After the Kiss (2 page)

Wednesdays

I like Wednesdays because

usually Mr. Burland is in a good mood and

lets us read parts of our work out loud.

Also we won't have a math test

until Thursday and

there are no chemistry flash cards due.

On Wednesdays I can wear jeans

or a skirt

and neither one means I am being

too done up

or

am just jonesing for the weekend.

Wednesdays are the middle of the balance beam

—they are halfway through the plate of lima beans—

they are you-are-almost-to-Saturday-but

you don't have to have plans yet.

Everyone likes Wednesdays.

(They are betterthanMonday and

notasimpossible as Thursday.)

But Wednesday-oh-Wednesday

you are really my favorite because

there is no such thing as baseball practice and

as soon as the school bell rings I

am in my car and

driving to his arms.

Doing Homework

When I tell Mom I am going to Alec's

to “do homework”

I really am.

But first I will

take my shirt off and he will take off his

and we will lie on his bedroom floor

—the mauve paisley rug, smelling of old fishermen

and hiking boots—

sharing earbuds, listening

to Kings of Convenience, Iron and Wine, Satie,

letting

our fingers trace each other's rib cages.

Our breaths fall one, then another.

He will roll over then and

lift my giant, over-thumbed Norton—

flip open to a random page of poetry and

just read.

My eyes will roll back in my head, my breath

will swell and slow.

At some point his reading will become kissing me

and the floor will fall away.

Then, after

—and only then—

can we pull our shirts back on,

become mundane.

The Lake House

Saturday night and

you can't see anything the lights are so dim, but

there is a pulse in this party

—shadows shifting off shoulders—

and whenever you catch a stranger's eye it is smiling.

Alec is

with me for what could be all night long

after a week of have-tos,

and clipped-off time.

He is dizzy

and drawling

and I am

not really drinking this beer, just

standing here

talking to Freya

with Patrick somersaulting in the corner of my eye;

there is

a good song playing

and Eric-Stewart-Tyler

are across the room, conspiring;

a laugh happens in the kitchen right before

—there

Alec's finger in my belt loop,

just—that.

Like the snap of fresh sheets or

the moment your pencil breaks in class it is

so clear and sharp,

I feel it—

his way of saying

Iloveyou

without saying anything

in the middle of the room.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

It's not like

I'm ignored.

But at

these weekly parties full of so many people

—some we know and

three-quarters we don't—

sometimes he needs

—
sometimes we need
—

to take a step

and create some distance,

to back off (he says)

and have some space.

There are still

these tendrils between us:

a glowing magical lasso

connecting our eyes and elbows and hips.

When he moves

I feel them pulling me

—even across a room

I'm not in.

Sometimes it's good, allowing a chasm between us,

though I more sense than see him

squinting across the distance.

Still, he knows

I am always here, waving

from the other side.

Secret at the Lakeside

Away from the crowd,

in the marsh and the mud,

he kisses me,

and the egrets

—crouched in dark trees across the water—

are slim white ghosts

in all that black.

Clasped hands,

breathing

we can see the birds

—dreaming so wildly—

they have to hold perfectly still

just to keep from careening

from the branches.

Hickeys

—are little vampire footprints

telling me

he was here

and

here.

the bees

the first few mornings you stand back and watch the dance and buzz of your friends—the bees all flying around and together, looping in wide circles of conversation: flight patterns from flower to flower and face to face, zooming and arcing, together and back, forward and sideways. your eyes swim your head vibrates with the incessant hum of them in all their crazy, complicated backs-and-forths. autumn goes to connor talks to ellen hugs simon with flip moving to dorie then back to ellen who finds simon again, meanwhile willow pecks jessica who flits to parker talking to connor laughing at dorie, while autumn fake-slaps flip then looks at you, with four more bee boys joining in—your teeth tingling with the sound of them. even after a week it is hard to see the center, hard to find the queen—they are all quivering around together and back, this constantly moving-talking-laughing hivemind of smooth clean rich hippie faces, content to weave and walk together, making what you figure must, eventually, amount to honey.

there are no couples

not any that you can determine, anyway: just a lot of buzzing around (and in, and with) one another in pollen-coated, friendswap delight. you know about ellen on and off with simon then sam, and dorie with edgar except when that band guy jack hangs around, and then there's the weird autumn/connor friends-or-more combo, and all the random hookups you've heard about at these famous lake house parties. it's enough to make even you feel like a prude, and then today in enviro science jessica can't shut up about “hanging out” with parker over the weekend, about varsity hot dogs and milkshakes and just driving around awhile, ending up in the hollywood video parking lot unable to disentangle their mouths and hands and parts long enough to go choose a movie, about pining for him since seventh grade, about closure, about feeling complete, about how perfect it is. you cannot believe the grin on her face, the delight in her eyes and the question in yours—
but you and flip?
—because while there will never again be any boy's wrist to tie the balloon of your helium heart to (it has floated high far away from the heavy stone of that unnamable boy in chicago), you would never be with someone and then someone else, and you would definitely never be someone to someone else's else. but here jessica is in all her “empowered” glory, and you are uncomfortable. when
she sees your face she rushes to explain how, yeah, flip is a little mad at parker but really he has no right because this is her senior year she should be experiencing everything and if he really loves her he'll want her to get all her fantasies out of her system, right? you think yes in some weird way that makes a little sense—it isn't like the idea is
foreign
—but at the end of the day you still wish you had put your hands on her shoulders and simply told her that it's all fine and good if nobody is really with anybody and that's all okay with everybody, but the real point should be to be nobody—not to anybody. that's the whole point.

