After the Kiss (13 page)

countryshow

mom's moved on to concerts now, and tonight it is neko case at a place called the tabernacle: this old genteel lady of a theater with a chandelier bigger than a mack truck hanging over the center, and balconies draped across its back like strings of ivoried pearls. right away upon walking in your wretched traitor heart knows that boy in chicago would love it, would love the gentlemanly bathrooms and the dowager lounges on every floor. your seats are high enough to see everything but not so high you will miss anything, and when that scrawny gal clomps onstage and takes her guitar in her fist you could swear you feel his hand in yours. you won't linger because it simply can't be said well enough how that lonelysadtrue voice moves straight from her ruby mouth to around your heart and squeezes so hard you feel your knees buckle. but lucky your mom is there by your side, her wide-eyed smile next to you, turning its beams on you, refusing to let you shrink. refusing to leave you alone.

crossroad

after that whole baseball fiasco—and the weirdo nonmessage message you both know you didn't respond to—you're certain tonight's lake house deal will not be a date. still, you do know the catcher will be there. and he knows you will be there. and you both know that right now you are probably getting ready to be there, knowing the other one will be there. what is he practicing to say to you and what are you (really) practicing to say back? what is “too much”? and how much? and what kind? you don't like to cross these kinds of uncertain bridges—drawbridges that may not close once they're opened. this is all making you too itchy and you need a new route. go a new way, just get away, or at least don't head his way. and yet—and yet—he was definitely walking across the little bridge you'd built, he was definitely coming toward you from the other side, trying to span something. at least, it really seemed like that. and maybe still does—maybe he's still trying to. so now you don't know what you're doing and you definitely don't know what to wear. the jeans worked before but follow this thought all the way and be honest: do you really
want
to be kissed again? really? or ignored and dissed? either one could happen and anyway that party is always full of so many other people you could much more easily not be attached to. why even think in this stupid direction?
(seeing you is too much.)
remember too
there are three unanswered postcards on your dresser—a whole other bridge made of toothpicks and dried roses that you're not even sure is standing any more, since you've only stared into its memory, your heart thumping like mad. so now look at yourself and make a decision, because otherwise you're just some dumb girl halfway on two shores with no way to cross back over to her own island, just some girl standing in front of the mirror—some lost girl with no map—nothing but a slutty camisole in her hand.

impossible

it's not that you're hurt, and you're definitely not sad. what you are is
pissed
. because you are
careful
. you are choosy. you are a girl with a metal detector in a minefield. you are the one testing for trip wires. you do not put your foot down unless you know what's underneath. and so now this is just all too mortifying to really stand. it's not like you wanted him to be your
boyfriend
. it's not like
you
went after
him
. you'd just chatted by the bonfire! and then he was spouting haiku and revealing his soul and grabbing you on the deck. you are not the one who started this—you were going to end it first, right then, tonight. it should be him burning with humiliation now—who left the party early—not you. it should have been
you
who said
i'm sorry i can't
, not him. that he beat you to it is just maddening. that you didn't see it coming is even worse. that all you said to him was
i think we need to talk
, and then got
that
for a response makes the veins stand out on your forehead. you weren't going to say you loved him, didn't want to swap promise rings, wear his letter jacket. you weren't the one who
attacked
him in front of everyone, aren't the one who should be here alone on a saturday night back at home remembering his cold face looking at you like he was someone you didn't know at all—someone else you'd never met, never had the chance to size up.

even more impossible

and then—and then!—as you're trying to bolt, trying to move as fast as you can out of the room and then out of the house and into your car and out of the neighborhood and maybe even out of the
county
for a little while—still so shocked and pissed and horrified by the catcher's stupid pathetic apology—like he was
dumping
you!—you don't really understand what's happening. because you're going through the dining room, pushing past who-gives-a-crap and no-one-cares when all of a sudden a pale clawed freckled hand is seizing you by the arm and grabbing tight. you think for a minute it might be the catcher trying to explain but no this hand is far too skinny and it's attached to a white scrawny arm and above it is a harpy face you've never paid attention to before, eyes full of hate that know all too well who you are. you can't believe her grip but more you can't believe the utter venom in her face, which makes what she says even more disorienting, and not just because of the cloud of wine cooler breath that comes out of her icy pink frosted lips:
why don't you leave him alone. you've done enough to ruin his life—his and his ex's, thanks to you—so leave him alone why don't you why don't you just leave.
and as quick as that like you are a warty toad or a poisonous slug that might crawl farther up her arm she drops you and teeters away. it's so fast and so furious you're not sure it really happened at all except this morning there are three dark bruises on your forearm from where she was grabbing you, from where her nails dug in.

Midnight Message

I'm not sure what

time it is or day it is but it is pitch-black,

I'm half-asleep,

and my phone is ringing by my bed.

Seeing Freya's number I have it at my ear, hear:

I told her for you. I told her so.

She's gone now. She'll be gone. He won't touch her.

He left.

And I am half-dead in my pajamas,

but she is drunk

and she is stupid

so I say
Where are you? Do you need a ride?

