— Lyle Rosdahl“After Morgan” by Anel I. Flores After Morgan dropped me off at the chapel steps, I ran to the restroom and washed my face and neck. I could smell his spit in the air around my face from where he left the residue of his ba-bas all over my torso. He parked us on Contour Drive, under the trees to make-out. I let him even though it made me feel gross. I swore last Wednesday to myself I wouldn’t go with him again and I even broke up with him after the football game. The next day, the dean called my name over the school announcements. When I reported to the office, behind the registrar, on her bookshelf was a pink “I love you” cellophane balloon attached to a white teddy bear. Ms. DeSpain sang to me in a sly voice, “Ms. Paloma, this early Valentine’s gift was delivered from a pretty blonde young man!” It was really a let’s-get-back together gift that annoyed the crud out of me. Everyone teased me about my country boyfriend and his sweet ways. The girls would tell me how they wished their boyfriends would send them gifts and pick them up afterschool. Even after avoiding all of his phone calls that night, the next day, before the last bell rang I saw Morgan’s baby blue pick up truck parked against the front curb of the school. Mona teased me. “Your baby’s daddy is here.” The idea of having a baby with him made my stomach turn. I rushed to his truck, knowing that the sooner we made it to make-out, the sooner I could say, “Gotta go,” and get back to school. As I approached Morgan he reached across the beat up bench seat and opened up my door from the inside. His smell of sour, sweaty football clothes suffocated me and I slapped my lips shut, first afraid of his slobbery kiss and second afraid I’d be able to taste his smell and puke. Morgan was a very handsome boy with pink skin, freshly cut blond hair and eyes that matched his truck. His plaid shirt was held closed by the two middle buttons revealing his hairless chest and boy cut belly muscles. The sleeves of his shirt were folded up to his biceps. We met through a friend who was girlfriends with his best friend, and I had no idea why he liked me. Maybe his football player competitiveness liked the challenge of trying to get to second base. When he tried to get under my clothes he would talk to me in broken textbook Spanish that made me think he was fulfilling some kind of caretaker, nana childhood fantasy. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I washed my neck in the sink, took his letters and dried flowers out of my memory box and never left school through the front again.
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