The Realm of Possibility (8 page)

It's not in the student handbook.
It won't be on any AP exam
Or as a word problem on the SATs—
Finding pot is to Clara as
Giving birth is to a man.

My mother wouldn't have had this problem
When she was my age, I'm sure she knew every source
Hanging out in the parking lot pick-ups
Blasting the radio to some tune that's now an oldie.
That's how I see it, she is so sure of herself
And she has no more understanding of me then
Than I do of her now.

I go to Jed because he's probably my only friend
With more than a passing knowledge of marijuana.

He's friends with so many people that it baffles me.
I guess I am his token Socially Inept But Intelligent friend
Or at least I would be if he wasn't friends with
All the other Socially Inept But Intelligent people in our class.

I know he won't laugh at me
Or ask too many questions.
I don't know which I am more afraid of.
The truth is laughable.
And the truth isn't funny at all.

One time my mother told me she had this friend named Leo
Who carried a hula hoop around with him at school.
He kept everything inside of it. Chapters from his textbooks,
Coins for a soda. Even a comb that he'd filed down to fit.
I think my mother was in love with Leo, at least a little.
He would let her twirl the hoop with her waist and
She would hear all of his possessions turning around her.
Then they'd go outside and get stoned, or at least
That's what my mother told me.

I tell Jed I've never understood the word “stoned.”
I thought the whole purpose of smoking pot
Was to find a kind of lightness, to lift a burden.
This is my way of introducing the subject.
He says he never understood the term “pot” either
Since it's not like you're boiling the weed.
I hear “weed” and wish that finding pot
Was as easy as picking dandelions in the park.

I say, “If I wanted to find some, where would I?”
I don't add, “It's not for me,” because I swore to myself
I wouldn't say that, couldn't say that, even to Jed.
Jed looks at me curiously, but is going to play along.
“You'd go to Toby,” he says. “You know Toby.”
And I tell him it depends on the definition, because
Of course I know who Toby is, but I haven't spoken to him
Since we had recess together—the kind with jungle gyms.
“Do you want me to ask him?” Jed offers. But I say
No, I have to take care of this myself.

I think my mother has this line she's made for herself.
She'll tell me she's done drugs, but she won't tell me
What it was like. She doesn't want to make them sound good
But the stories with drugs are always the exciting ones.
I think she was high when she met my father,
Which would explain a lot of what happened next.
Because even I know that a high isn't something you can keep
Day to day. They were at a concert and she fell in love
With his shirt. I've seen the shirt in the back of the closet
At his house. It's yellow and purple. It makes no sense.

Toby is not a bad guy. He's just not my kind of guy.
I think the only thing we have in common is that
We both hate gym. When people make the distinction
Between “smart” and “intelligent,” he is an example of “smart”
And I am an example of “intelligent.” He carries a knapsack
Covered with buttons for bands whose names seem to come
From the Dictionary of Contentious Words. He sleeps in class,
Wakes neighbors at night. The principal knows him by first name But can never nail him for anything more than his attitude.

I walk over to him on the sidelines at gym, even as
I realize that not even Toby would have pot in his gym clothes.
“What's up?” he asks, like we talk all the time.
“Not much,” I reply automatically. Then I teeter
And am about to walk away when he says,
“Did you want to ask me something?”
Not like he knows the answer. I'm speechless, so he says,
“You looked like you wanted to ask me something.”
And I say, “I need to get some pot.”
Just like that. I expect alarms to go off,
All the kids on the field to stop and gape.
I expect to have become a lesser person.
Or at least for Toby to be surprised.
But he just says, “Not here. How much?”

I have no idea. He prompts me,
“A nickel? A dime? A quarter?”
And I have no clue whether he's talking cost
Or some other measure. So I just say,
“A half-dollar,” and he whistles like I'm
A real player. “Come over at four,” he says.
And I nod, thinking as I walk back to pick up
My field hockey stick that this is the first time
That a boy's asked me over in a while.

My mother likes to say she was never a genius
Because she probably killed too many brain cells.
From the way she says it, I know she thinks
I am most probably a genius, and I have
Way too many brain cells left.
She is always telling me to have fun.
I want to ask her when she last had fun.
But that would be too mean.

There is nothing honorable about Honors Society.
We meet once a month and talk about what
We're going to put on our transcripts, always
Leaving off one or two things, so we'll be underestimated.
I'm sure nobody misses me when I don't show up.
They probably assume I am at home studying.
Or volunteering with the elderly. Or doing something prodigal
With a violin. I doubt they think I am heading to Toby's
To buy some pot with the money I was saving
For a prom dress that's seven months and one boyfriend away.

I look in Toby's garage to see if his parents are home,
Although maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe they know.
Their industrious son answers the door in his boxer shorts
And an unmarked T-shirt. He asks me in and offers me
Something to drink. I decline. I am so nervous
But I realize he's not the one making me nervous.
He is so casual. So sure of himself. I would buy
A nickel of that, a dime, a hundred-dollar bill.
He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a baggie of pot.

