Hick by Andrea Portes

middle of the parking lot. Finally I get my grip and start lugging the bunny across the dirt. it’s cumbersome and unwieldy and everything else you don’t want to do after a long day of faking epileptic fits and old men keeling over. His bunny feet are dragging on the ground, getting dusty, and I’ll probably be getting bitched at for that, too.
    I push the door open with my back and hoist the bunny over beside the Mexican boy. Glenda looks on with pride as I prop the thing up next to him, facing him in some button-eyed greeting. Blane starts to chuckle. He and Glenda seem to have some private moment of unspoken meaning that goes back to before I was born.
    I look at the mute Mexican boy. He inspects the bunny, smiles. Then he points to himself, crosses his chest and points back at me. Then he does it again. And again. I pretend not to notice. I pretend to fix my shirt. I pretend not to get it. Glenda looks at my made-up shirt-fixing and then back at the boy.
    “Well, well. Looks like you got yourself an admirer here, Luli.”
    I pretend to inspect the tile floor.
    Blane pours two whiskey Cokes, watches the boy and looks back at me.
    “I believe he’s trying to say he loves you.”
    The two fat flannels take notice and start laughing. One of them sputters out, “Looks like that bunny rabbit sure did the trick. Ha ha ha.”
    The other one slaps him on the back, laughing hard and mean.
    The Mexican boy keeps signing away, harder this time. Point. Cross. Point. Stop. Point. Cross. Point. And then again. Glenda starts chuckling along with the two flannels. Blane grins, joining in. They laugh and look over to me for an answer, expectant.
    I hesitate, mortified. If you could see my cheeks they’d be lobster-colored. I try to think of something clever, something to get the staring off me, something to separate me from the Mexican boy, to keep him and his affliction at bay. I have to swat him away before I catch whatever it is he caught that makes you have to talk with your hands.
    “You know, it’s funny.” I say, starting up. “You may not believe it, but I picked up some sign language myself, here and there, along the way.”
    And here I start my barrage of international hand signals for “Fuck you.” I start with the simple finger, then the flick off the chin, then the thumb to the nose with wavy fingers, then the arm-cross and then back to the finger. I repeat these gestures, going faster each time. I start directing them around the room, sporadic, at Blane, Glenda and the two flannels. Blane starts to laugh and the rest follow suit. I’m in. I’ve won them over. I’ve put myself far, far away from any malady I can catch from that mute.
    But the Mexican boy ain’t laughing. He looks red-eyed and stung. Luckless. He turns away and then bolts out the back.
    There’s a silence now. The flannels shrug, going back to their beer. Glenda lights a cigarette. Blane turns towards me.
    “Go apologize.”
    I look to Glenda for credit. She stares into her whiskey, jingling the ice around like she’s waiting for a train. One of the flannels chuckles silently into his beer.
    “Go apologize.”
    Glenda raises an eyebrow, swivels her seat towards me and says, “it’s your call, kid.”
    “Goddamnit, Glenda!” Blane slams his glass down onto the bar hard and stares at her, looking straight through to the back of her head.
    “That little boy’s got a name. You didn’t even tell her his name. He’s got a name, you know.” He turns to me and says real clear, “His name’s Angel. He’s not deaf. He’s not dumb. He can think like you or me. He has feelings like you or me. He just can’t talk is all. So don’t treat him like a fucking retard.”
    He starts to calm down a little, wiping the sweat off his brow. He turns back to Glenda. “Now I don’t know who your little playmate is, here, but she made quite an impression. And I want you to tell her to go apologize.”
    “Look, Blane, I brought him that fucking