After the Kiss (7 page)

Some Advice

When you are

wrung out like the dish towel

you had stuck in your shorts all day

instead of an apron,

and your hair is still wet

from the shower you needed

in order to rinse off all that coffeegrime and sweat

—when you still have to read

three chapters for English

one chapter for history

and have not studied for that chemistry test—

do not be surprised if,

when you go to the party (late) anyway

to try to lean on your boyfriend

and laugh at Paul's jokes,

you find yourself rolling your eyes at everyone and

more than once squeezing your temples from noise.

Try to feel no shock either when

Alec scowls because you won't

do chickenfights by the bonfire,

or when he says,
What's the matter with you?

in that cold way you hate

and you find yourself leaving

—too early—

in tears.

Showing, Not Telling: To Alec

Your surprise

is a surprise.

How could you think

—What are you thinking?—

I could possibly act

—I don't understand

why you're acting this way—

like a girl going through normal

—I need you to be normal—

when there's no more routine,

and this distance

—It's not such a big deal—

is a dance that divides us,

a daily departure

—We still talk every day—

from all I know how to do.

Did you really think

—How can you think that?—

after this morning's phone call

—I have to go, Becca. You have to be cool.—

I could be anything but uncool:

wouldn't show up on your doorstep,

—What are you doing here?—

shout
surprise

in your face

until you stop blinking—

until you listen to me

—Listen, Becca—

till you finally
see
?

Failed Advice

Mom doesn't like it when I slam the door,

shut her out,

say I'm not hungry enough for dinner.

She comes in anyway,

sits

on the edge of my bed, says,

Just try to project yourself into tomorrow

when you've calmed down and everything's fine.

She doesn't understand

—it never got fine with her and Dad—

that time without him is the opposite of fine,

and every tomorrow he's not in

isn't one I want

to be projected into.

Gross Dividends

The highest commodity in econ class is laughter

and indifference

dressed in khaki pants and cocky guffaws.

No one cares about anything

but proving how little they care

as Mrs. Marchpane vaults herself somehow

—who got her here?—

into a discussion of Victoria's Secret underwear.

It's like a science, a social experiment, seeing who

can derail her faster

onto a wilder track of conversation,

the popular boys—

one-two-three in a row: so handsome

and so cruel—all lobbing

softballs of distraction at her which she

catches in both hands, showing off for them.

We're supposed to be learning

about the mechanics of the world:

bonds, dividends, supply and demand.

I don't want to be learning these things—

I don't need them—

and this waste-of-time class

sucks out my already-aching soul.

Do-Over

I should be

writing strings of apologies, composing

pages of
forgive me
sonnets that would shame

both Neruda and Keats.

I should be

knocking on his door again,

taking back the things I said,

wrapping

my arms, my brain, my heart, my life

around him and promising

to never let him go, but

Tuesday afternoon and

this second chance in writer's forum

won't come our way again.

I have to be strong. I have to be a leader.

Indecision

has wracked us for a week,

but Mr. Burland

has pitied,

giving us more time.

Time to lick our wounded egos

time to put our heads together

time to correct

the mistakes (of our editorial) past.

Like me and Alec,

none of us can agree

but we all agree

last year was a disaster

and we don't want to duplicate

the sorry magazine

no one bought last year.

In this we are united.

In this we have some hope.

In this we have the strength

to work together

make a mash-up masterpiece

that makes us proud.

Let my colleagues inspire me

into reunification, connection, restoration.

Collaboration, smile upon us;

humility crown our heads.

Creativity bring your blessing;

pride you have no place here

until we are finished, and victorious.

Until we are over this and done,

until I can call him, proud.

How to Make the World a Better Place, One Poster at a Time

Stretch the hour along your arm.

Track its progress

—its slow-then-speeding bend

across the afternoon:

twisting itself from

a crowd of cumulonimbus to

a rainbow of success beaming

across everyone's faces.

Bring together

four jaded seniors all scuffed

and scarred

from last year's magazine disaster and blow into them

a little more disbelief,

a little more despair.

Let them scowl. Do not fear. They will

soon exhaust themselves with

their own soured sighs.

Grant them mercy.

Allow a new poster suggestion

from two timid sophomores

to slide across the table and sit

in the seniors' laps.

Let them remember

being unlistened to last year—let them

recognize

gold when it's struck.

Combine

their expertise and

a little cunning—let them

listen, question, improve.

Notice

even the teacher is smiling, see

what pure collaboration can do.

At the end of the hour find

eight children skipping

down the hallways together—

believe

that a common passion

can make anything possible.

Inspired

I shouldn't be texting

in my (only recently repaired) car, but

it is mostly at a stop sign and

there are never any cops on this stretch.

You are the flint. I am the fire,
I type,

Fanning it only makes it burn stronger.

Without much thought I press—vigorously—send.

He is probably in practice, but

I am today full of oxygen,

am stoked high on kindling,

and he helps me breathe.

Bad Timing

Break time at work

and at the end of this awful week,

I want to keep things light with us

—only tenderly repaired—

just tell him

what Nadia said

about two forks and a rusty knife.

Now two rings,

three,

and his voice is late-night distracted

flung out the passenger window

of a speeding car.

