After the Kiss (16 page)

not just a dream, but a plan

the coffeecounter girl is not here today. thursday is her day you know that but you can't figure out the weekends, don't know if it's sunday-friday-saturday, because you have seen her sometimes on each of those days and sometimes not. but today she is not here—instead it is the tight-faced girl with the cornrows, along with one of the wan little wispy girls—and they will not be glad to see you, will not tell you which cakes just came in this morning, will not sneak you a refill, and so you don't even pretend—you just turn on your heel and go back out the door. only now you are here in decatur—now you are somewhere you can really walk—so you do: first down to the end of the block and left, though all that's there is the library (good to note) before things take on that highly residential look that you know by now only means pretty lawns and magnolia trees. so you turn back and then cross the street and go up into the square, around the gazebo where someone is practicing tai chi, back over and up along a row of shops and restaurants you hadn't noticed before, capped off by a starbucks (ugh), but also containing the cutest little bookstore you have ever seen. you go in—three people say hello to you right away—and at first you are not sure this was a good idea because you are surrounded by children's books and the sight of
lily's purple plastic purse
right there facing out on the shelf
makes you suddenly feel five again, back when you thought you were invincible. but then a chipper, pretty, short woman wearing over-the-knee socks and boots with her jean skirt (she's not a lot younger than your own mom) is by your side asking if you need help finding anything and you smile and tell her
no thanks
but now you feel you have to stay a little longer, at least look around. so you go deeper in the store and you feel like you are in another city altogether, surrounded by buttery yellow and cupcake-rose blue and books and books and all these cheerful things to look at everywhere. to your surprise things open up to your right and there is a little corner full of books for grown-ups. you move—a shark—directly toward it. you hadn't known this was what you needed to do today but of course because there it is: the green-and-white fodor's italy guide facing you. next to it is london, paris—you grab all three of them and go over to a celery green couch. you take out your moleskine and a pen, begin taking notes.

doing the math

a weird prickly feeling starts along your forearms and works its way up to your throat as you read. in these full-color, photo-filled glossy travel books there are sights and train maps and places to eat and museums and guided tours and suggested scenic trips, but it's the numbers that swim up at you, the admission prices and the double and triple dollar signs by the restaurant names and the hotel fees. the price of the rail pass alone almost makes you cough, because it's quite a bit more than when you first made this plan. you realize you don't know how much it takes to travel—dad's company always handles it, always pays for your move—and the kids on the ultimate frisbee team back in sf never focused on that part as they were telling you about backpacking across europe and having a blast. they were patchouli-smelling kids all living together in the same apartment—six of them in there at once—and they had dreadlocks and tevas and t-shirts with holes. they probably hitchhiked, now that you think of it, slept together in parks. but you'd looked into the plane ticket and knew $1000 was a lot but that you could easily save more. since then you didn't think about it and still haven't till now, haven't taken into consideration the drop of the dollar and the rise in gas—only focused always focused on getting out of here as fast as possible and as unconnected from your parents and their coddling
and their money and their need to take care of you so long as you're doing what they want. this was going to be yours—only yours—not anything they could touch, not even anywhere they could
reach
you if you didn't want, but now as you drive back home to get to some wireless and to find out for sure your heart is racing and your brain is spinning and all you can think of is that hideous school in houston and that engineer school—purdue—where you applied just to keep mom quiet, to throw her off your scent. you're accepted to both of course but have put off any answer, pleading about berkeley and making mom and dad wait. you won't go to any of them—what if you can't go to europe what if you—but you
will
go abroad, you have to. you are calculating the money again in your head, wondering where there could be more, where you might get a job, if mom and dad would let you since school's almost over, how many pairs of shoes you could sell. you will also stop eating, stop going out, stop going to the coffeehouse if you have to, stop spending one cent. you will save enough you will somehow get enough it has to be enough you have to get out of here
now now now
—and you are really starting to panic for real as you click on one-way tickets from atlanta-to-paris. you think you might throw up on that two thousand number—you think that you might just pass out and die.

what you don't know might kill you #2

you are walking tight circles around your room and your fist is in your mouth to keep yourself from screaming. you are biting on your knuckles you are biting down hard and the box with all that (insufficient) money is strewn on your bed. your door is locked and mom's knocked twice but you can't let her see you until you calm down. but you can't calm down you will never calm down because it was your future it was your plan it was a scrap of life that was going to be all your own and not theirs and now it is shattered. and sure you could work awhile and head out after that, but would you live with mom and dad then for that long? you were
counting
on this. this was your
plan
,
something not even luli was free enough to do. but you are an idiot because you have jumped out of a plane with a pack strapped on your back and didn't look to really see if there was a parachute in it. you hadn't thought of that you hadn't been checking you just knew—there's that word again—you were going to go, you knew so much and you were so stupid and now you have no idea what you're going to do.

