Free The Namesake by Steven Parlato

relationship with Anthony.” He acted like Tony and I are a couple!
    Plus, he knew way too much about Tony flipping out. Obviously, they talked. I think Tony’s jealous because Father and I’ve been friends for so long. Man! That’s it for now. — E .
    Dad’s poetry may have been “rich and emotive,” but this journal’s shaping up to be a page-turner. Despite her warning — “There are worse things than not knowing!” — my meeting with Shirl was pretty encouraging. It’s clear I’m onto something. I can’t wait to see Lex in class.
    It’s about ten minutes ’til psych, so I’ve ducked into the boys’ room to read. It’s as good as the library for quiet study — aside from the smell. Time for one more entry.
    February 24, 1976, 2:14 A.M .
    Holy shit! Just had the most insane dream .
    No chance I’m getting back to sleep. Oh, man .
    It started out amazing. Me and Melody hot and heavy in the gym. She undressed as I spread my jacket on the floor. Kneeling, she giggled, unzipping my fly. I close my eyes, waiting .
    But the laugh gets deeper, scary. She’s talking, but it’s not her voice. It’s Tony’s — praying, “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry … ” Then I woke up — THANK GOD! That was psycho!
    I’ll say. I’m shaking. A memory leaks in: the cellar, a huge daddy longlegs drops from the rafters, skitters down my neck. I flinch, nearly drop the journal. Suddenly I don’t want to read anymore. But I can’t stop. I turn the page.
    Feb. 25, 1976
    Happened again — THE DREAM. Just snapped awake (1:43) drenched with sweat. It was even worse. Instead of Melody, Tony’s mouth on me. I try pushing him off. But he’s too strong. I clamp my eyes, feel myself shrink, freeze .
    GOD! The whole sick dream’s playing in my head like some warped movie. I can almost feel Tony’s body on mine, pushing me down .
    The worst part is it’s familiar, almost like we — That’s crazy! SHIT! Dad just banged on the wall, yelling, “Lights out!” If he knew what I was writing —
    “Oh God. Oh please Dad, no.”
    I’m glad I’m in a stall, because suddenly what little tuna I ate makes a return trip. Dropping to my knees just in time, I spray chow into the bowl. I can’t resist examining the murky whirl; I’m a vomit rubbernecker. Tuna bits spin amidst the remains of this morning’s cereal bar. That’s the last time I mix blueberry and albacore.
    Contemplating my former stomach contents helps distract me. But then those words — “Tony’s body on mine” — come back, and I heave again. Nothing comes up this time. I flush, resting my forehead on the cool porcelain seat — screw germs! — ’til I’m steady enough to stand.
    Exiting the stall, I go straight to the wastebasket and jam the journal in. Shirl was right; some things are better left buried. I unreel a mile of paper towel, wad it, shove it on top.
    Just then, Randy Spiotti and crew strut in, cigarettes ready. I find it odd that the track team subsists mainly on beer and carcinogens, but decide not to share that observational nugget.
    Pretending to analyze the faded floor tiles, I take a tentative step toward the exit. Despite my valiant stab at invisibility, Randy homes in on me like a geek-seeking missile.
    “Hey, Girl-O-Way! What’re you doing hangin’ by the urinals? Looking for a front row seat at the Pecker Parade?”
    “Good one, Spiotti!” Tyler Wattrous back slaps Randy; the others erupt in baboon hoots.
    “Yeah, good one,” I say, raising my fist for the knuckle-bump that will not come. Quickly abandoning any idea of winning them over, I decide to run for it.
    Did I mention they’re the track team? Before my neurotransmitters can fire, they hoist me airborne.
    With a gleeful snarl, Randy says, “Flush him.”
    Though we’ve just been fairly intimate, I’m not quite ready to become one with the bowl. Pride gone, I screech like a little girl.
    As they carry me into the stall, the bathroom door slams open. A whistle