My Cardboard Balcony

Not Like Other Boys by Belinda Roddie You wore the green flannel that I love seeing on you, wobbling slightly on the balls of your feet as you balanced a bottle of something stronger than guilt in your hand. "Do you want to get out of here?" you asked with your lips nearly touching my ear. You were much more jittery than the rest of the boys I've known - most of them rugged and chiseled and heavily bearded. You've got some fuzz along your notable jawline, but you've always looked, felt, been gentler than the ones who gripped me like a security blanket during hot and sleepless nights. I took you outside where we both breathed in dust from disappearing cars and Santa Ana winds. You loosened the top button of your shirt and exposed some scruff underneath. "It's really coming along," I said, meaning it as a compliment. You did not smile. I wanted to kiss you. I wish others saw you as the boy you are. You do things I wish all t...

"That was not the opportune time to jump in," Mom scolded me, or at least tried to. I was ready to put on my headphones and cancel her voice out with System of a Down. "Please. He was eating you alive. I wanted to help." "I am not a damsel in distress," retorted my mom. "I can handle your father better than you can imagine. I've known him for thirty years..." "And here you are, letting him walk all over you." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother raise her hand as if to slap me. But she didn't. She never hit people, especially not me.