Girls don’t play sports, the boy says
to Reina as he crumples up
his sandwich tin-foil into a firm,
silver ball. Except for Olivia.
But Olivia is American.
Reina whips her neck to glare
at me, I am guarding the wicket,
ready to bruise whatever the boy throws
before she can whisper dyke into the wind
but still, she slips it into my ear, prances back
to the shifty-eyed, hairless girls in the corner
of the yard, their ring fingers dawned in the
jeweled promise of their kept bodies.

The only thing I brought from America
are four scabs and a twenty-dollar gift card
for international phone calls. My father
walks me to school every day,
until he finally buys a 1989 Nissan station wagon
that smells like wet towels and the apple cinnamon
tree that flutters under the rearview mirror.

Reina is upset that I am American
and not rich. These two details disrupt everything
Reina has ever been made to believe in the church
of MTV, in which she learned
that along with a new American best friend,
she deserves a new American
best friend’s mom—suburban queen—
and a new American best friend’s brother
who will take her to second base in our basement,
but unfortunately for Reina,
we don’t have a basement, we live in the Sunset Motel
where I collect snails and eat chicken and ketchup
sandwiches for dinner and this, of course,
makes me a lesbian.

When Reina tells the teacher that I am staring
at her in the locker room,
I walk to Long Circular Mall and buy a gold,
plastic rosary from the quarter machine
(all of the rich girls wear rosaries).
I pull my hair back into a taught bun,
and polish my calves with my mother’s lotion.

Reina says I can sit with her at lunch
as long as I never play cricket again.
I tell her it was just a phase, in the way
that the motel was a phase, the car and the smell
and the hair on my body—all a phase—
but the thing about pretending to be rich
is you can sculpt the language of money,
lie about the helicopter, the vacations, your maid—
the way you call her only by her first name—
but I know, no matter how many times I speak
of Mary, my imaginary helper, I can’t spit her out
like I would if she were a real woman
who dressed me every morning. I can’t
be Reina, who hates the training bras
she is forced to wear, scowls at the way they flatten
her chest while eating hand-rolled dolmas at lunch.
I haven’t played cricket in three weeks,
instead I take a bite of my mayonnaise sandwich
and complain about Mary’s cooking while the boys
sweat at the other end of the yard.

The blacktop shines and Reina says I am lucky
that the boys let me play, because the pitcher
is the cutest guy in school so she asks if I will teach her
the game and I tell her I don’t really know the rules,
Americans don’t play cricket. I say,
I just know to hit and run
and I know this is the right answer
because she repeats it under her breath,

American’s don’t play cricket,
American’s don’t play cricket,
I don’t play cricket
because my best friend is American,
better than you, better than your stupid game.