THE TWINS’ MOTHER looks as though she might open her mouth and speak with the tiny chirping voice of a cute woodland creature from one of those animated Disney movies. A pair of oversized glasses distort her face, enlarging her eyes and shrinking her nose. Her diminutive frame makes it easy to imagine she holds herself up with small, hollow bones like a little bird.
The thing about this tiny bird lady, though — she is batshit insane.
When she opens her mouth, terrible, shrill sounds come out. She shrieks frustrated Spanglish fragments as she looks up at her identical teenage boys.
“You little! What! Fucking shit! In my… NO! With the putas! What! Not in my! Taking my cigarettes!” She turns and points a finger in Dominic’s scabbed face. “Pendejo!”
Thinking this means it’s time to move the party elsewhere, I stand up.
Big mistake. My sudden movement has drawn her attention to me. She looks up at me, walking toward me, bird finger pointing up at me in accusation.
“You dirty putas!” The twins take advantage of the diversion, stashing the weed while she’s preoccupied with wanting to kill us. “I’ll kill you, puta! I’ll call the police! What!”
She is the frailest person in the room, with the weakest language skills, but she’s got all of us confused and petrified.
Dominic jumps up from the couch. “Time to bail, guys.”
Bronwyn flies out the door right behind him.
The furious little woman standing in front of me spins around. “Pendejo!” She runs after him, banging her shin on the table. A beer bottle that had been sitting on it topples over. She snatches it up and hurls it at the two escapees.
She throws much harder than I’d expected someone so delicate to throw anything, but she misses and the bottle smashes against the wall about two feet from the door.
The twins move to restrain their mother. Without thinking, I run for the door, following Dominic and Bronwyn outside to freedom.
I find them laughing in the alley behind the house.
Dom hugs himself with one arm as he wipes tears from his face with his other hand. “Oh, man. That is the funniest thing I have ever seen. What! What! Puta! Police! Pendejo!”
Bronwyn laughs so hard she starts coughing.
“Fuck you, guys,” I say. “You sacrificed me to the screechy old bird woman.”
“Hey,” Dominic holds up a hand. “It’s every man for himself in these situations. Survival of the fittest.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
Bronwyn begins to catch her breath. She coughs. “What do you guys wanna do now? I don’t feel like going home yet.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me neither.”
“I kinda feel like trippin’ and stayin’ up all night,” Dom says.
“I’m in,” I say. “Know where to get a few hits, or some 'shrooms?”
They both shake their heads.
“You guys know what? I’m not really into acid and all that shit.” Bronwyn says. “We could go to Kenny Robataille’s house. Maybe get him to go to the liquor store for us. Then we don’t have to lose our buzz.”
Dom shrugs and looks down the alley at nothing because he doesn’t have the heart to tell Bronwyn that Kenny isn’t into her. Neither one of us do. “We could hitch a ride down to Boulder. We’ll find something down on Pearl Street or up on The Hill if we just walk around.”
I don’t even bother arguing. My loathing of Boulder never matters in these situations. For Dom and Bronwyn, no place on Earth can compare to Boulder. If one of them suggests it, then I know we’re going to end up there, unless I choose to go home instead.
I never choose to go home instead.
The city they see is a place of bohemian freedom, a haven where every kind of person is accepted, authority is lax, drugs are easy to score and can be done in public.
Me, I see hippies and transients. Artists far from starving. College kids and rich suburban families, funneling their wealth into over-priced granola and New Age dogma.
They both tell me it’s because I’m cynical. The first time Bronwyn said this to me, I had to get the dictionary and look it up. The definition didn’t feel like something that described me, but if cynical means I don’t get excited about bullshit, then I guess I’m cynical.
Cynical or not, it doesn’t matter. I’m always outnumbered two to one in the voting.
“Goddammit,” I say. “We need a fourth friend so I can stop getting the shaft on these votes. Let’s go get a ride. I hope we get one quick, though. I can’t do much walking on the highway.”
Bronwyn looks confused. “Why not? What’s up, dude? You sick or something?”
I point at my feet.
Dominic shakes his head, slaps his hand on his scabbed forehead. Bronwyn resumes her laughing cough fit again.
“Ivy, how in the hell did you lose your shoes?”
My shoes are still on the floor of the twins’ basement. My suede — imitation suede — ankle-high boots that cost $11.99 at that shoe store next to the Arby’s. The store where all the shoes are cheap. They hurt your feet and your imitation suede pieces of shit will end up abandoned or lost because shoes like that aren’t meant to be worn. Shoes like that make every step a chore. I should’ve bought shoes at the Army Surplus like Dom, or at a real shoe store like Bronwyn.
If I'd spent a few more bucks for better shoes, I might not have had to take them off and then have to hitchhike on the highway in my socks for ten goddamn miles.
“A little birdy took my shoes.”
“Well,” Bronwyn says, “just run up to the door, or tap on the window and tell one of the twins that you need your shoes.”
The three of us tiptoe back toward the door leading to the basement. From somewhere inside, we hear Spanglish shrieking.
Dom leans down and peeks into the window. “Um… we could just walk the two blocks to your house and get some shoes,” Dom says as he straightens up.
I know Aunt Stacey wants me to be home before it gets dark, but we’ve just finished high school. We waited our whole lives for the summer of ’91 and now we’re finally in it. The summer is the best it’s going to be right now, in this moment, before the heat scorches us, long before the last days of August when the reality of grown up life becomes more than just a specter we can ignore.
I can imagine Stacey right now, sitting on the couch in front of the TV, watching Donahue in her purple sweatpants, waiting for the moment when the front door will open and she can commence the daily nagging.
“Nah, I’m not going there. My aunt is going to be pissed. I ditched my therapy again today. It’s cool. I’ll figure something else out. Let’s just get out of this alley. The Bird is gonna call the cops if we don’t get out of here, I bet.”
“Yeah, okay.” He stares at me hard. I can see the debate he’s having with himself; trying to decide if he should start the lecture again and maybe an argument, or if he should let it go until next time.
He rubs at one of his scalp scabs, then runs his fingers through what’s left of his hair. “Let’s go, then.” He starts shuffling down the alley.
Bronwyn is right behind him. I take my time, hoping I can keep up with them and hoping even more that I won’t step on any glass or anything else that will cause a gush of blood.