A Girl Named Mister (5 page)

I noticed this morning

the snap on my favorite jeans

seemed to have changed zip codes.

I could hardly hitch the zipper

into place. Shoot.

Mom better give

that new detergent

the boot.

Late for volleyball drills,

I race to the locker room,

dump my open backpack

on the bench, and strip

faster than Clark Kent.

I climb into my gym clothes,

moving too fast to catch Seth

flipping through my copy

of
Mary, Mary
.

“What’s this?” she asks.

I look up, snatch the book,

and stuff it back into my pack,

totally ignoring the
O
of Seth’s mouth.

“Well, excuse me!” she says,

meaning nothing of the kind.

But I don’t care.

Some things you just don’t share.

Mary, Mary
is mine alone.

At least for now.

Funny how a person in a book

can come to life.

It’s like I know Mary now,

like we’ve been kicking it

half of forever.

I never thought about her

being funny, or tough,

or brave enough to travel

through the wilderness

where there were lions,

just so she could see her cousin.

All I have to do to see mine

is hop the subway.

No way I would have made it

back then.

But I’m glad Mary

can take me along

for the ride.

Miss Wells,

the guidance counselor,

flips through papers on her desk.

I sit across from her,

breathing heavy,

tapping my no-name sneakers

on the floor,

waiting for her to get started,

so she can finish,

so I can go.

“You kids just can’t

sit still, can you?”

I know a rhetorical question

when I hear one.

“So, Mister—

that’s what they call you,

right?

What are your plans

after graduation?”

“To go to college,” I answer,

without missing a beat.

“To major in what?”

She’s got me there.

“You should start

thinking about that,” she says.

“More importantly,

think about ways

to beef up your transcripts.

Find more extracurricular activities

that will look good on paper.”

Yeah
, I’m thinking.

That’s what I need
,

‘cause I’m not busy enough already
.

You didn’t hear that

from me.

But I should get serious

about college.

Let’s face it,

I’m gonna need

all the scholarships

I can get.

Nix on the glee club.

I’ve already got choir.

Can’t stand politics,

so class council is out.

Hmmm.

For the rest of the day,

as I pass from class to class,

I scan the hall bulletin boards,

half hoping for ideas.

One ad jumps out:

a call for tutors

in the library literacy program.

Ding, ding, ding!

If there’s one thing

I love to do, it’s read.

That ad

might as well have

screamed out my name.

It’s eight weeks since Trey,

and I am almost over him.

In two days,

it’ll be our choir’s turn

to rock the house,

and four-part harmony

never sounded so good.

I close my eyes,

let my soprano raise the roof,

and before I know it

I’m lost in the music,

rubbing shoulders with God,

my faith as natural and easy

as it used to be.

I can’t explain how,

but Mary must be getting to me.

My stomach sloshes like

I’m at sea.

What’s the matter with me?

Is this some new version of PMS?

Guess it could be.

It’s been awhile

since my last period.

But that’s one good thing

about being a girl jock.

I don’t get periods

as often as other girls.

The sight of eggs

sunny-side up

makes me want to hurl.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

asks Mom, shuffling into the kitchen

in Sunday slippers.

“You look a little pale.

I hate for you to miss church,

but you can stay home

if you’re feeling ill.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say,

halfway to the bathroom.

“I think I will.”

My eyes follow Trey

down the central stairway.

“Snap out of it,” says Seth,

watching me.

I know she’s right,

but I still feel a twinge

when Trey slips his arm

over some other girl’s shoulders.

Good thing I ended it.

Imagine how much worse I’d feel

if we had gotten serious,

and he had dumped me

for the next cute girl

to come along?

And what if I’d gotten pregnant,

or caught some nasty disease?

Like Seth said,

I don’t even know

where his thing has been.

I shake my head

and leave all thoughts of Trey,

and possible disasters, behind.

I know I was lucky this time.

We’re pulling on

our uniforms,

Sethany next to me,

both of us getting ready

for the big game against

Cleveland High.

“You’re getting quite

a pooch there,” Sethany says.

“Time you lay off those

potato chips.”

She was just being flip,

but I cringe,

having to admit

my waistline seems to be

wandering a bit.

Better hit that floor

and work those drills double time.

That oughta shake off

a pound or two.

A sleepover

is all I asked for.

Nothing fancy since

I know we can’t afford it.

Mom makes a fuss anyway,

takes me and Seth out for dinner,

bakes my favorite carrot cake

with cream cheese icing,

and serves it with a tiny jewelry box.

Inside, I find a promise ring,

just like the one I tossed,

the one I’d said I lost.

“I know how much

it means to you,” Mom says,

and I cry, because my lie

has made us less close

than we used to be.

“It’s okay, baby,” she says.

“Sorry,” I whisper,

wiping my wet cheek.

