Calling My Name

by Liara Tamani

God seems closer over the Gulf of Mexico than He does in church. Like He’s the salt I taste on my lips.

Mom isn’t around to tell me to sit my butt down. But which way would I go? There are so many paths to choose. I could take a wrong turn, and just like that, Naima and I could be lost forever.

Inside me, there’s no space for fear. Everything is still brimming with bright lights, flowing, pulsing, bubbling, and dancing—unbound.

Gigi’s words come slow, as if she has to pluck each one from a part of her mind that has already traveled somewhere high in the sky.

Her words are strangely mixing into the silence of the car, into the news of her death, and into my questions about God. With my insides tingling, I can feel her. I pray she can feel me, too. I pray she can feel that I was afraid, know that I am sorry for being afraid, and forgive me.

The tardy bell rings, but I’m still here, staring at the symbol for women, wondering why we’re the ones who have to make babies, why we’re the ones who have to deal with the blood, the stains, the shame.

There is no one to throw stones or be stoned.

Too bad you’re already that boy, who makes promises of love, but lies, lies, lies to get what he wants, and so easily convinces us we want the same thing. That boy who preys, makes us give, wish, hope, pray, then wait and wait and wait. That boy I hate.

And I can’t stop grinning . . . at what feels like a celebration for me.