any speed hurts. At thirty miles an hour, the grating sensation against your knees, palm, cheek, seems all too dull at first, until tiny springs of blood begin to pepper your skin, blooming red and bright against ashen flesh. Your heart stops, your breath stops, your legs move. Nothing seems to hit you until you find yourself gasping in front of a dirty gas station mirror, alone, thinking, “Is this what I must pay to be someone else?” Even at twelve, I knew that I wanted to make my lesser self disappear, to vanish behind a swishing cape, or down a rabbit hole, or behind a red curtain, only to emerge once again, to the audience’s surprise, entirely anew. I wanted to be a pioneer heading west, following the light of the sun to escape the Old World. I yearned to be Old Man Kangaroo, to be made different from all other animals by five this afternoon! I needed to be Lady McBeth, Sylvia Plath, and Tinkerbelle, too. Theatre was, essentially, the better half of my life. Day to day I simply existed, but on stage I truly lived. Waving goodbye to the messy divorce, physical education, and every sixth grader who mocked my glasses, I entered the building, ready to grow.

My mother eventually tired of my acting. It was quite expensive, and was turning me into an excellent liar. After throwing myself out of her car and sprinting the rest of the distance to clean myself off, I entered my new scene-building workshop, and sustained myself with the steady drip of make-believe I had forced into my veins. The teacher looked a bit like Robin Williams, only slightly more grey and sad. He was well versed in Stanislavski, Meisner, Adler, Hagen, Strasberg. His skin was puffy, presumably from wine, his eyes yellow, his complexion wan. A startled look crossed his face, as my mother’s figure appeared in the doorway.“Ma’m, you can’t just…take her,” Williams stammered. I assured him with my eyes that I would be alright just before vanishing around the corner.

It was the last time I heard my feet moving hurriedly above the black, dull, floor of a stage, felt hundreds of eyes on my trembling lips as they delivered a monologue, a poem, a line, or turned my body to the side, my senses in tune to the sets and figures around me, even in the moments of blackness before the curtains rose. I was bluntly thrown into a life lacking the art of pretending, a life short of surprises and wonder. The only characteristics I was left with were my own. There was no cast of friends surrounding me, no notebook full of the perfect words to utter in precisely the right moment. I could not remember the last time I had been truly left alone with myself, and I was utterly petrified.

With only myself behind the curtain, I feel my life is incomplete. I have always slipped into someone else’s thoughts, and it has always been acceptable. My first director, Stephanie, did not agree with me. “ Darling,” she tells me, “you came into your life just the way you are. Always have been, and always will be, an original.” With all of my heart, I wish I knew the girl standing in front of that dingy reflective surface, soaking through paper towel after paper towel with crimson stains. For now, all I can do is pass her another, and pray that she will not stay in that bathroom forever. She belongs center stage; she just has not found herself yet.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.