And I think it's remarkable that he trusts me
To keep quiet, to never give the principal his name.
He trusts me as easily as he trusts the bag to keep from breaking.

“It's really good stuff,” he says. “I promise.”
I wonder if it's enough and figure it probably is,
At least for now. I ask him how much, and he names a figure
That's more than nickels and dimes but still less than I'd imagined.
My hand is shaking as I reach into my purse
For my wallet the size of a filing cabinet.
“Coupons?” he asks. I nod. He smiles.
“I always forget to use them, too.”
I pay him. He doesn't bother to count it.
My hand won't stop shaking and now my body
Is chiming in. “Are you okay?” he asks.
And I say what I swore I wouldn't say, which is,
“It's not really for me.”

He doesn't question this. He just closes the drawer And I know our conversation—our transaction—is Complete. I thank him too much and he says, “Anytime.” And the way he says it is so gentle So sweet that I'm afraid I am going to cry right there In his foyer. His parents will come home and find This sobbing girl with a baggie of pot in her purse. I don't think he understands me at all, and I admire him for not even trying. For letting me Take a moment to make myself presentable For an outside world that will remain outside Even when I'm in it.

I wonder when my mother last had a joint. I wonder If those nights when I'm hanging at friends', watching videos, She's been toking up in the backyard, or even in her bedroom, Turning on the fan so I won't notice the telltale smell. Or maybe it was something she gave up, Like my father, or their marriage, or my delinquency. Should I have checked her eyes when she picked me up From Quiz Bowl? Does it matter? That was a while ago.

I go straight home and don't have to look in the garage To know she's around. There's a light on in her bedroom That I see at all hours of the day. I throw down my bag, Kick off my shoes, unravel myself from school.
I have drugs,
I think, and smile at myself goofily in the mirror. I can see the thrill of the sneaking, the stashing, the subterfuge. But that's not my plan. I have five minutes to relish it, Because I can hear my mother stirring upstairs, Which means she hears me footstepping downstairs. I pick up my bag, pick up my shoes, and head to her. The door is open. There is nothing in the silence of the house To disturb her.

And even though I am used to this
Even though I should be used to this
For a second I think this is not
My mother just lying here like a body
Barely a person, almost a ghost
Strength as thin as paper
Breathing harbored underneath
Labored, saddened, closed

Eyes that speak for all the senses.
This is not my mother
It is who my mother becomes
When the treatment doesn't work
When the future's eyes are closed.

But then she senses I'm in the room
And she opens her eyes and sits up against
The throne of pillows I've left her to.
“Clara,” she says, her voice so many things wrong.
And I tell her I've brought her something
To ease the pain. I move closer
Pulling the baggie out. At first she doesn't understand.
Then there's recognition. Surprise. My name, this time,
Is a full exclamation. “Clara Barger! Is that?!”
She laughs and hugs me and opens the baggie,
Probing her fingers inside, then inhaling like an old pro.
“Good stuff,” she says. And the delight in her eyes
Is my idea of heaven. I have done this one thing right.

She asks me if I have rolling papers, and then quickly tells me Not to worry, she has some of her own. When she doesn't tell me Where they are, which of her drawers, I know that I am not going To be a part of this. This is something she is going to do alone. She tells me I've done enough already, that she is happy. Even without it lit, she bends her head and inhales. Closes her eyes, but this time she is not a patient, my father's ex, Or even my mother. She is ducking out to the parking lot. She is holding the hand of a day she never felt she'd touch Again.

We always hug before I leave the room.
This time it wraps me a little more.
The sun hasn't gone down yet
But she's saying goodnight, she's saying
She has some evening plans. I tell her
To have fun, to not do anything I wouldn't do.
Which is a lie, and we both know it.
That night as I type a paper about Emerson
And talk on the phone to a boy who's only good for
Calculus, my mother blasts the stereo so loud I think
The neighbors will complain, and the air lingers
With a spice and a flame this house hasn't known
For years, unless you count dreams.

In school the next day
I talk about the novels of Jane Austen
The quadratic equation
Heisenberg's Principle of Uncertainty.
I conjugate four languages
Discuss all the periods of Picasso
And the reasons Jane Grey was beheaded.
But like always all I'm really thinking about
Is a bedroom with a woman sick inside.
Today I picture her toking up,
Smiling over the pain.
Please put that on my transcript.

