The Year of Yes by Maria Dahvana Headley Page A

guy to a strip club, anyway? None of us! Where do you find your girls?”
    Pause for me, unnoticed, turning purple, drowning my misery in Maker’s Mark and wondering if there was any wayto make a graceful exit without everyone figuring out what was going on.
    And back to the point, the Boxer declaiming like William Jennings Bryan.
    “It just wasn’t happening, no matter how much I wanted it to. I was on top of her, and she was looking at me like she didn’t really know me, which she didn’t. And halfway through, I looked at her and it hit me. I actually wasn’t even into her. What was I doing there? I was in love with Masha. This girl, there’s nothing wrong with her, per se, but she’s not Masha. I mean, this girl, she’s pretty and smart, but not like Masha.”
    For a moment, I clung to the fact that at least he’d said that I was pretty and smart. Unfortunately, there was the rest of the sentence to consider. I wanted to scream nasty things, statistics on the small size of both his penis and his soul, but I didn’t. It wasn’t like I was blameless. I’d gone home with him. It was me who’d made that stupid choice, and now I was getting a little bit of just reward. I stayed silent.
    People had been cruel before, but it’d rolled off my back. For some reason, this one hurt. Maybe it was because the Boxer was a writer, too, and my brain had granted him automatic comrade status. This was friendly fire. No dignity to getting shot by one of your own. I don’t even think he meant to be cruel. I think he was embarrassed himself, and trying to excuse his behavior. No one wants to start crying in bed. There was plenty I didn’t know about him, and likewise, but that didn’t really matter in the moment. I still felt like I was bleeding all over the bar. And that was seriously uncool. I wanted to be the kind of girl who could tolerate her heart being translated into a story the morning after, the kind ofgirl who didn’t care so damned much. I was not that person. I never had been.
    The Boxer was sitting next to me, and he started to grope my thigh. I didn’t get it. He was telling all these people he wasn’t attracted to me, and his fingers were kneading me like bread. And people were sympathetic. I could see on their faces the fear that maybe the Boxer would never find love. If the Boxer remained alone and miserable forever, so too might they. I agreed. Love was looking less and less likely to me. I’d been saying yes for three months, and though I’d met some nice people, I hadn’t even come close to meeting anyone I wanted to spend much of the rest of my life with.
    I swatted the Boxer’s fingers away. He was onto a discussion of boxing: the macho factor, how he’d had his nose broken a few times. I was thinking about athlete’s foot, willing fungus and jock itch upon him.
    I BELATEDLY NOTICED that two of my classmates had been watching me during the Boxer’s monologue. The Princelings, so called for their extreme family-bestowed affluence, were not only rich, but good looking, too. They unexpectedly offered to buy me a drink at the bar. Though I’d never really talked with either of them before, I was glad to escape. Much more of this, and I was liable to either sob, or try to throttle the Boxer. I was thinking that maybe I could compensate for my lack of muscles with a series of swift jabs to his throat. Then I could bake him into a pie, à la Titus Andronicus, and serve him to Masha.
    I was competitive with a stripper. How sad was that?
    The Princelings asked if the story had been about me. They’d been watching me during the exchange and were “interested in the dynamic.”
    “Yes,” I whispered, applying Kleenex to my eyes.
    “What an asshole,” said Princeling One.
    “Dickhead,” agreed Princeling Two.
    I instantly became their friend. I hoped that the Princelings, in the grand tradition of the Dramatic Writing Program, would write a seven-hour play about the Boxer, and how he was