And all I get is a tired yawndrawl:

There's a bed here. I'ma bed now.

I hear the sound of pillows,

her dry mouth,

and not much else.

Are you okay Freya? Do you need me there?

And she is a long time answering

—she is probably passing out—

she won't remember what she says next,

but I won't forget:

He left—he left her. She won't be bothering you now.

Freya's Phone Call Sinks In

Going through the
New York Times Book Report

Sunday morning with Mom—scones and coffee still

warming our bellies,

shearling slippers still warming our feet—

a sly smile

creeps from nowhere across my face, remembering

—about a week ago—the redhead saying,

Boys are assholes,
when a gang of cute ones

with guitars came in.

They cut in front of her,

made a mess with sugar packets,

caused a ruckus laughing,

and left no tip.

I didn't

know what to say to her, didn't know

what to think about

those brown eyes so serious, mad

and a little hurt.

Relying on Reconnection

LeVaughn's laugh.

Hannah's dramatics.

Paloma's patience.

Summer's smile.

Jackson's jokes.

Maddy's hysterics.

Jonah's guitar.

Grace's style.

They are all out there

—in the Monday parking lot—

still enjoying the things

that once made us all friends.

While I am inside

looking out at them

wondering how I

came to this lonely end.

Will they forgive me

if I go out there?

Will they say sorry,

it is too late?

Our senior year

—this is my last chance—

to trust our old bonds

and change my fate.

Renegotiating Terms

Lunchtime and usually

I am headed to the bleachers

or the library

to cram in some homework

that somehow hasn't been done.

But it's amazing

how much easier homework is

when there's no boyfriend anymore

to distract you from doing it,

how much time you have to do

really anything you want.

Like meet Paloma

in the parking lot, to go off campus

for bagels and soup.

The broccoli and cheese is the best,

and do you like bagels with salt? I just

discovered them and I

think I'm going to marry one I love them that much.

She is talking to me

a mile a minute, like she's been storing things for me

for just this lunch—

not just gossip

but personal weird things

like that bagel business

and other silly things she knows I'll get.

I am not saying anything

about Alec (for once)

and maybe I don't have to—or ever will.

Instead we chatter about TV,

she eats French onion. We laugh and giggle,

drive back to school.

On the way to class I want to tell her

Thank you for being here. For saying yes.

But I guess I don't need to

—she's shown me she's always been my friend—

I just need to keeping coming back,

keep honoring

my end of the deal.

Odd

Nineteen

days

since we

hung

up, and

not

one

single

call.

What's

weird about this

is

not

that he hasn't

but

today's

the first

day

I

counted

at

all.

Gratitude

I made brownies.

When she got home,

Mom groaned out loud with pleasure

—
Good God girl, what've you done?
—

but I kept only a couple

for me and for her.

The rest are for Nadia, for me to take to work,

to somehow tell her

thank you

for all that she's done to help me get here.

For telling me the truth

when I didn't want to hear it,

for showing me how to walk

with your head held up

even if your heart is broken, and weeping inside.

For letting me hang out and joke

in the kitchen with Denver,

when it's slow on the floor

and there are vegetables to slice.

For helping me feel the spot where his

smiling maybe-he-likes-me eyes,

his offer to take me out

on a tandem bike,

and his friendly hand touching

my shoulder—my waist

gives me a familiar/strange thrill

in a neglected place.

I want to thank her for being

someone to like and look up to;

for being like the chocolate I used in this recipe—

dark and unapologetic,

strong

and still sweet.

Looking for Her

The redhead's not here.

Freya is

eager for me to jump the gap now. She says

there has been enough time, I should kick it

up a notch.

You should swap digits. Go shopping. You always

like her clothes.

And I can still feel my hand

on that invisible knife,

still want to see blood, still want

—I'm not sure what, but—something cruel.

But seven o'clock, eight

and that's not why I'm looking.

It is way after

her weekly animal shelter shift, something

I know about only

because when I asked once how her day was,

she said
full of puppies
and I asked her more.

I thought then

I might just tell her who I am,

might throw down my cards,

see what kind of ace was in her sleeve.

I don't want

to like her for writing with discipline,

for volunteering

to take care of puppies

and not shopping and gossiping

or whatever else it is rich,

beautiful boyfriend-stealers like her do after school,

but here I am

wiping down the cake cooler,

wondering what kind she would have ordered

if she'd come in tonight?

Kitchen Surprise

After three straight hours

of Saturday
mayIhelpyou
face,

strand of hair plastered

to my clammy forehead and

back/fingers breaking

from the heaviness of the slosh-full bussing bucket,

I slump myself into the kitchen,

dreading the dishwasher's steaming mouth.

I am a sour dishcloth,

a frown from the inside out

until I round the corner and find

Denver in his dirty shorts,

and that interesting tattoo

—his hands working up and down,

his body an arc of concentration.

I am not sure

which is more of a surprise

at the end of this frantic night—

a cute boy in the kitchen