Meanwhile, Sethany studies

her perfect nail polish,

keeping her knowledge to herself.

“Now blow out your candles!” Mom says,

giving my shoulder a squeeze.

“And don’t forget to make a wish.”

I’d tell her I’m too old for this,

but I know what she’d say:

Nobody’s too old for wishing.

Saturday, I stroll Broadway

hunting mangos for Mom.

I slow in front of

Fashion Passion,

and drool over cool clothes

hanging in the window.

A girl with a too-thick waist

stares back at me

and I wonder why she’s

wasting time

checking out

these clingy numbers.

Do I know her?

I step closer to the window,

squint, spy the mirror

behind the mannequins,

and—Oh!

Guess it’s time

for me to go

on a diet.

LaVonne Taylor waddles into

the cafeteria today,

four months along but looking six.

Kids laugh as she passes by,

but I don’t see

what’s so funny.

In fact, I think

it’s pretty sad.

She’s still a kid,

only fifteen years old,

same age as—

Something nasty rises in me,

like a flood:

thoughts of my pancake breasts

suddenly swelling like dough;

a growing list of shirts and jeans

too shrunken to fit;

waistline slowly vanishing

like some magic act gone wrong;

and way too many bloodless days

on the calendar.

I feel myself

start to drown,

make a gurgling sound,

and, next thing I know,

the school nurse

is leaning over me,

asking, “Honey, are you okay?”

“No. God, no!” I say,

but not to her.

How long I laid on her

office cot, crying,

I’ll never know.

But at some point,

a soothing voice

deep in the core of me

whispered, “
Breathe. Breathe
.”

And I did.

I clutch
Mary, Mary

to my chest,

waiting for sanity

to return.

“Help me, Mary,”

I whisper.

“Help me, God.”

Elizabeth and I

sit in the synagogue

where women are assigned,

rapt in twin silences,

but separate thoughts.

Elizabeth beams,

clearly more than ready

to slip into a mother’s sandals.

But I shiver, wondering

what kind of mother

I will be.

I know so little of babies.

Will caring for a child

come naturally?

I can only hope to match

my own mother.

But where do I begin?

Then, I remember the story:

how Mother wrestled

with the Lord, in prayer,

pleading for a child,

and how, when I came,

she blessed God for the gift.

So, I will start with prayer.

Jehovah, please prepare me

to be a mother
.

And Jehovah, I pray

as you knit this child

inside of me
,

strengthen him

in every way
.

We sit in the evening glow

of oil lamps,

plucking names from the night

like figs,

as if we needed to.

But why not?

This is precisely what

expectant mothers do.

So, for a moment,

we pretend God has not

already chosen our sons’ names.

“Eli has a nice sound,” I say.

“Or Ezekiel,” says Elizabeth.

“I like Tobias.”

“Too plain.”

“Uriah?”

“Never!”

“You are right.

Things did not

turn out well for him.”

“Here is one, then: David,”

says Elizabeth.

“Like the king,” I say.

“Like your ancestor.”

“The one through whom—”

“Messiah will come,” we both say,

and something in me quivers.

I excuse myself for the night,

needing to lose myself for a while

in the world of sleep.

I hug my quiet kinsman,

Zechariah,

and wish Elizabeth well,

though I hardly need to.

The blessed birth of her son

is only a few

weeks away at most,

and she is blissful.

I leave her in the able care

of her midwife,

and say my last good-byes.

Lord Jehovah
,

make the months fly

until we are together again
,

until her little John

meets my Jesus
.

Entering Nazareth, once again

we come upon a riotous crowd,

closed tight around

someone, or thing.

We cannot tell

till Nathan, our neighbor, yells,

“Harlot!

You thought you could

break God’s law, and live?”

We next hear

stone striking bone.

A girl screams and I,

unblinking,

push into the crowd,

elbowing my way up front

just as limestone brick

splits the girl’s skull,

sending blood rushing

like a wild river,

flooding her eyes, her nose,

splattering her once

rosy cheeks.

I peek, now,

from half-closed lids,

wondering what holds me here,

why I continue to stare

at this poor, crumpled girl,

writhing in pain until death

rescues her, a girl I knew

as Salome, young wife of Hillel,

a girl who so easily

could be—

“Mary!” Joseph’s servant

reaches my side.

“Let us leave this place,” he says

and I let him pull me away.

Wordlessly, we head home.

But I carry this girl’s

wretched screams with me,

like a splinter throbbing

in my ear.

I begged the nurse

not to call my mom,

said I probably just had

food poisoning, or something,

and apologized for crying

like a big baby.

The nurse shook her head,

put the phone down,

looked me in the eye, and said,

“Mary Rudine, my guess is

you’re less than

three months along.

Take my advice:

Tell your mother before

she figures it out

on her own.

You shouldn’t try

handling this alone.”

I dropped my eyes,

grabbed my books,

and ran.