My lungs are constricting. I am going numb.

Just tell me how much you love me

bubbles weakly from my mouth.

I'm a nuisance.

An inconvenience.

A bother,

getting in the way.

I do.
He insists.
But I've got to go.

It's not such a big deal. It's all okay.

And then it's just me,

on the patio,

a muted phone in my hand

two hours left of work and

the helium balloon of my heart,

deflating

rapidly.

Disappearing Pennies

Nickels, dimes, quarters where

do these whole dollars go,

betraying me at the end of my shift—

time to count the drawer?

Two-sixteen under.

Five twenty-nine over.

Sixty-three cents short.

Night after night,

bleary-eyed, swollen-ankled and I am

sweeping change into my hand and back again

counting over and over

praying to the calculator gods,

Please make this add up right.

The spool of paper rolls out,

the purple numbers spinning and I am

four ninety-one over

one seventy-six short.

Margot notes it down in her yellow pad

—it will come out of my check

even the overage—

her eyebrow arcing high with disapproval

and impatience,

my hands open with apologies she won't hear.

I am not sure where the mistakes come from,

how my fingers manage

to slip and miss—

even worse, how they swim together each day,

adding me up to one fat zero.

If I Go

Everyone is already at the Lake House,

including him.

Midnight, and I am

sweaty, stained, and in slow motion.

I could

go home and shower, dress, make-up

and get myself ready

—make it to the party by two—

maybe enough time

for a sloppy kiss,

a covert make-out,

or another misunderstanding—

another slammed door.

I could also

go home and shower, pajamas, DVD

curl up in bed and maybe

swap a foot massage with mom.

Would he love me more

if I went?

Or if I knew better

and stayed?

Pulled in so many directions

I am too tired

—too ground and gritted—

to care

either way.

girl's best friend

when it's wet and cold and raining all day like this and the ground is soppy-gross with dead leaves and runny clay you can't take the dogs outside all together to run around in their big playground pen out back. instead they get small group rotations for a bit in the back room—the one full of dog toys and an observation window, the one that smells too much like pee. it is not supposed to feel like a jail in there but it does at least to you, so when you and the puppies are there playing you do your best to clap your hands and chase and tug on things that they clamp in their mouths—roll around with them and wrestle and keep your voice high and cheery. because while you do have your own bathroom and come and go as you please, you know what it is like to be somewhere you don't want to be. you know all about being pent up and stuck. you know how nice it is to have even a stranger come in and let you run around with them, pretend you aren't trapped inside even if they can't take you home. it's still nice to have someone who will let you lick their face.

casing the joint

still cold nasty san fran winter-style raining outside: not a downpour or a gusty gale or hail or sleet—just a slow steady curtain of wet that makes everything bone-achy and shivery, even though it's not that cold. you drive yourself around in a couple of circles between the shelter and downtown decatur, going the wrong way at the courthouse, finding a dead end where you didn't expect one, squinting through the windshield. but finally you find the goat-monkey place again and even more miraculously manage to wrangle a parallel parking spot right out front. to you it seems like perfect coffeehouse weather but maybe everyone is cozed up at home with their gas fireplaces and their nubbly sweaters, because when you walk in—moving quickly, keeping in a straight line, acting like you've been here plenty of times before, this takes no thought—there's only a snuggly couple together on one of the couches and three individuals all ghost-lit by whatever's beaming through their laptop screens. you order what you always order, because there's never any kind of stupid coffee code for it, no sizes to guess or syrups to memorize: decaf and cake—the first cake that catches your eye, the chocolate raspberry mousse one that says it's vegan though you could care less. when you sit you can finally really look around: cool black-and-white photos (or paintings made to look like
black-and-white photos) on the wall—on closer inspection, by a local artist—warm wood floors with assorted worn rugs underneath. small tables with things painted on the tops surrounded by chairs straight from a parisian café. deep leather armchairs and small, well-placed halogen lights on thin wires from the exposed-beam ceiling. you feel yourself let out your breath, settle in. you take a sip of the rich creamy coffee, a bite of chocolate soft explosion. this will do. it will do indeed.

afterimages

days later and you still feel like you had double vision all of saturday night, watching that big baseball facade with the sad soft inner core shining out through those brown eyes. usually people are all they are, wearing themselves on their sleeves (even if they're hiding something) but this was a double-exposed photograph in the flesh, flashing back and forth. for all that muscle he didn't try anything—didn't even allude to it—and that was at least noticeable if not refreshing. you were just two people—a boy and a girl—standing by a fire, swapping small talk, laughing at the goofs around you, just standing there watching the flames in silence. and for a girl who's got to stay in motion it surprised you how it was nice for a while, just being able to stand still. which is maybe why you gave him your e-mail, there at the end. maybe you thought he wouldn't write. sure, maybe that's it. but you can still feel the heat of that fire now, the peace and quiet of him next to you, reading this new inbox message:
peacock girl who hides / treasure maps of mystery: / a camouflage smile.
you have the impression he's trying to make an impression, but you've lost count of whether it's first, second, or third. you're too preoccupied counting out syllables over and over. counting the syllables—finding them exactly right.