After the Kiss (15 page)

what you don't know might kill you

in the morning you are not sure about anything. at school you look around and realize you're surrounded by strangers. oh you thought you already knew them, but that was because you didn't really want to know them. and looking around this morning at this ever-busy hive of bees, you're still pretty sure about the latter. but they are your friends for this town, the people you need in order to make the clock move on its axis and the sun curve across the sky, and you thought you knew them. knew enough, at least. but you also thought, if the catcher were off-limits, they'd clue you in in some way, let you know. now you know you're an idiot for thinking that—look how they swap around with each other—maybe people with partners mean nothing to them, or mean something different you don't really know anything about. you want to ask ellen now:
did you know? did you?
but what if she smiles and shrugs and tells you
of course
, acts like you're stupid, decides she doesn't want to know you anymore, if you've got a problem with it? take a good look at her now. see all the things you don't really know. size up simon-sam-edgar too and ask yourself what you know about them. maybe they have nightmares. maybe their band is actually good. maybe they don't make the grades they claim to. maybe they sometimes feel ashamed. look at jessica. look at autumn. give a glance to flip. you think you
know them, but you just judge them. and though you may be right, you still don't really know. you felt safe in your quick little assessments but now your methods have proven faulty and you've got to try to start all over. because now it's clear you never know what might turn on you—or when all the things you don't know might not really keep you safe.

undeniable truth

this you do know. this you know better than anything else: you have $7,376.42 in a shoe box hidden in your room. you have $7,376.42 saved since ninth grade from every extra trip to the mall you never went on, movie date you ever canceled and walked the streets alone instead, every gas tank you needed to fill every snack bar your friends might want you to treat them to, every allowance, every rare babysitting job you picked up from here or there—it could be more but it is $7,376.42 that you have skimmed and saved and in some ways scavenged even though you have your own savings account, even though your parents have been adding to it since you were born, but that is for real college. this, this is for you and you only: not for their expectations, not for the path that everyone else is going to tread after graduation, not for any of the bridges you've built or burned down. it is for you to fly free and go only exactly where
you
want, when you want, and in sixty-two days (give or take) you will. you are 18 already sure, but you need to finish out this high school sentence and then you know you will take your squirreled money ($7,376.42 now, but there will be more by then, there will be more) and you will buy your one-way plane ticket and your eurail pass and explain to your parents—you have your plan you will spell it out for them and there isn't a lot they can do—not really—because you are
their only child it's not like they're going to
disown
you, and you've had a dream and they won't have to pay for it—see you have $7,376.42 that you have saved. this you know. you have $7,376.42 and a plan and a future, at least for a little while that will be your own. count it again this you know in sixty-two days you will be able to get out of here you will be off the never-ending gerbil wheel you've been forced to run for your whole life. count it again it is in your hands it is your future and this you know.

The Perfect Pair

Right after

Mrs. Fram announces

our next project

will be duets,

the boys are looking

all over the room, already

picking partners, planning pairs. I have

eyes for only one person and

am amazed to see

her pale eyes

—silent Jenna's—gazing

pleadingly

into mine.

Jenna's Secret

What you wouldn't know

looking at her—long lengthy lady

with pale hair

and a paler voice—

is that this girl of slinking silence

—this sylph of a someone no one else knows—

is silly.

Out on the concrete we are in our pairs

everyone discussing

what to play in their duets.

My hands are fumbling, trying

to be as cool as hers,

to not make her sorry

she picked me.

What I don't know

is she's already decided our song, and it is

so wicked perfect

I laugh out loud.

Our legs are stretched out

—our guitars are touching—

and she whispers,

Flight of the Conchords,

don't you think?

Acceptance

A strange envelope

in the midst of

two bills, a
Lush
catalog,

and three bits of junk mail

for mom.

It says
St. Andrews

on the return address

and is addressed

to only me.

I applied there

in November

when Mom insisted on backups,

refusing the only-FSU-with-Alec plan;

it was chosen

more out of spite (and Mr. Burland's recommendation),

not because I could get in

or thought they'd respond.

Now—official college letterhead—one word:

congratulations.

It is like a party

I've suddenly been invited to:

one I completely forgot

was happening at all.

Avoiding

I imagine telling Mom,

and then can't. I want to

but won't, yet. The letter

goes in my rainboot

at the back of the closet,

(the one still caked and coated

with a little Lake House mud).

I am not sure how I will tell her

—how will I tell her?—

that instead of a giant Florida football school

(she didn't want me to go to anyway),

or nearby UGA (where I've been accepted), or even

Agnes Scott,

I want a tiny, private North Carolina one

—a school she's never heard of,

a school that will be good for me,

but will cost

twice as much?

Collaborative Contentment

The magazine submissions are finally collected.

The deadline is passed and

now it is time

to decide.

Sara's idea

—to divide and conquer—

I have to admit

is brilliant.

