—YOU CAN’T CHANGE FOREVER

                                                   Movie Night

I claim the corner where gray scars of sunlight highlight a crushed spider web and the husk of something pea-shaped. I don’t take my eyes of that space, even with the sound of shrieking and slaughter behind me.

My brother sobs, “I’m I’m I’m.”

He wants to say sorry, but he’s trembling too hard.

“Damn it,” Dad says, the belt behind me slicing the air with another horrifying wheeze before landing Swack!

I know Mother is taking it all in because I can smell her cigarette smoke, ashy and prophetic.

When a finger knuckles me in the ribs, I flinch, feel shame gush through me, and hope I don’t pee. 

“Watch,” Mother hisses.

I know what will happen if I don’t comply, so I slow-swivel my underwear across the Formica while keeping my arms folded across my bare chest.      

I look at the scene the same way I do the sun or road kill, focusing on the outer edges instead of the center.  Next, I blur the middle where Davey is standing in his underwear and I replace him with a boy-sized spider hanging from a thread.  I watch the boy-spider snatch and snatch the air, victorious, and when he swallows a handful whole, I swallow, too, imagining the new dead things inside me staying dead forever.

A couple of hours later, dusk has arrived though it’s still July-hot out.  We’re all in the car.  I have the backseat with Davey beside me, him leaning forward so the vinyl doesn’t stick to his shirt and the raw meat beneath it.

Dad pulls into a lane behind cars all waiting to see the new drive-in film.  Paying the attendant, Dad actually sounds jolly, like he’s someone else’s father. 

As our car skulks down a row in search of an empty spot with an untaken speaker stand, Dad asks one of us, “Do you even know who Billy Jack is?”

I do, but don’t say.  I know Billy Jack is a half-breed, white and Navajo mixed.  I know he’s one of the good guys but just an actor and fake like most people.

When I glance over, Davey’s still nodding to Dad’s question, No, No, No, his lips cracked, his eyes two smashed bugs pasted in divots.

I wait for Dad to shout or pound the steering wheel.  He’s unused to getting no reply.  Yet all he does is slide into a spot and place it in park while Mom lights another Virginia Slims.

Davey and I exhale in unison, soft as a pair of moths, praying for the outdoor screen to light up with more than just the moon.