After the Kiss (4 page)

virtual sleepover

say good night to mom and dad—curled up together watching tivo'd episodes of some dancing show. you will leave them to their being-restored romance; you've got your own date to catch. plunge on the bed and there is luli on the phone—right on time. her actual voice takes a moment to get used to: replacing gchats, status updates, and scattery e-mails—those loose connections you've been able to keep as you've transplanted yourself even farther away from her. luli the exception who proves the rule, luli who wants to know everything—just like when you got to chicago:
describe the wallpaper
—
who are your new friends
—
how many blocks this time to school
. she's seen the 360-degree photos you uploaded of the house
(it's so martha!)
; and it pleases you she can kind of feel at home. three hours behind your own time zone, she could still go out tonight. it's friday. she has other friends. instead here she is curled up on the phone with you, her questions so constant you can hardly keep up. on opposite ends of the country, you both paint your toenails while you try your hardest to mimic autumn's drawl, and she grills you about teachers and the closest grocery store. when she asks about the nameless boy in chicago, before you know it you have lied:
i don't know
. it is hard though to hide from luli who laughs. luli who lifts, shining her light on your life so you see it in new ways: not a town to dread but one to discover. it is three hours before you hang up with her. three hours before you really notice she's not here.

countinghouse

you are so nervous and excited that your hands and upper lip start to sweat. hidden in plain sight on the bottom of your bookshelves, it's always so sweet to lift out. puff-painted photobox friend—some rhinestones have chipped off but all those cheery 5th-grade farewell signatures are still intact:
michelle
or
daniel
or
nice knowing ya!
on the outside it is your mostly forgotten past but inside is your own real future, the one you will make for yourself in europe, the one no one will tell you how to live, where you will go absolutely only where you want to for a year, and not where everyone expects you to. your hands sweating more just thinking about it—those stacks of twenties, the crisp fifties that have barely seen the light of day. so hard to make yourself wait a month sometimes—how often, exactly, since leaving chicago, have you been plied with more forgive-us allowance? three? five? it could be a really big haul today. what did you do the obligatory spending on? new school clothes and treating new friends to treats so they stay new friends . . . that cool embossed collage with mom at youngblood . . .
ohmygod just count it already!
so you lift the lid and it's like you can already see it: your private jet plane. your magic carpet. your independence and your prison break. only seventy-something-odd days until you can move around—fly around—jet-boat-train around—leave. leave on
your
terms,
your own way, not even with a map, or a post-grad college routine, and carrying only what your backpack will fit. it is almost here and your hands won't stop trembling. you sing to them, your squirreled savings, stroking them with a pleasure that tingles up your fingers. you should be cloaked in purple velvet and ermine, a heavy crown on your head. yes, the king was in his countinghouse counting all his money. but no blackbirds will come and pluck anything from you. you will make sure of that.

Sweet Relief

The chaos of the accident still

shakes my bones,

and blurs my vision.

My pulse

is a small child

running

from a too-dark room.

My mouth says

I am okay
to everyone

around the frayed iron bands of fear

still constricting my throat.

A haven of

shower,

pajamas,

macaroni and cheese.

I can forget, almost

—if I don't look out the window

at the carport—

if I walk quiet circles

around my disappointed mother.

My phone blinks—civilization

finds me again.

(Likely my brother,

telling me
nice work
.)

But instead of wincing, I get to smile, am reminded

there is more in my heart

than guilt

and fear.

The envelope blinks:

the saints were watching,

keeping you safe. I light them

one thousand candles.

I kiss my phone, hope

somehow it reaches his lips.

Mom Hands Down Her Verdict

The punishment

for my car-wreck-crime

is an iron door sliding down.

I offer up my neck.

It could be chains

or drowning

or starvation—

the worst being

solitary confinement.

The judge speaks.

I let out my breath,

trapped between

a Scylla and Charybdis of disappointment.

No head on a pike,

no burning at the stake,

but instead—

Debtor's prison.

Forced labor.

For every inch to be repaired

somehow a mile of minimum wage

must be paid.

Sympathy From the Devil

A whine still hangs

from the tip of my voice.

Brother on the phone, dispassionate—

his unfair judgment is

a recent stranger in the room.

A grunt of dismissal—six small words:

Ask dad for the money, then.

And the memories swim up—the shirts left hanging

in the closet,

the charcoal grill abandoned in the yard,

two boxes

of books

no used bookstore would take,

and a guitar case full of promises

not even a saint could keep.

I can't sigh loud enough

to blow away what he has said.

The pause I take I hope is enough distance.

Bootstrap time,
I feel myself saying eventually—

wishing I had

even enough money of my own right now

for some actual boots.

Bitter

When I say

I have to get a job,
Alec says

That could be cool,
and though

I agree in ways I have to point out

But how will I see you
—

and it is hard to swallow

—it is hard to smile—

around the unexpected bitter taste in my mouth

when he sighs sweetly back,

Why do you have to freak out so much?

Carpool with Freya

Four-hundred and eighty-two

Diet Coke cans

crushed around my feet.

Ninety-six

crumpled bags

of Chic-Fil-A

in the back.

The speedometer racing

twelve mph

above where it should be.

Eighty-seven megawatts

of Kelly Clarkson

at seven AM.

Thank God

this is only

until my car's out of the shop.

