Dbl Helix
March 27th, 2017 (AKA Night One)
Mr. Chuze calls it a science project but we know there’s more Art to it than Science. He wants us to create a poster showing how genes pass on phenotypic traits, to make it bright & colorful & ready for mass consumption. I’m listening to this drivel but Chuze calls me out for doodling. “Jaqueline? Did you hear that? You’re partners with Angela.” As if he wants us to do the eye-contact thing. I glance sidelong & see her staring at me w/ her messy shit-brown eyes & massy tick-black hair. Roberto nearby says “omg Jaqueline Fawnley” & snickers like it’s some sort of punishment to work w/ me.
Class ends & Angela & I circle each other, neither wanting to ask whose house we’ll work at. It’s been this way since 4th, 5th grade, this [___________] weird space btwn us. We accidentally walk out the door at the same time, pressing shoulders.
–Come to my place, I say as she peels off.
M.a.D. aren’t home so I eat some hot pockets & browse the web for genes & chromosomes & sex & wait for Angela to ring the doorbell. She comes in all slowly, staring & taking off her shoes like –Whoa.
–What?
–It’s…fancy. Is this, like, an antechamber?
Despite having read all the Brontës, I can’t picture what an antechamber is supposed to look like so I say –It’s whatevr. Y-you don’t hav to take off yr shoes.
–But it’s nice carpet.
I almost tell her don’t worry the maid will clean it, then wow at myself in censure b4 the words come out.
She puts actual hands on hips when we get to my room.
–Damn girl, you have your own printer & everything. This is like some Ramada deluxe shit. Is that a straight-up treehouse in your backyard?
She’s staring out my window. I feel my face go hot. –Yeah. My dad built it. I don’t really go there anymore.
–Your mami and papi aren’t home?
–No.
I guess they’re M.a.P. to her.
–Bumz. I was curious to meet them.
I’m not keen on talking about M.a.D. w/ her w/ anyone especially the DAD half (see Dec. 22nd entry for outline & charter I made for a club at school called d.a.f.—destroy all fathers).
Angela draws a beautiful double-helix & chromosomes that look like alien spacecraft. She keeps pulling up the sleeves of her oversized green sweater coz they’re always sliding down & covering her wrists. Big sweaters like that are why I always thought she might smell bad, but kneeling over the poster board now I find her smelling like oranges like tangerines like sweet tart citrus.
M.a.D. never show but that’s whatever. Expected. I suck on an orange and tuck myself into bed.
March 28th, 2017 (Night, Too)
Some things are confusing. We need more research. One night is not enough.
Like how to explain why certain traits such as eye color are either dominant or recessive while others, the curl of your hair, are mixed both/and? Like how to explain why I can’t stop looking at Angela’s rough hands?
We’re eating burritos she brought from Bel Canto down the street. I give her $20.
–Keep the change, I say (somehow suave).
–Thanks, Angela says, emptying a packet of hot sauce. –This is going to sound weird, but I just noticed your eyes are green. Like chile verde.
I can’t tell if she’s teasing so I just stare.
–Where did you get them from?
–What?
–Your green eyes.
I shrug. Who looks that closely at their parents?
–Let me see!
–My eyes?
–Yeah.
–O-okay. She comes in close & looks long into both irises. I can see hers are not as dark as they seem from far away. In my bedroom lamplight they look more honey-hued than poopsicle. I start laughing.
–What, what? she says, but I can’t tell her. All I can think is poopsicle.
She starts laughing too. –I’ve never seen you laugh before, not even in class.
M.a.D. come in late, ask if I had dinner
–Yeah, chile verde.
March 29th, 2017 (Night/Tree)
Third night mostly to tidy up the drawings, rehearse our speeches, make sure we have clapback for the chumps during the inevitable Q&A session.
–What if they ask a stupid question? Like, “is being gay something you can transfer through genes?” I’m nerves as I say it.
–We’ll just be scientific about it, Angela says. –Don’t laugh or smile, you know. Like, show no fear and they’ll realize how dumb they sound.
–But what would our answer be?
–I dunno. I wish it weren’t such a big deal.
We color the rest of the poster in silence: alleles, pea plants, dominant/recessive, the unity of XX, the disjoint of XY.
–Still no parentals, huh? she says when we’re done.
–Sometimes they stay in L.A.
–If my parents left me alone in this big house, I’d stay in the treehouse instead.
I’m quiet.
–Can we…hang out there now? Angela asks.
I want to say no coz dad’s smell dad’s hands are all over it, but but but but I say OK because something’s pulling @ my gut, something btwn fear & longing, something I don’t recognize.
Push past the sliding glass door & there’s the humid evening air & a ladder & suddenly we’re two bodies, backs on wood, looking up at the stars. Two bodies, hers and mine, subject to the laws of science. Two human-shaped multicellular organisms. One with a genetic predisposition to stutter & draw many-headed monsters & criticize the things she loves wants the most. The other with a genetic predisposition to smile & sass & laugh & smell like tangerines.
We can’t see the color of each other’s eyes. We’re pressing shoulders again like when we stepped out of class, but three nights later & neither of us peels away.
Dávila Andrea Mejía (@QueenVogelfrei) is a Latinx writer from Southern California. She earned her B.A. in English from UC Berkeley and blushed when she was complimented on her writing by the inimitable Judith Butler. In 2019 she earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. This is her first publication.