Chapter 31
Miriam
Entertaining sixth and seventh graders is no walk in the park.
I was dabbling in electrical circuit kits at their age.
When I’d visit, my mother would accuse me of trying to blow up the house because science and technology held my interest over makeup and boys.
I knew what I was doing back then. Right now, I’ve got no clue.
I’m officially the STEM program coordinator at the Jefferson Moselle Community Center, and I’ve only thought about crying in the closet once. My father didn’t miss the opportunity to remind me how “unbefitting” the title is for a woman with a PhD, but I’m enjoying the work.
The kids are quick to crack on me for wearing leggings two days in a row or rambling about formulas.
They’re happy otherwise. Every child who steps into our gathering space of worn rugs and painted cinder-block walls has an appetite for creativity and hands-on application.
I’m not a teacher—at least, I wasn’t before this week—but I’m happy these kids want to learn.
Engineering and the ability to problem-solve shapes societies.
I’m guiding the next generation of world builders who will bring their imagination to life through practical solutions.
Today’s project is Valentine’s Day-inspired. I’m not a fan of the holiday, but the kids wanted to make gifts. So, we’re coding. They’re using a binary code alphabet reference to write “secret notes like they did in the 1900s.” A direct quote.
I advised against the practice in school. The last thing I need on my conscious is an eleven-year-old telling another child to suck a fart out of their butt, as Harmony so eloquently spelled out in zeroes and ones before I took her paper.
Flatulence aside, the coding bracelets we’re creating are keeping them hard at work. We’re spelling out “Love” and “Peace,” using pink beads for the zeros, red for the ones, and white for the spaces between the letters.
“I finished, Ms. Miriam.” Marc shoves his bracelets in my face with a gap-toothed grin. “I made three.”
I smile. “That’s nice.”
“One for each girlfriend.”
The smile is gone.
“You have girlfriends, with an s?” Marc is nine and cried until he was allowed to participate in my after-school program. He’s decked out in a Roblox shirt and sweats, and his love life puts my nonexistent roster to shame.
“Yup.” He lifts a finger to describe each one. “Monica goes to my mama’s church. Kiana I see at the Y. Angel is in my homeroom. My brother says I’m too young to be locked down by one female.”
I bet your brother says, “Grand rising,” and talks about ancient Egypt too.
“That’s…something,” I say.
He points to the craft on my desk. “Did you make that for someone special?”
My fingers graze the friendship bracelet Antonio made me on my wrist. “You could say that.”
Antonio is special to me. A good friend, I remind myself, and nothing else.
It wasn’t my intention to create distance, but I was at a loss on how to solve the challenge of us.
There is no us. What happened last Saturday was…
well, there are no words—at least none that I’ll repeat here.
I thought I could separate my need for physical gratification from my feelings for him, which aren’t going away.
I pretended what we did had no effect on me, but the truth is that it does.
Compartmentalizing might help with complex projects, but it doesn’t work with matters of the heart.
I can’t fix the hunger to be touched again, but I can prevent the recurrence to ensure my heart, head, and vagina don’t get the wrong idea.
“Antonio” and “relationship” have never appeared in the same sentence.
I’m not ready for one this second, but I will be at some point.
Falling for my best friend would lead to hurt, not to mention an imploding friendship.
There’s too much to lose if we cross the line, and last weekend proved it.
I haven’t seen him since we flew back to Buffalo. Yes, I could’ve reached out, but I know the drill. The start of rugby season is always busy for him as the Steel make last-minute adjustments ahead of their first game. He texted to wish me luck on my new job before he flew out yesterday.
It’s weird. Missing someone you have no romantic connections to but have somehow threaded your life with theirs.
Marc runs back to a table with construction paper and markers. Resources are a mere wish list buried underneath maintenance and general operating costs, but we make it work.
I slip out my phone from a desk drawer to send Antonio a picture of the bracelet I made him.
Hi. I made this for you. It’s a binary coding bracelet that says “Peace.” The kids are making them for Valentine’s Day.
It’s not a peace offering. Maybe an icebreaker?
Happy Valentine’s Day BTW. You might be out with the team. Did you know that the International Space Station has a Houston area code?
Houston also has the largest freeway in the country, with twenty-six lanes at its widest point. You’re probably better off walking to the stadium, depending on where your hotel is. There’s also a six-mile underground pedestrian tunnel system.
You’re rambling.
Anyway. I hope you have a good time.
I type “I miss you,” but I erase it to wish him well on his first game. Saying I miss him after what we did is a bridge too far with hurricane consequences. “Break a leg” didn’t sound right either, in case he actually does.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mumble to myself.
“Get your big toe out of my butt!” I swat Marcela’s foot, which is burrowing into my crack, and block her smack with a to-go cover.
Our sisterly fight scenes are a time. At any moment, a flick or gesture could ignite a choreographed kung fu film mixed with MMA.
Marcela assumed that because she’s older she’d get the drop on me—literally, in this case, with the elbow she launches from two feet above my head. I roll off the couch moments before the moisturized joint slams into the cushion.