wandering: atlanta

still not used to a house and not a high-rise, a porch and not a doorman, but you have to admit the wide-open fresh-air space is pretty nice sometimes. though that's where you draw the line. at nice. walking the several long blocks through the empty (weirdly somewhat green in winter) park along ponce to school doesn't bug you so much—the time to think or else not-think is rather welcome, just you and your earbuds and the one-two of your boots below. it's after school when the differences between here and there become painfully clear. sure there are gorgeous, magazine-worthy homes on your street, and sure it's fun—as always—to look at them and wonder about the people inside, wonder what kind of lives they're living. sure too there are shops around—a couple blocks over, then up from your house—boutiques and gift stores and clever little restaurants. a homey pizza joint. a dad-worthy beer bar. even a sweet little gelato place, paolo's—a word you like saying to yourself:
POW-los
—but after two days of ambling, two days of gazing into windows and yards, strolling up this street and that, you realize why you're pacing: there's no coffee place around here. not one you can get to lickety-quick. there is no hideout around the corner. no escape. yes, if you make it the l-o-n-g hike down past ponce, past the “help I'm an AIDS victim” tranny begging spare dollar bills, and the speeding
traffic and the urban outfitters there's a (okay, pretty cool) joint called the san francisco company, but you can't take yourself too many times to a san francisco that isn't san francisco, and besides you're pretty sure dad wouldn't relish you making that little stroll any time near dark. and anyway you should be able to just walk out your door and practically into a starbucks, or four other indie anti-starbuckses, where maybe they have good danish. this town full of parking lots is no good. though you try to be like mom, try to see each city as a new place full of potential adventure, being unable to walk out your door and be in the midst of all the happenings on the loop, being unable to find good places while staying on your parents' short leash makes it sink in that this is an asphalt prison and you're stuck here for four-ish more months before you can fly free.

the event planner

not even two weeks in this new crazy southern sprawl of a town and mom has a handful of invitations and tickets and parks and new things to do and see. it has surprised you in every city and at this point you'd think it wouldn't, but once again instead of being unimpressed and exhausted by it all, she is flinging herself at the experience with wide-open kindergartner arms. this time no coit tower tours or joffrey ballet, but a so-so museum called the high. always the major attractions before she moves on to things with a little more local color. the aquarium. the coke museum. martinis at imax. shows at the fox. a thrashers game when she doesn't even really
like
hockey. she's a tourist in her own town—these moves we make are just one big long vacation for her, so why not make the most of it? she never begs you to go but always
wants
you to, which somehow makes it harder to refuse. harder to sit at home. harder to punish her for bringing you here at all.

mystery mail

the magazines, catalogs, and credit card offers have hardly had enough time to catch up with your new georgia address, but even still, today you have some genuine mail, which alone would be enough to give you pause and crook your eyebrow. this however is a real heart-stopper: a regular index postcard covered in duct tape and foil so that the whole thing shines silver in the sun as you stand there in the grass (not ice and snow) by the end of the driveway, stunned to stopping halfway between the house and the curb. five ragged words are scrawled on the back, along with your address. SHINE ON YOU CRAZY DIAMOND, it says. there is no signature, but you know that handwriting. and the postmark's from chicago.

unwanted memory #1

he wasn't supposed to be there. you'd already said good-bye to him—you were leaving the next day for your new house (new school, new life) in atlanta. it was after dinner and you were full of all the things you didn't want to be feeling, all the things that wouldn't let go of you anyway. it was way after his shift at the museum was over, and you'd already pictured him on the el back to wicker park. the morning would be crazy with the movers packing your final few things—the ones that were really yours—so you took yourself for one last coffee, gave yourself an hour of self-pity you didn't really even understand. then it would be time to chuck yourself under the chin, straighten your shoulders, and not look back. there was nothing left but this. it was all already over and gone—so many things you hadn't said and wouldn't now. it burned your throat; it stung your eyes. so when you saw him sitting in the corner there in his scarf you almost turned around, but it was too late—he looked up, smiled at you with a sadness that crushed your heart. it didn't matter—you'd still be leaving the next day, he'd still vanish, you'd still disappear. and yet you sleepwalked over to him, eyes watering. he stood. he held you. you let him. you didn't speak.

care package

walking up the front steps, still staring at your shiny postcard, you nearly stumble on a package too big for the mailbox; it is in recycled brown paper bag wrap, drawn with stars and ponies and girls in tutus, all aglitter with luli's swirling metallic pens. today wasn't a bad day nor a good day only yet another day but now it has turned into a hooray day and a sad day too. luli girl back in sf with her knee-high socks and her twenty pairs of cowboy boots. her too-short shorts even in january and the tiny black braids all a-kook and poking up stiff around her head. luli and her late-night vespa rides up over twin peaks and out to the crashing coast, her moleskine notebooks filling up with secret thoughts and complex codes. there is no girl like luli: not before or since. you slice open the packing tape and lift out the tinseled tissue, find a hodgepodge of nothing that is all completely her: two enameled chopsticks for your hair, one of those string creatures no one thinks are cool anymore, a mix cd of “songs for the south,” a bag of saltwater taffy and another of those malted milkballs (
can u git them down theyah?
she tries to drawl in her scrawl) that she likes but you don't much. a mad lib she made up for you out of parts of
antigone
, and a pair of red socks a-moo with purple and green cows. she is old-fashioned and still likes to write letters, luli, though half
its contents you already know because she e-mailed newer updates before this arrived. still it is like she is there with you, more than a status update or a photo upload, more than an e-mail, more than a call. the couch is strewn with color and sparkle and she is here with you—luli. like always she has followed you to where you need her to be.