After the Kiss (17 page)

was my friend,

that Denver and I

might ever go out.

Pow-pow

pow

pow

pow.

A punch for idiots in econ.

A punch for stupid Hollywood gossip.

One for people who hate Shakespeare.

Another—make that two—again

for Alec and the redhead.

I punch till my fist hurts,

until I'm

breathing hard and my

forehead

is clammy.

Mom sticks her tired head in the doorway,

says

That sounds satisfying.

She asks

if I will let her

have a go at it too.

vacant

in the morning mom and dad are both waiting for you downstairs. they let you sleep late, saved their tennis and grocery shopping until you finally came down. their faces aren't angry but are worried and sad and they want you to tell them what all this is about. if you need money, they tell you, there's plenty in your savings for college and they'll help you with whatever else you need. and europe seems so far away now so impossible to reach; you feel so stupid for wanting it and for thinking you could go. it'd be too difficult to explain your outburst—you don't even know what to say—so you just apologize and blame school, say you're just ready to be done. and they nod and they hold your hands and they tell you how proud they are and that you only have a couple months to go and meanwhile spring break is coming up and maybe you and mom could take a trip together. maybe even dad could get a couple of days off. and you listen and you say they're right and inside you are only ashes there is no girl in here anymore she has fled she has moved far away.

inbox surprise #2

check ur email 4 onz
luli texts later on, and since you are not doing anything but watching “what not to wear” reruns you go ahead and log in. there are stupid videos from ellen, random websites and lyrics autumn wanted to share, photos from dad's sister, fwds from grandpa, boobtique promos from BUST. there is no word from the catcher there is no word from chicago but at the top one from luli:
atlanta here i come.
attached is a plane ticket—she's arriving on tuesday—and a paragraph saying she's changed her break plans. she was supposed to be going to portland with friends but
i'll have more fun with you, and i've never been south!
you know when she gets here she'll stage some intervention, she's doing this because of last night and probably thinks you're insane, but the ticket's been bought and she's already coming and the black space deep inside that was your heart flares again and it is better than if you ever got a bushel of postcards from chicago (or even just one again—even just one), because this is real and solid and not uncertain and ethereal, and you feel so happy and grateful you could cry.

cleaning up

at school you were more a clock-watcher than ever, dying to get home dying to go shopping with mom and load up groceries for luli's dinner and all the best snacks, dying to help re-clean the house even though marisol's already cleaned this week. you can't sit still you want everything magazine perfect for your friend who is really truly coming, your friend who is going to travel the tightrope that is strung between you, who'll land safely on your side, likely a lime green parasol in one hand and a deck of tarot cards in the other. you are re-dusting the spotless bottom level of the big mahogany coffee table in the living room, windexing the mirrors and extra-polishing the dark banister and even the stairs. you are hanging all your clothes up, straightening the magazines in their basket, shining every surface in your room and arranging all your photo frames and miniatures, all your little keepsakes that have traveled with you from town to town—the unpainted porcelain frog you made in first grade, the silly plastic girl with straight-up pigtails who screams hideously long when you press her back, the strange double acorn you found in golden gate park the vial of water from lake michigan, the tiny teacups with roses painted on the sides from grandma tess, the small leather album full of someone else's vintage photos that you bought at that antique place you and mom went to when you first moved here—all
your things so many things you have packed and unpacked and arranged for yourself, but now luli is coming to look at them, your old things and some new things too, and you are vacuuming for no reason you are dusting your spotless blinds, because luli comes tomorrow and you want everything looking just right.

unexpected

in the morning ellen sees you on your way in and stops in the middle of her conversation with simon and makes a beeline for you, walks beside you all the way to your locker, chattering about who really you don't much care. for a while as you stand there taking out books and putting in others she just looks at you and you know she wants you to say something but you are not sure what if anything you want to say back. finally she says it for you:
hey, listen, what's up?
and you've been avoiding her it's true, ducking out to the side lawn instead of the quad with everyone during lunch, taking alternate routes to class the last few days just to keep from running into her—into anyone—needing a break from the bees because you're not sure you haven't been stung, or won't be soon if that's not the case.
you weren't at the lake house; you're not answering texts
. and you are sure if you looked her in the eye her clear blue ones would see straight through your brown ones and down into some of the things you're not ready for her to see. so you shrug and you tell her you are just feeling stressed about school and college and what's coming next, and then slip in a little truth about it being weird to be the new girl in the middle of everyone's big final senior year, when they've all got their parties and their traditions and the things they've been looking forward to together since the first days of ninth grade. and you don't really
know why you are telling her this at all and you try to make it a joke or at least not so serious but she has already heard you and then she does the oddest thing—she gives you a big hug and says how glad she is you moved here, even if it's weird. and you chalk it up maybe to senior sentimentality and you remind yourself how she didn't clue you in on the catcher having a girlfriend but you follow her back to your friends and your shoulders—where she hugged them—will still feel nice.