“Bitchhh! My wig!”
She’s stronger, but I’m faster.
I twirl the glueless hairpiece from a safe distance away, between my couch and the kitchen doorway. It’s a cute cut with bangs and wavy layers that reach beyond her shoulders.
Well, reached.
“Don’t mess up the curls. I’m wearing that on a date this weekend,” she snaps with a hand on the stocking cap that covers her cornrows.
“Don’t put your toe in my butt.”
“I wasn’t trying to. My feet are cold.”
She stares but sighs when I raise a brow. Every younger sibling has their limit. I’ll set this wig on fire and not think twice about it.
“Miriam,” she says through gritted teeth, “I apologize. May I have my hair back please, and a pair of socks?”
“You can.” I hand her the ombre brown wig and retrieve some socks from the basket of folded clothes next to the steps.
Popcorn, raspberry mules, and rom-coms are the highlight of our Valentine’s Day.
I planned my evening in on the couch for a party of one that became two after Marcela texted she was on her way.
Based on the scowl and the bag of liquor in her hand when she arrived, her date with Ian in finance didn’t end well.
Her phone has been blowing up all night with texts from the senator she sees on the side. I asked why they’re not together for the holiday and got a snort.
Marcela settles under a blanket and grabs a bowl of kettle corn. “Can we watch Waiting to Exhale after this?”
I frown. “How is that a rom-com?”
Her shoulder lifts. “It was funny to me,” she mumbles under her breath as another message lights her screen.
“Why don’t you go see him?”
She sucks her teeth and pulls the blanket over her little black dress. “He’s at dinner…with his wife.”
“Marcela!”
“Technically estranged wife. They’ve been separated for over a year and live in different houses.”
I fold my arms over my “I like cheese” PJ set.
“They’re both miserable. They’re only married because of their families.” Marcela tries to explain her situation like it will justify entertaining an undivorced penis.
“They haven’t made an appearance together in two years. They’ll file for divorce once their youngest graduates this year.”
“And you’re okay with being a mistress?”
“He’s not my man, trust. I’m not interested in a commitment, with him or anyone else.” She tosses popcorn into her mouth. “The only reason we meet up twice a month is because his dick has girth and he eats my pussy for thirty minutes straight.”
I really needed that visual—said no sister ever.
Her eyes soften under the bangs of her wig, which is now sitting two inches crooked. “Don’t worry about me, Miri. I’m not breaking homes. Hearts is a different story. He wants a relationship beyond sex. Not interested.”
We settle into the sofa and My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Gus, the father, was so cute with his Windex home remedy. I empathize with Toula and her thick glasses. Contacts feel like condoms over my eyes, so I can’t give up frames for good, but there are pieces of myself I see in her.
Awkward.
Unmarried in our thirties.
Still figuring it out.
“I’m thinking about dating. For real this time,” I announce to the bowl of popcorn in my lap. Marcela’s stare burns through the silk scarf that covers my nightly twists. “Do not make this weird.”
She raises both hands. “I’m not.”
“It’s just…I think I’m ready. Not to settle down and get married tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find a guy who believes in monogamy and wants to see where things go. Someone who isn’t technically married.” I giggle at her swat to my shoulder. “Someone who isn’t—I’m ready.”
Antonio never read the texts I sent. I got curious and went on social media to check out what the Steel are up to.
The answer is a night out with Jell-O shots and women with long hair and short dresses.
He didn’t post any photos, but Bread did.
Video of Antonio shirtless in a gold chain and jeans, looking down at a woman who was grabbing her ankles, was the reminder I needed to snap out of whatever feelings I think I have.
Marcela’s four-month marriage to her on-again-off-again high school sweetheart taught me not to dive headfirst into a relationship, especially one that sweats your hair out and ends with ulcers and a night in jail after busting out every window in his car.
The weight of Antonio’s penis alone would have me popping out his trunk with a tire iron. He’s charming, sweet, and fine. Forget the width of those thighs that drove into me, or the beard that scratched against my lower lips. I’ll catch feelings and federal charges behind him.
Any thoughts that veer outside of platonic are wrong. He’s clearly enjoying the single life of a professional athlete, as he should.
I don’t expect Vegas to mean anything more to him than helping a friend in a bind. Like changing a flat. My vagina was the tire, in this case. His penis was a very effective jack, hard as iron without causing puncture wounds.
“Will you stop staring at me please?” I fix my glasses and push away Marcela’s foot as it creeps back to my butt. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Does that mean I can count on you to come out tomorrow?” She drums her fingers together with a face-splitting grin.
My sister hates the idea of love and celebrates Anti-Valentine’s Week religiously each year. Tomorrow is the kickoff, with her annual charity event.
“It means I’ll come, but I’m not subjecting myself to a date with the highest bidder,” I warn. “You and your district can kiss my ass.”
“Miriam Yamileth Beckford. Did you just cuss at me?”
“Stick around. I’m just getting started.”