Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
knocks down the white sentinels at the
end of another alley. The manager's mad
(like I had the skill to do that on purpose)
and other bowlers are looking at us. The
kind of attention I hate. We finish the rest
of the game under their glares, inspection.
Later, just before sleep, I replay the scene
and know I wasn't knocking down pins. I
was annihilating the Sugar Plum Fairy
who      danced      in      my      head.
Next Day, Shopping with Andy Sucks
but not because of him.
Mall's stuffy and
Christmas lines are
as long as the plot
of the movie
he's telling me about.
Still, I listen.
You listen to your friends.
Even if you don't tell them everything.
Christmas shopping means
Where the Wild Things Are
,
book with Max doll for Court.
Astronomy book for Dad.
The ugliest tie I can find
for Claude the Interloper.
A leather journal and a
cool-looking fountain pen for Mom.
          Two presents for her
          since her birthday's on the
          twenty-eighth.
That leaves Vanessa.
I want to go home
take a nap
play Diablo.
                    “Dude, you should totally
                    get her something sexified!”
Slugging him would
require too much energy.
“You're talking about my
girlfriend, asswipe.”
                    “I'm just sayin'. Look!”
                    He points.
MAKING HOLIDAYS BRIGHT SALE
Neon panties in Victoria's Secret window.
                    “Come on, Dude.”
                    Starts walking over.
“I'm not going in there.”
                    “Dude, you know
                    she'd love it.”
“I'm not.”
                    “Quit being a pussy!”
“I'm not, you idiot!”
                    “Afraid panties will bite?”
“What if someone sees?”
                    “They'll be all over you!
                    The ladies love a dude who buys
                    his girlfriend something romantic.”
What can I say?
“I'm not going to buy
her underwear in front of
you, perv!”
                    “WhateverâLindy Carmichael
                    works in there.”
                    He heads over
                    toward the store.
                    I reluctantly follow.
“So?”
                    “I wanna go say hi.”
“Why?”
                    “She's hot!
                    What's your problem?”
My Problem
is back in a big way
since the day
of
The Nutcracker
.
(I would love the irony
of THAT if I could love
anything right now.)
For weeks
that
word had been quiet
and I didn't mind
my body all that much.
Not totally at peace, but it was
serviceable, functioning.
And sexâ
    itself feels great
even if the parts sometimes
seem a little wrong
and it floats through
my head more often
than it should
that I'd give anything
to experience it
the way she does
                    from the other side.
Still, it's my body
that gets to feel it
and that made
the rest ⦠livable.
But that's not
enough anymore.
I have to get away
from Andy's questioning stare.
“Catch you later,”
I say.
            “You're a freak.
            You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
He        falls
            back
          into
              step
          with
me.
Arrrrgggghhhhh.
We head to GameStop,
shop a little longer,
check out
new games.
          “Let's go see Lindy.”
“Gotta get homeâ”
            “C'mon, Dude.”
He drags me over.
Satin and Silk and Lace and Perfume
A kaleidoscope the second
we're through the doorway
into Girl World.
Andy goes off to find Lindy,
leaving me alone.
And piles of thongs and bikini briefs
are strewn on the table in front of
women and girls
who peck through panties
like magpies or crows.
They have every right
to be here, to be at home.
I don't.
It feels awkward, I knew it would.
And I'm furtive.
What if someone guesses?
Illogical, I know.
But is there any logic
to the fact that I'm once again
Jealous? With a capital
J?
Girl World isn't my place
but I wish it were.
Any logic to the fact that
everything's softer, better
or that I know
I could belong here?
(With the right body parts, that is.)
An extremely helpful salesgirl
(not Lindy Carmichael, thank God)
presents her tall,
thin but muscular,
near-perfect selfâ
asks if I need assistance.
Heart thumping,
I clear my throat,
point
to a mannequin wearing
a satin padded push-up bra.
“I'd like that for my girlfriend.”
My voice strange to me.
The Girl World envoy asks about size.
I have no idea what to say.
I shrug.
          She laughs, asks, “Is she about
          my size? Bigger, smaller?”
My stomach flips.
“Bigger than you,” I say.
