After the Kiss (8 page)

luli's laugh

you call and tell her about the catcher. and at first she laughs and you think she (like you) is just amused by it all—a baseball player writing poetry, how ludicrous—but then her voice turns serious and she says
you're not really serious, are you?
and you say,
what?
and you don't mean for it to be so defensive, don't mean to sound as though you're protecting anything, but then she laughs again and says
i get it; never mind.
and you insist,
no really, what?
and she says you're a funny girl. and asks have you gotten any good mail lately. and you don't know what kind of mail she means (mailbox or inbox), and you don't think she'll be able to listen to either kind, with that judging laugh, even though she's a fan of chicago and might want to know, so you keep it all to yourself and change the subject. you tell her a joke about the girls at school. you give her something to really laugh about.

speaking from experience

you can still hear luli laughing over it but the truth is you just can't stop thinking about that catcher with the haiku. you're not really sure why and half the time you think even thinking about him might in some way be swimming against the wrong current. when it comes down to brass tacks all you really have is yourself. why pretend there's ever anything other than that? why can't that be
okay
? what are you going to do with that boy in chicago—go through the whole darcy thing again, go back to writing and writing—trading photos every day so she could see your new town, so you could still see your old one—until marissa kept showing up in her photos and then those photos became fewer and fewer while yours kept coming, trying to prove how cool life was in charlotte—even though it wasn't. are you going to do that with every new connection you make, in every new town? yes those chicago postcards and the memories attached to them are lovely (and wouldn't it be so nice if you could have him every day—if we could—), but people don't get to keep anything forever so who are you kidding? sure luli would say,
well how do you know?
she says spending your life trying not to get hurt is not really living, that she wants to live like a trapeze artist: if her body tells her to jump she does it because otherwise she'd just be cowering there on the platform
when she could be flying and leaping with someone, maybe even for a long time. that's what luli thinks. but everyone loves luli. luli's never had letters unanswered. she's never sent photos no one wants to see.

not getting ready for a date

it's not like it's a date. how could it be a date since you don't date anyone, because dating's a trap, because dating is totally dated? because you are the girl who stays unconnected to everyone. still, you do know he will be at the lake house tonight. and he knows you will be there. and you both know that right now you are probably getting ready to be there, knowing the other one will be there. it's why you're sitting here staring at your closet with a disaster of discarded outfits on your floor. it's why you can't decide between jeans or the deconstructed tuxedo pants. it's why you wish you'd bought those killer turquoise cowboy boots you saw with mom last weekend, and why you can't decide if your hair goes down or up. he'll be there. you'll be there. and eventually you'll be there together. and you're not sure what's going to happen—what's already happened is confusing enough—but you do know you're sure something will happen. maybe like last time you'll just talk. but that was still something. something for sure. he thought it was something too because what about those e-mails? so this isn't just going to another weekly party. it's more like kind of a date. even though you don't date. which is why you're not sure why you're sitting here getting ready as though it is a date. but why you're not able to act like it isn't one, either.

the kiss

he just comes at you. you barely drop much of a
hey, how are you?
there on the back deck where people can see—and he just comes
at
you, surprising as a tornado on a sunny day, blowing the roof off, pulling up the fence. you see him and you smile and then it's just one step, two steps and he's over you and under you and all over you and it's not some
you're cute i might like you
kiss, nor a confused and disgusting sloppy-slather fueled by all that vodka kool-aid he's obviously had. no, this is a mouth with momentum, a train on one track paying no heed to any warning clangs, a chemistry set just waiting for someone to put the wrong powder in the right tube and make something explode. this kiss says he needs you more than all those puppies put together, that he'll aim over and over at the tender haiku buried deep in your own trenches until he hits the right syllable. this kiss will wipe your mind of all things, will make you forget your name your face what town you're living in and who's driving you home. it is a kiss that, when it ends—after he's summoned laughing into the dark by shouting boys in the driveway—will leave you gasping and glossy-eyed for hours later, will follow you home as you stare in the bathroom mirror at the chewed-looking spots his stubble left on your chin. it is a kiss so loud and long that your whole mind will scream,
that can't happen again,
while your body will still twitch a little, wondering if it could just once more.

memory reset

monday lunch and ellen is all eyes and ears wanting to know about you and the catcher, the boy you forced yourself to forget all day yesterday, doing french extra credit you don't need, making sure your mind didn't wander—helping mom with dinner, organizing your socks. now ellen is nudging and winking so loud that dorie and willow and autumn and connor and even some of the boys are curious, looking at you, listening in. when you try to brush her off with rolling eyes and a flick of the wrist ellen says
oh no
and grabs your shoulders and presses her forehead against yours and says in this silly deep voice
you were having an illicit mind-meld and we want to know all about it
. and you laugh a little and think
was that it
? some kind of meeting-of-the-minds that's resulted in yours now being a little half-melted when you think about him? maybe you need to remind yourself that a clash of personality traits you didn't first anticipate does not—does not—mean the world's reversed its poles, that you don't still know exactly how this is all going to wind up in a few short months anyway, no matter how many haiku he writes or how he kisses. even these friends now—look at them, look at their faces closely—will be gone and leave you, and you will leave them, and you know that. wrap your arms around their shoulders now, drive in their cars to parties, pinky swear you've never met anyone like them before, have your
slumber parties and hold them close, but remember the thing you know and they don't is that this time right now is even more fleeting than you think. remember all you are doing—with anyone—is killing time. (though killing time with a catcher who can kiss like that seems a lot nicer than killing time alone.)