Instead of making copies ad nauseam and then

taking the whole monster batch home,

—to half-skim—

we separate stacks,

and spend all afternoon—the eight of us—

quietly reading submissions.

Sometimes there's a murmur.

Sometimes a snort.

Mostly

we are engrossed,

and (I think) pleased.

There is

the sound of single pages turning: one

then another. Charlie

clears his throat, Caitlyn giggles,

then stops.

I read a story about an ax-murdering stalker,

one about two dogs in a fight.

There is a good essay

about a family road trip

and two more

I can't finish

after the second paragraphs.

The story titled
Kalends
I circle in red;

It is the best one

—the brightest one—

and I will insist it gets in.

Two hours later

—we didn't know it'd gone by—

Mr. Burland tells us

next week we'll vote.

Rama looks

like a preschooler just up

from his nap

and Sara has a smile

I've never seen before.

That was awesome,
Charlie says,

all breathy,

speaking for all of us,

and we all nod.

For some reason next we

put our hands in a big pile, raise them up, shout

go team.

It is the happiest I've felt

in quite a long time.

Working for the Man

The shipment arrived

at the coffeehouse this morning,

but apparently no one has had time

to unpack all the chocolate.

When I arrive Nadia

is on the floor counting,

Paige is three customers deep,

and Stan has called in sick.

I take the packing slip from Nadia,

and the red pencil, begin

marking off
organic lavender, green tea, 85% cacao
.

My grateful friend jumps up and stretches,

takes off for the patio

to snatch some sunshine,

a few dirty plates,

and a needed smoke.

Emmett (Mr. Siegel) comes in then

—a rare Big Boss appearance—

the king of coffee strolling

his royal grounds.

Where's Margot?
he asks, seeing me on the floor.

When I tell him Nadia's managing

he heads out

to see.

She comes in too quickly, jerks the slip

from my hand

Get out there and clean, girlie,

she growls from under dark eyebrows—

master's here and he don't like

field slaves

doing house slave work.

Clearing My Name

Crazy Friday night

full of cake-and-wine orders,

bags of coffee,

herds of high schoolers,

dozens of doughnuts,

and everyone paying cash.

What is it suddenly

with the twenties infusion?

As though the president has dropped them

from a blimp overhead.

It's midnight

and only me left

with angry Margot

outside the door.

My hands are red

my eyes are bleary

my knees are aching

and I'm sticky with sweat.

But still I sit here

on a hard stool in the back room

counting the cash drawer,

again and again.

Sixteen dollars under

—the worst count ever—

and unless I find it

she's writing me up—an official warning—

and on top of that,

charging me twice.

Strange Thought

Waking up so-leisurely-late

on Saturday

with no work

until tomorrow

it occurs to me—a lightning bolt—

Alec has a game somewhere

and I have no idea

whether they're winning.

A Different Kind of Distraction

Since this week has been

the triumph of new ideas, I try

something even more radical

for a Saturday night; I call

Freya

ask her

to sleep over.

No Lake House party, no

skulking in the Majestic, but

two girls,

a bag of Doritos,

and whatever else

we can muster.

She says
yes

right away and

I am then left

to figure out what we'll do.

At seven she's here

and we start making lasagna.

When Mom finally gets in (at half past eight),

we are ready

though the kitchen is disastrous

and the salad is lean.

We tear chunks of bread,

pass the water pitcher

and for an hour straight

Freya grills my mom.

I forget

hers has disappeared somewhere. She

never talks about it and since

I'm never at her house it is sometimes

hard to remember.

Just her and her little sister,

her dad, making do.

And tonight

seeing her

aglow at the elbow

of my own mother I

understand her in a different way,

see her with a different face.

My friend with her stories, her crazy plots:

she is

working to fill something

that will never be filled.

She clings to everybody's stories

—her glossy magazines—

because to her, and everyone she knows,

her own is

too sad.

We clean up the kitchen.

I take her upstairs.

I offer

to paint her toenails

and I am careful with her,

gentle and delicate.

I take my time,

make sure it's pretty

—just like mine are—

just like Mom does

for me.

Don't Believe Your Eyes

Sunday afternoon coffeehouse rush is over and it's

time to clear the patio of its cups and plates,

clean up for the next round

of happy nowhere-to-go patrons

and loitering bored-faced teens.

The clouds have cleared and

a breeze lifts

the pages of someone's discarded newspaper

half onto the sidewalk.

Chasing, I catch it,

straightening up while down the block I see

a familiar face—

not my love but Nadia's:

the man I met

last week at her house.

The one with the sideburns

—the one with his tattooed arm

looped twice around her

and his face

in her neck all night.

Except now he is

strolling

into the Marta station,

his arm around another her

—a her that isn't her, not Nadia,

but someone different—someone else.

They pause and kiss—more than a peck—

disappear.

The newspaper flutters from my hand,

floats, unwanted,

across the street.