In gym, I don't see him, but when I'm walking home
Toby appears at my side. He says, “Hey,”
And takes something out of his backpack.
It's a Gap bag, but I can tell there's another bag
Inside. I didn't know I'd signed up for a daily
Delivery service. I am annoyed
At myself. “I don't have any money,” I say,
“I can't.” He smiles and says, “Take it.”
We stop and he unzips my bag and puts the pot inside.
“I'll have to pay you tomorrow,” I protest.
And he shakes his head.
“Just take it.” “But I don't want it.”
And then he says,
“It's not for you.”
And I know
He knows exactly what's going on. My secret
Is so much less a secret than I ever thought.
He does the most unbelievable thing then
Right there in the middle of the road
He gives me the biggest hug and I just about fall
Apart. How can I
Thank
Protest
Comprehend
Him? He won't give me a chance
He nods once
Acknowledging me
Then walks away.

I've always put thoughts in the margins. Some pages are all margins—just the words thrown down and recorded wherever they land. I have spent most of my time in high school doing this. Sometimes a word or two from the teacher will break through. But not often. Instead I just think through the pen. Whatever comes. I won't even try to explain it. There is no need to explain it. Some people like to doodle cartoon animals and other people write notes to other people. Fine for them. I've never been like that. It is always raining in my head. The closest thing I have to order is the way the lines are set on the pages. But even those I disregard. And then one day I jump right off. Instead of turning the page I just start writing on the desk. All that open surface. Right there. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. The words just start to fall there. And I feel some satisfaction from that. I've never written just for myself. And I've never written for anyone else. I write for the release of it. For finding out what will be there when I am done. The desk is the dull yellow that can only be found in school furniture. My ink is the blue that can be found anywhere. I don't even give thought to what I am writing. THERE IS NO MEASURE TO VOLATILITY. I write it again and again. No idea where it's coming from. The appeal is that one word. VOLATILITY. Next period that is all I write. VOLATILITY. Carved so hard I almost break my pen. Stains the side of my hand. Nobody notices. But I know the people who come in the following periods will have to notice. Will have to think about it. Even if they are just
going to dismiss it. The next day works the same way. I get a sentence. COMMISERATE WITH THE COMMON. And then I pare it down to a word. COMMISERATE. This time someone notices. This guy named Daniel leans over and asks What's That? I tell him I have no idea. He nods as if that makes sense. The girl in English isn't as cool. She says You Know You Really Shouldn't Be Doing That. So I write YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. She looks like she wants to tattle. But she doesn't want to be that uncool. Something about the YOU ARE grabs me. The next day I write YOU ARE HAPPY EVEN IF YOU ARE AFRAID TO ADMIT IT. And it makes sense. Because how many times have I heard everyone complaining and complaining and complaining? As if sitting back and acknowledging that things aren't all that bad is somehow wrong. Then I write YOU ARE FOOLISH IN YOUR UNHAPPINESS. Nobody wipes off the previous days' messages. They accumulate like skid marks. Sometimes they intersect like answers in a crossword puzzle. It gets crowded. I start writing on walls. I KNOW THIS IS NOT A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE THING TO DO. I start in the bathrooms because it is more hidden there. Sneaking into the stall. Avoiding the blow job notices and the anonymous insults. YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. That one gets to me. I sit there on the toilet and stare at it long enough to miss the late bell. I try to convince myself that I don't believe in who I am. Even though I know that itself is a belief. I take the phrase outside. Hit the hallways when everyone else is in class. Write small. People start to notice. There is a mystery to it. I think people will know right away that it is me. The desks haven't been cleaned off. The evidence is right there. But I think at first people like that it's a
mystery. YOU WEAR TOO MANY MASKS. It would be easy to simply baffle them with jibberish—The Walrus Walks At Midnight. But that's not what the margins have been about. I want to make sense. One day all I can write is the word PLEASE. Over and over again. Above mirrors. Beside fire extinguishers. PLEASE. I have to be careful now. Teachers are starting to frown on it. The janitors clean off the desks. They try to erase the walls. YOU SHOULD NOT HIDE, I write. Those are the words that come. Are they addressing me or everyone else? I just put them up and walk away. People start to become uneasy. I don't know how to describe it. I walk in between classes and see people gathered and staring. GIVE HER A CHANCE. And the bizarre thing is that I can see some people are finding meaning in it. Like I'm posting bulletins from the truth. YOU SHOULD NOT WALK AWAY QUITE YET. Like the trick of flipping the coin. When what you're really doing is seeing if you agree or disagree with the outcome. Or the fortune teller's wisdom. Knowing the vague is the universal. Knowing that we all have these things in common. The word PLEASE means something to us all. We are all so damn insecure. With unease comes hostility. People start to cross me out. The Principal makes an announcement. Daniel asks It's You, Isn't It? But I know he won't tell. He is intrigued. PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT. It's that girl. I know it is. Amber something. The next day's announcement is for me and me alone. So I go down to the office. But not before stopping around the corner. Pen ready. The first word: LIVE. The second word: UP. The third: TO. The fourth: YOURSELF. The Principal doesn't care what I've been writing. He says it's where I've been writing it. I am to clean every last word. Erase every last thought. Strange, I don't mind. I know