Tense shoulders, dry mouth,
I wait for it to be rung up.
I punch in my PIN.
Transaction complete
I can
breathe again.
At the door Andy
catches up with me.
            “Scored a date with Lindy!”
We high-five,
then he
grabs the bag
looks in to see the gift box.
                      “Awesome, Dude. Maybe
                      now you'll get some!”
Christmas Day
Claude the Interloper
plays Santa and
Court tears through her presents.
Loves mine best of all
hugging squeeze around my neck. Kisses.
                              “Brendy, you're the
                              best, read it to me?”
And I feel good
for a minute.
I open my gifts slowly.
A video game,
some books,
and, inside a thin blue envelope,
tickets to see a hockey game.
          “Boys' night out.” Mom smiles.
          “Just us guys,” Claude says.
I know the tickets weren't his idea.
Maybe Mom's looking at it as bonding
but you'd think having been my mother
for seventeen years she'd have a clue
that I don't like sports.
Not even the one I play
because it will look good
on my college apps.
            (It's not just meâ
            lots of guys don't.)
Still, it's
the wrong gift on so many levels.
Throat tight, I thank them.
Then it's off to Vanessa's.
Holiday-Schedule Bus
is slow
and after I get off
I still have to
walk up the hill
past a little guardhouse
where the attendant
waves me into the
gated community.
At her house,
a lingering kiss
under the mistletoe.
I hand over her gift.
She smiles,
hands me one, too.
We open together.
World of Warcraft and a
masculine thick bracelet
for me.
Name-engraved
stainless steel water bottle
for her.
A minute of quiet.
“You knowâso you don't
always take mine,” I joke,
but the silence stretching
like a lake between us
tells me I screwed up.
I don't know what to
say to her
about anything.
Wrong gift on so many levels.
And I'm a knotted snake of
love and guilt.
If she's disappointed in this,
how much worse
if she could
read my mind?
After a minute
of quiet she kisses me,
says thank you,
and we pretend it's okay.
Sometimes you don't get what you want.
(Vanessa)
Could He Be Less Romantic?
I guess it could be worse:
a tool set
or a book about
war atrocities.
I'm not materialistic,
but a water bottle
with my name on it?
And it makes me feel stupid
for always drinking
from hisâ
like it annoys him
every time I do that
when I thought
the gesture was
our little connection,
a welcome way
around his idiotic
no-contact rule.
I have to wonder
if he loves me
as much
as I love him.
I drive him home.
No time for a detour.
“See you after dinner?”
(We have a plan: ditch the holly-
and-the-ivy stuff,
later head down to Mono Cove.)
                                        “No. Family crap.
                                        My mom says I have to
                                        stay home.”
It may be true
but she let him come over
after dinner last year.
He doesn't look me
in the eye.
“Really.”
It's not a question.
                          “Really,” he says.
                          The statement is firm.
“Pick you up tomorrow?”
                          “Maybe. I'll call.”
“Is something wrong?”
I ask. Stomach curling.
Was I bitchier about
the present than I thought?
                          “NoâI just have to go.”
He leans over
kisses me so fast
I hardly feel it,
then gets out
and practically runs
up the path to his house.
Merry f'ing Christmas.
Back at My House
                          “Did I hear Brendan?”
                          Mom's voice drowsy from her nap.
We celebrate
le réveillon.
The traditional French feast
starts after Mass on Christmas Eve
and keeps on all nightâshe's tired.
Or maybe her mother-in-law's
long visit is wearing on her
very    last    nerve.
“I just took him home.”
Slam into my room
before anyone can get
a look at rejected me.
                          “Honey?” Tap tap tap.
                          “Are you okay?”
                          Mom calls through the door.
“Fine,”
I tell her.
But of course
I'm not and she knows it
in that radar way she has.
                          “What is wrong with Vanessa?”
                          Grand-maman
                          doesn't sound drowsy.
                          “Nothing.” Mom's voice
                          snaps shut. They both go away.
Crying into My Pillow
is
              a
                        cliché.
I hate being a loser
but
            hurt
                          feelings
leak out and
make
              it
                        wet
anyway.
(BRENDAN)
At Bedtime
even after the bath
that usually mellows her out,