I'd Rather Burn Than Bloom: Chapters 12–18

“What, are you the only one allowed to have any stylistic flair in this family?”

He places his forearms on the table, framing his plate, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible.

“Don’t you need a certain number of hours with a licensed driver before they give you the provisional license?”

Marty is meowing to be let outside, so I wrench open the screen door and he flies into the backyard, bounding off into the pink twilight, disappearing behind Mom’s lone rosebush, the only one to successfully take root in the earth because they weren’t meant to be here, they aren’t supposed to grow here, they take too much water and can’t be forced to bloom.

She was screaming at me because I had too much mascara on, and too much eyeliner, so it’s ironic that both are now so commingled with tears that they are the consistency of sludge and I have to take it all off, anyway.

“Oh my God,” she says, bending at the waist and scooping up all the dirty shirts, and, horrifyingly, underwear, that have fallen out of the hamper.

And I hate the confirmation dress, I hate how it fits me and hugs my rib cage and how the collar choked me as the bishop anointed me with oil, how it made me sweat under the heat of everyone watching me like they were waiting for me to mess up, to say the wrong thing, like they could tell the dress was a costume.

I remember how, sometimes, I’d touch all the hems of the long dresses in her closet. How I’d watch her getting ready in the clothes that weren’t the blue scrubs that made her invisible and disposable to everyone. The florals and the gingham.

I came ready to impress Joel with my extensive knowledge of the Albuquerque music scene, and now is the time. I sidle up close to him as we make our way downstairs.

Joel is gesticulating, like he’s telling them something pretty funny, and he must be, because all this girl can do is laugh her freaking head off.

How does he know? Maybe he’s bluffing.

We step out of the car, and ranchera music and smoke billow over us, the scent of green chiles tumbling in roasters, and the pine needles underfoot, and the crisp fall air.

Her voice, steady and warm, tells us what to do and what it all means, the levels, earthly, heavenly, and purgatory, who we honor, and how.

When the parade starts, the four of us join the cheering crowd spilling over the sidewalk to watch the dancers in long, wide skirts, twirling in unison, frills, frills, frills.

I clap as the sky-blue lowrider rolls slowly by, hands waving out the windows, its hood adorned with marigolds.

The band begins to play, and the familiar sounds of horns, fiddles, and trills fill the park.

I’m clapping along until I notice a familiar figure in the crowd. The flash of a checkered shirt, faded jeans, a familiar gait.

Has the perpetual sleep deprivation finally addled your brain?

I should be able to do this. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be able to do this. No logical reason.
“Finesse,” she encourages.

Nick looks at her, then me, putting his hands up like he has no idea what is transpiring right now, but he definitely has nothing to do with it.

Marty is resting on the carpet in the middle of a sunbeam, which is a cat’s ideal situation, as far as I can tell.

“I can get them,” Bernie says suddenly, sitting up.
“Um, what’s up with the chivalry all of a sudden?”
“Jeez,” he says, sinking back into the couch and crossing his arms. “Just trying to be nice.”

Something unexpected catches my eye in the darkness—movement. I hope some animal wasn’t inadvertently trapped inside when Dad came home last night.

He blinks first, and I carry the telescope across the threshold.

Elizabeth’s car idles at the curb.

It’s too dark to see them, but I can picture the bison herd moving in the north, the pueblo ranchers up already, earlier than this, every day.

The sun touches the volcanoes in the west, sitting dormant and quiet on the edge of my life.

“See—and that driving school wants to charge me five hundred bucks? Extortion!”

It’s like there’s this vast, deep gorge, with jagged rocks reaching up from the bottom. Dad on one side, me on the other.

It sits among rows of shops and motels with funky neon signs.

We have boxes and boxes of backlog since NPR did that story on ‘Cassette Tapes: Young People’s Latest Nostalgic Obsession.’

We have boxes and boxes of backlog since NPR did that story on ‘Cassette Tapes: Young People’s Latest Nostalgic Obsession.’

I can show you both how to work the espresso machine. It’s somewhat temperamental.

The store really is crazy busy, but in between helping customers and accepting boxes of used media, he manages to explain to us how to use the register, gives us tricks on how to get the temperamental espresso machine to work, and asks us to shadow him while he helps a few customers look for obscure records.

“He was ditching class. Before. And my dad already had a talk with him. He got in a lot of trouble. But he showed remorse. And he’s been totally blameless up until now.”