The Interview

Usually my neighbor Emmett is in

football-watching-with-the-guys or

supper clubbing date-with-wife wear while

I am bouncing Baby Hendrix on my hip and

listening to his wife remind me where

the flashlight is, what the

emergency numbers are.

Today though he is all coffeehouse-owner business:

khaki pants

white shirt

olive green fleece, brown rubber clogs.

His face tries to pretend

I don't know

where the good snacks are in his pantry or

what magazines are in the rack

by his toilet.

He even shakes my hand.

First a tour:

Counter #1 (coffee, espresso, and pastries)

Counter #2 (wine and beer)

Coffee bean wall (grinding and dispensing)

Patio #1 (glassed in, with a real fireplace)

Patio #2 (open air, for the smokers)

Bathrooms

Storage

Office

Kitchen

Outside trash

Back inside to sit together on the couch

by the window.

It is

too much like Dorothy and the Scarecrow

in their movie:

I've seen you before but somehow never seen you.

Am I to pretend

I haven't been here,

haven't

hung out at that table right there with Freya,

that I don't know

the vegan pumpkin muffin is the best?

Do I call him

—today—

Mr. Siegel?

The questions rush out of his mouth:

Can I handle cash?

Can I multitask?

Have I ever stolen from an employer?

Do I have an interest in coffee?

I am honest: yes, yes, no.

And does it count if I have an interest

in learning whether or not

I am interested in coffee?

I have cleaned his child's vomit

out of my hair!

His handshake is a meat sandwich.

He shows me Paige and Stan,

whose coffeecool eyes think

I am in kindergarten,

and whose wan smiles suck out

all my excitement

hearing my new boss explain to them

I will start tomorrow.

First Day at Work

Even though I am

taller than the two college girls I meet, their slim

pixie faces believe

I am eight kinds of small.

Driad nymphs, their deft white hands

fly with money and espresso moving through them

like silk.

They are

tattoo-waisted and ankled

with thrift store sweaters and beaten-in shoes.

I am

in their way most of the time

in my blistery loafers and my

J Crew trying-too-hard turtleneck.

For two hours I watch

and listen,

am shown things I beg myself not to forget,

watch people and take mental notes

I can't wait to share with Alec.

My head hurts;

my ankles hurt;

my eyebrows hurt.

Is it mercy or a bad omen—

eventually me, on a stool, rolling silverware until

shift's end.

Comedown Letdown

The cold air is making

the stars twist in a velvet sky, dancing

themselves to sleep.

It is the loveliest thing

—the first of fresh air—

I've seen all day.

Home, almost midnight,

my call goes to him—wanting

to say everything,

to hear one last good night.

Nothing seems real

unless I share it with him, but

three rings and his bleary, baseball-worn voice

is not sure who I am.

When I say
I did it—

my first day of work.

He only asks

did I get him

any free

croissants?

so many puppies

you haven't even been in the shelter for two minutes on your first real day and already the puppies are all dying to go home with you. they wriggle and jump and squeal and beg—their thin little legs stretching up, noses sniffling, wide eyes roving all over your face, sending out their messages of longing
lovemelovemeloveme!
while the other older dogs only look to see what the puppies are looking at. it's the semi-new ones—the ones who still remember what it's like to have a home—who give you the saddest deepest most knowing looks, the ones you truly ache for. these tenants are only curious about your new smell and what you might give them but largely they are not impressed. they have seen the likes of you before. they may be intrigued by the looks of you, but they know that you—like everyone else—will leave them in the end.

spaz attack

you'd think the president was coming to campus this morning, the way everyone's sweating. even ten yards from the building you can feel the nervous energy pulsing—some kind of frenetic force field that it takes sheer vulcan mind power to punch through.
they're hardly interviewing anyone—did you hear chelsea got called?—they've got a multiple-choice exam with them harder than the GRE—the one with the tie speaks six languages at least:
all snippets and half-thoughts you catch on your way to meet ellen, who herself seems to have turned an even whiter shade of pale. recruiters, apparently. from harvard, princeton, and brown. here interviewing “top candidates” who applied last semester. dorie's getting out of her music theory and interpretation class for them in two hours, and she's going to need to take something if she doesn't calm down. ellen fans her with a folder and helps her run through her prepared answers, but it's hard to stand there and not want to knock dorie over. when you say so to ellen under your breath, she looks at you like she just sniffed sour milk, and then at lunch when even flip is flipped out about essays, because early-decision folks are all chosen by now—
she's going to get a scholarship—they think he could test out of lang—
suddenly your cavalier attitude feels a little dragged behind a horse. your freedom feels fabricated. your detachment
déclassé.
though the hysteria's a bit
annoying—though the drama's half
crucible
in its crescendo—if you cared about college yourself then at least you'd be in their conversation, you'd have more than two acceptances for show, an unanswered “safety” application to berkeley, and a shoe box full of dollar bills.

mystery mail #2

this one's a watercolor. perhaps it's a gargoyle, maybe it's a mound of stones on the front—it's really too blurry to tell. lots of varying shades of gray and a streak or swirl or two of blue. on the back, scrawled in pen, near the bottom left corner:
you are a stone fox.
this is from one of your favorite scenes in
the virgin suicides.
there is no signature. the postmark's from chicago.