"Sour Grapes"

One birthday cake and several Zelda hugs goodbye later, and I am finally, blissfully alone in my bedroom. The galactic sounds of Seth’s video game puncturing through the thin walls of our apartment are almost a comfort. It tells me that my brother is entertained at the moment and not likely to invade my heavenly phone time with Deidra.


I press the phone close to my ear like it is a conch and every sound that comes out of it is precious, important. Deidra is chewing gum. No doubt, cinnamon, the flavor she likes best, the one that reminds me of her firelight hair. If I were still in Houston, there’d be Deidra to fix my hair to normal and show me how to be with cute boys; there’d be whole months ahead of warm nights to look up at the stars and tell each other our biggest crushes and biggest fears. Best of all, there wouldn’t be any nasty Meeka Jones.


“So when are you coming here, girl?” Her voice makes me think of little kids who tug on their mothers’ sleeves. She misses me too.


“Christmas, I told ya.”


“Oh, but I can’t wait that long.” Another tug and then, “You see… I met someone.”


Deidra has the kind of legs that belong on Barbie dolls and hazel eyes that make a guy forget what he’s doing. A boy having a crush on Deidra is as common as a day of Brillo-pad hair for me. She’s gone through boys like a Whitman’s chocolate sampler: a peck from this boy, a hug from that one, never wanting to finish something she’s started, until now. Now there’s a “Someone,” and by the drop in her voice I know a light’s turned on in her heart. With a sadness that smells of mourning I swallow the inevitability of Deidra’s good news. She sighs and I can only imagine those high cheekbones peaking into a confused smile, her ballerina neck jutting forward in anticipation of my oozing happiness for her. But I am too busy tasting sour grapes to give Deidra the audience she deserves.