New Morning

Force myself

to get up at five AM—master

the half-blind hair wash,

the sticky-eyed climb

into clothes I don't care about.

Suffer silent

along the empty-blue-black drive

past houses with their hats

still over their eyes,

the trees waiting in dark quiet

for the golden tickle

that means the sun.

Straighten my spine

on the crisp-cold walk

to the back bakery door

with its warm yellow light.

Inside inhale

deep enough to make my toes uncurl:

coffee-cinnamon-pastry-welcome

—a new morning

no one else has smelled.

Work quickly,

filling glass cases with

warm pumpkin-buttery bundles,

croissant toasty crispness

and deep doughnut delish.

Laugh with Nadia

—her smile

always on anyone,

but this morning, just me.

Clasp

the steaming mug

offered in my direction.

Realize

how much I like it—

starting the day this way.

Telephone Evolution

In the old days (Mom says)

it would just ring and ring and ring,

callers counting

twenty, twenty-one,
(he could be

just now running in from outside)

before giving up.

Next came answering machines

(we still have an ancient one for the telemarketers)

that allowed for screening—

deciding whether or not

to pretend to be out.

Now there is the cell phone:

more immediate, less discreet—

I can tell, for example, after two rings and a click

that for the first time

he has seen my number, hit IGNORE.

The Coffee (Heart) Break

After the superspeedway

of Sunday morning doughnut drive,

coffee chaos,

and tablewipe tumbling

there is a small lull

—a pause.

I can sip

my own coffee—break

my own doughnut into small pieces to savor.

This is the time

—Freya knows—

someone can come by

and I can do more

than wave at her like a drowned girl.

She can come

—fifteen minutes before the after-church lunchers—

and I can sit

on the patio with her a minute,

ask about last night.

It is enough time even

for her to show me her phone

—the photos she took last night at the Lake House—

and ruin my life

forever.

With Apologies to WCW

so much depends upon

the red (handed) cameraphone photo

glazed with pain

(of him) standing beside

(with his mouth all over)

the (creamy) white chick

Numb

At first a column of heat

—a lava charge—

bursts up from the tail end of my spine and

rockets

up to the top of my skull

—fills my eyes—

so that for a moment I can't see and all I feel is

heat.

But it is the last thing I will feel—this fever wind—

because after that I am ice:

a white tundra of unmoving blank:

a glacier only very slightly drifting

—unaware of its own motion—

across a dark and frozen sea.

Fury

Freya's face is a fist,

her frustration a force

unfurled and frenzied—lashing

against the redhead, my boyfriend,

the entire (cheating) world.

Coming from her each hate-filled word falls—

one poisonously sour grape after the next,

leaving a miserable, permanent stain

on everything touched.

Island of Relief

After Freya leaves, the sorrow is a tidal wave,

pounding me so hard it is difficult to see

—strident tide smashing

everything in sight.

I am a drowned girl:

lungs grabbing dark water,

filling with—[seeking]—the source that will

silence and bury.

A pale hand plunges—grabs—

and insists: rise.

I am a gasping, sputtering face,

looking for a life raft.

Nadia is calm, cool, solid—

an ivory island.

In her comforting concern I will rest and think,

gulp for air,

try to breathe again.

Helpful Advice

Janayah's left alone at the counter

and I will get in trouble,

but I don't care I

can't breathe after all.

Back in the kitchen Nadia

holds me by the scruff of the neck,

helping me stand,

cleaning me up.

I know it hurts,
Nadia says calmly,

but if he cheats, it's over.

Maybe not over for you

but over for him

and in that case it is just

over for you both.

Over like the last pizza crust.

Over like hitting E with forty miles

to the next fill-up.

Over like a blackout.

Over like an execution.

Her face is still a new doll to me—something

to admire but not yet fully know.

But her voice is serious as the grave:

concrete, set and poured.

Break it off,
she tells me,

sounding like some Old Testament Bible verse

about a right hand and its offense.

You have no choice,
she says.

This girl usually so full of sunshine,

now black clouds sweep across her brow.

Against her finality my heart thuds, once.

But around it my soul echoes empty,

her words careening back and forth and back,

ringing like truths.

And Yet the Boss Wants Me to Smile

My body is

scarecrow scraps of hay held together

by unshed tears.

My voice

a strangled crackle

squeezed between imprisoned cries

scratching my throat.

The afternoon clock mocks

—each slow second a shard lodged in skin.

How can I ring up coffee

as though it is important,

when I can't imagine anything

being important

again?

Recipe for a Confrontation

Begin with

one hideous rumor,

two awful photographs,

and three cups of doubt.

Stir in

a difficulty nearly a whole week long

and five phone calls today