the provider

you check the flight arrival four times in a row before dad tells you to quit it and just get in the car. mom is staying at the house to make sure dinner will be ready when you get back and that means you and dad drive together listening to u2 and singing loud and happy. it is his favorite band he went to go see them twice before he got this job with the company and if you'd been old enough he would've taken you then. he still regrets not taking you, he says, though he brought you back a long sleeved t-shirt with all their faces on it. it was three sizes too big then and still flops around your frame but it is soft and it is cozy and it was a present from your dad so still you wear it sometimes although mostly just to bed. anyway he is happy and excited too—he and mom always love company—and it is as though your fight with them never happened and though you can still feel the outline of ash around your heart, today luli is coming and everything will be okay. in the middle of “running to stand still” though dad gets this weird look on his face and when it is over he turns down the volume and tells you he hopes you know that if he'd known how hard all this moving would end up being on you he wouldn't have taken this job.
why didn't you quit when we were in chicago then why did we have to leave everything why did i have to leave him?
you feel it all burning at the back of your throat but you know
the exact answers, and you understand why. because it was a good job and so many people were losing their jobs while dad's company was still doing well, opening new telecom hubs in more towns. when people were losing houses yours was still paid for, when companies were making cutbacks dad's still took care of all of you. so they moved you to atlanta, and what else was he going to do he had to go where they said. you know this but had sort of forgotten it all, are remembering the moves haven't been a picnic for him, either. you realize what that job outburst must've sounded like to him:
you've done all this and still aren't doing enough
. you don't know what to tell him—you don't know how to say that you still want to run away from him, even after all he's done.

at the top of the escalator

waiting in airports always makes you think of the beginning of
love actually
—the scene that makes you and mom cry every time. now you are in that scene standing on your tiptoes to see over the shoulder of the big guy in front of you and his even-bigger wife. the first gush of people is coming up from the escalators but there is no luli and you're left looking around at the little girl chattering at two barbies down on the floor and a man holding a sign that the woman he's waiting for will be embarrassed to see. there are soldiers in beige camos walking past and everyone claps and they wave
thank you
and go on in their line
.
then comes another push of travelers up the escalators—the man with the sign strains his neck, the rose in his hand looks too—people with red bags black bags backpacks quilted duffels. some people in the crowd around you go forward to hug some of these people, others turn around to check the arrival screen again. you are wondering when she will get there you are wondering will you look different to her, and the crowd from the escalators dissipates and goes where they are going, and you watch the girl with the barbies again. beside you dad is patient and unruffled and smiles down at the little girl and then smiles at you and squeezes his arm around your shoulder, once. the man beside you turns and looks and you look away and your dad's arm goes back by his side. another
push of people—she texted you fifteen minutes ago when she landed surely she is in this group surely it doesn't take so long—and there are brown heads and black heads that aren't hers and blond heads in ponytails and a girl in a corset and another one in a sweatsuit and then there is her face there—then there she is.

living proof

she comes to school with you and at first you think standing there in the main office that there is no way they will let her in, that they will laugh in your face and point her to the door. but she smiles and introduces herself and explains she's your cousin visiting and she shows them her id and they print her a name tag that says
lucille
. you cannot believe it, how lucky you are and you almost run out of the office to show her your locker to show her the hallways and the wide clean bathrooms. you show her your first class where you will be going in a few minutes you round the corner so you can show her your friends. and in an instant they are all swarming around her and making her laugh and telling her what she's missed since you've been here. she is easy and cool with them but shooting her eyes at you—she thinks sam is too hyper, thinks edgar too cute for his own good, thinks autumn is just ridiculous and ellen a good choice of a friend. you see all this in her face standing there talking to them, wondering a little if you're mixing milk and vinegar but she is kind and she is laughing and they are all interested to see what she will tell them about you. you are trying not to show her off like a bowling trophy, trying not to stand too close, but she is your proof to them that you existed before—proof you were a person before they ever saw your face.

Brother's Arrival

We shine when he comes home.

Not just

bathroom porcelain, fresh-folded laundry,

glossy wood floors, and

clean, well-stocked fridge, but

our daily-grind faces,

now bright with smiles.

With him here

—even for only a couple of days, before

he meets friends in Florida for the rest of break—

Mom's voice is a bird,

hopping

from room to room,

her feathered hands

refluffing her nest.

Brother in the Backyard

It is weird in a good way

to come home from school

and find Ian there,

one leg slung sprawled up

on the back of the couch.

He is smiling-glad-to-see-me,

tired of watching TV all day,

and doing his own laundry.

He is ready to talk,

even to me.

We make Cherry Cokes the real way,

head to the backyard

and the old iron chairs

underneath the fig tree.

It is like old times but not.

Now I am grown-up too,

with a job, and heartbreak,

and secrets of my own.

I tell him about the redhead,

getting over Alec,

about Nadia,

and feeling like a fool.

I tell him about

my secret college

and worrying

what mom will say.

At one point he pulls

a joint from his pocket

and I act like I'm not surprised,

like it's perfectly fine.

He squints when he inhales,

and I try not to stare,

wondering if he does this always

or just when

deep in thought.

Eventually he looks at me, says,

You're

swimming so hard in this ocean.

Don't you know

if you float,

it will always hold you up?

He explains that Mom may freak,

but my grades are good enough

—better than his—

for a dynamite scholarship:

maybe even

a full ride.

That Nadia may have been cool at first,