A Shrine to an Unknown God

GODS-FEARING WOMAN

EACH NIGHT DAHLIA IS DETERMINED to make her own "sleepover dreams come true," and she coerces us into partaking in her "sleepover activities." We watch movies from the 2000's, do face masks, make pillow forts, and, of course, Dahlia's favorite, "fuck shit up."

"Fucking shit up" is what happens when we all get a little high and I get a little drunk and we go "TP" houses or "egg" mini buses that display Confederate flags and other racist regalia. After our first couple of trips "fucking shit up," we realize we can use my powers for mischief, and come up with a new way to "fuck shit up" called "Antigone-ing." Ezra and Dahlia will soak the object of our mischief with water from a squirt gun, and then I will turn it to wine, leaving the place grape-scented and dripping red.

However, ever since Dahlia returned, Marisol hasn't come over at all. Each time Dahlia comes home from rehearsal, I expect to see her little head skipping along behind her, and each time I'm let down.

Just after she gets home one late afternoon, with Ezra out on the town and Dahlia sidled up on the kitchen counter, her long brown legs dangling beneath her, I ask her about it.

I'm sitting on the stool behind her, the back of her head facing me.

"Oh." She snickers. "She's grounded."

"What does that mean?"

"She pissed her parents off and now they only let her leave the house for rehearsal."

"That's barbaric."

"I mean. Not really. A lot of parents here do it as a punishment. I'm surprised my moms haven't tried grounding you guys yet. They even took her phone away." She leans backwards so that she's laying on top of the counter, her head right in front of me like a dinner plate, her legs still dangling over the other side. I never realized how freckled she was. "Now, that's the part that's barbaric. Not having a phone in the 21st century is like not being gay in Ancient Greece."

This whole time I'd been afraid that something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe I'd pissed Marisol off, or maybe her parents were so wary about me they weren't letting her see me anymore. Maybe she'd just forgotten that I existed. Maybe I'd made her up, and she was just a figment of my imagination that never existed in the first place.

Or, my biggest fear: Apollo had gotten to her, and I'd sat idly by, too comfortable in my new life of luxury to do anything about it. I knew staying with the Boivin-Rot's would be bad for me. Their house is nicer than a temple; it would be bad for any gods-fearing woman.

Knowing that the only thing that was wrong was that Marisol got in trouble with her parents is a weight off my shoulders.

"Are you gay?" I ask, because she always talks about being gay, but has never explicitly said whether she is or isn't, and, well, I'm curious.

"I'm pan. I like people regardless of their gender. If they're cute, they're cute, and if I wanna smash, I wanna smash." She sits up, turning over her shoulder to look at me, her sweaty ponytail smooshed against her head. "Why? Are you? Do you wanna smash?"

"Yes?" I say, because I don't know what "smashing" means.

"Well, that's forward," Dahlia says, jumping down from the counter. "I'm honored, really, but I just don't see you like that." She shows me her pointer finger and middle finger, crossed one over the other. "Plus, gentleman's code and all that. I'll BRB. I'm gonna go put my normal clothes back on." Picking her purple dance bag off the floor where she'd tossed it, she darts off to the restroom.

All the while I'm left wondering what "smashing" means.

A couple minutes later she returns, her hair hanging loose around her face, in her normal Dahlia clothes.

"Dahlia?" I say.

"Yeah?"

"What does 'smashing' mean?"

An ounce of relief crosses her face. "Oh, you don't know?"

"No."

"It means to bang."

"To what?"

"To, you know, fuck or whatever."

"What?"

"It means to have sex."

Each time she gives me an answer her cheeks grow redder and her voice quieter.

"Oh. Oh. Ooooooooh! No," I say, to rephrase my earlier statement, "I would not like to have sex with you."

"Oh! Okay, okay, yeah!" Dahlia nods. "You just said that because you didn't know what it meant. Oh, my God!" She starts laughing this full-bellied laugh, leaning over with her hands on her knees.

It's contagious. Laughter spurts out of me like water from a fountain. Before we know it, we've both collapsed in a pile on the floor, laughing so hard no sound comes out and tears spring from our eyes.

"I can't believe you," Dahlia says, once she can finally speak again. We're both lying on our backs, the tops of our heads pressed up against each other's. "I can't believe you just said yes when I asked you if you wanted to smash because you didn't know what it meant. Hilarious."

"But I am gay," I reply, in case she thought I was retracting both statements. "Just not for you. If that's okay."

"And I'm gay and not into you," Dahlia nods. "Which makes us best friends."