“If I wanted to see that,” Kelly said, “I would just look in the mirror.” She
laughed, and I looked away because her teeth bothered me.
“You’ll like her,” Patti had said before introducing us. “She’s a redhead, like
you, and my only other white girl friend. You’re both afraid of the sun.”
I met Patti while working for a small company when we both lived in New
Mexico. All her friends were lesbian Latinas and a few gay men, and they took to
calling me “White Girl” or “Straight Girl” as soon as they met me. I accepted the
nicknames as terms of endearment, even though they kept me on the periphery
of their tight-knit circle.
26
After Patti moved to Arizona and I moved back to Michigan, I flew out to
Phoenix to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. It was there that I met Kelly, who was
tall with straw-colored hair (not a redhead), and had a cruel sense of humor. She
liked to pinch Patti on the arms to see how hard she would have to press the skin
together to make it bruise. In retaliation, Patti would slug her in the shoulder, but
she never told Kelly to stop.
I didn’t like Kelly. I especially didn’t like that Patti liked Kelly. I had no idea
how Kelly felt about me, but sh