snapping

when you finally come down mom is quiet and tense but trying to be normal—she doesn't like when you ignore her doesn't like when you shut her out. on your plate is baked barbecue chicken and some almond green beans, biscuits mom doesn't bother to make but gets from the flying biscuit because theirs are the best. and it is a dinner you like and one you told mom to make but now even the smell makes you nauseous and you press your eyes closed. when dad asks what the matter is you say you want to get a job, and the surprise on his face is equaled in mom's. he says if you need something to just let him know, but when you say
i need a job; i need something to do
mom leans closer in and asks if it's to buy drugs for your friends. this is so ridiculous you can't help your cruel laugh, saying
don't be stupid.
and then dad says
don't talk to your mother like that
and then you're somehow yelling at him, telling him he can't control you much longer and you'll do what you want. and mom says
what is it we aren't giving you honey
, they want to know what it is you aren't able to do and she is genuinely surprised and hurt and stunned and confused. and you can't stand their sympathetic eyes always on you their comforting hands holding you down, can't stand that the only plan you really had of your own without them now either has to involve them or isn't going to happen. you hate this dining
room this chair their faces and you need to get
out
, so you push away from the table and keep going when dad tells you to sit down, that we haven't finished talking. you have never acted like this and you don't know what you're doing now, but you know you are running up the stairs—you can hear your feet pounding—and slamming the door to your room. you start sobbing so hard you can barely breathe.

emergency call

when she picks up you can barely talk—just crying and breathing and squeezing out wails, and she says
are you hurt where are you?
and you can hear how she's scared. so you take a deep breath and say
i don't know what to do
, and you don't even wait you just pour it all out on her—the catcher, his girlfriend, postcards from chicago, your ruined dreams. you know you are rambling and half don't make sense but you have to cover everything you have to get it all out—she is your only friend, the only one you can tell anything to, the girl who has stayed with you in three different cities now. and as you talk the crying feels like it's coming from some even deeper place inside you—not your head or your eyes but somewhere deep down in your gut: a place so deep there aren't even organs there anymore just a small black space where you've been shoving your heart. he's gone they're all gone and now you can't go anywhere yourself and it's just too much to handle you can't manage any more. there is a huge wet spot on your comforter from your tears and the drool as you're lying on your side curled up around the phone and she tells you to take a deep breath and then take another and she asks where you are and is glad when you say
home
. she says it sounds awful but she knows you'll be okay, and she doesn't try to come up with
answers which you think is nice. she tells you to take a bath she tells you to sleep she says that will help and we'll figure things out. she waits till you're ready she waits till you're calm and when she says she'll call tomorrow you are so exhausted you just nod.

I Owe Her

She told me

—should I tell her?—

I had to leave him

—would she leave him?—

when he cheated,

—is he cheating?—

that it was broken

—will she be broken?—

even before I broke it off.

Now I have seen him

—did I really see him?—

with another girl

—maybe just a friend-girl—

and I owe her

—she did the same for me—

the same kind of respect.

I will tell her

—what will I tell her?—

simply what I saw;

—what did I really see—

I will be her friend

—she is such a good friend to me—

and be there for her

—she is always there—

in her time of need.

Say What?

What comes out of Nadia's mouth sounds like

Russian

at first.

Then maybe Chinese

twisting into Swahili

becoming Pig Latin,

flipping finally into something originating in France.

I say to her,

Say what?

And she blinks like she can't believe

I can't understand.

When she says it again

—Yes I know. That's his wife;

I'm, you know, the

Other Woman
—my face rushes red and my

mouth hangs open:

empty

of all the things I wish

I could find any language

to say.

Wrong and Right

I might be an amateur

—I may not know everything.

but I know sense when I see it,

and this sure ain't it.

You can't tell someone

to leave someone

if he's with someone else

when you are the someone else

someone else

is with.

When I say so,

she twists up her face:

You wouldn't understand it. It's—

complex.

I want to show her

my report card

—my straight A's in Chem II, SAT score 2175,

my honor roll certificates

and my history fair ribbon

(third place).

I may not know much about

the
complex
world of grown-ups

but I know right when I see it

and this sure ain't it.

Cleaning Therapy

The coffeehouse is spotless.

I have been clearing

and wiping

and Windexing

and straightening

for the last hour,

avoiding

the constant line six people deep at the counter,

making

Nadia and Janayah

fend for themselves.

I pretend

I am concentrating.

Pretend

to be simple—a little girl who

doesn't understand

anything

complex.

When I finally round the counter

Janayah's face

—as usual—is a rotten walnut aimed at me,

but Nadia is smiling.

I think for a minute

it's all in my head,

until she raises her eyebrow,

smirks,

You done pouting yet?

Scales from My Eyes

It's as though I've been

slapped.

And my face stings and reels,

and the ceiling swims

closer than it's ever been and I hear

some unknowing middle school girl say to her friend:

She thinks she knows everything she acts like

we really like her—

and I turn away,

though there's nowhere to look, they're all

laughing inside their eyes,

laughing at me,

laughing the whole time.

Fist in My Pillow

Once for Alec.

Twice for the redhead.

Three times for letting

any of that happen.

Again for my lost friends

twice more for my stupidity

three times for thinking Nadia