him to know any details about Bryce
and me, some people might
say I’ve earned it to some
degree. But, hey, a month
of secrets in seventeen years?
I’d say that’s not so bad.
And a month of romance
in all that time means I’ve got
a fair amount of catching up to do.
I HAVEN’T CAUGHT ALL THE WAY
Up yet. Haven’t gone all the way
“there,” not that he’s asked to.
Part of me really likes that—
that he respects me enough
not to pressure me into something
I’m probably not ready for. Part
of me wonders if I’m not good
enough for him to even want to try.
It’s warped. So am I. Although
I have to say, with Bryce in my life
I feel a little less distorted than
I used to. He grounds me. Not only
that, but for once, people at school
don’t look at me like I’m a complete freak.
Not with Bryce’s arm around my waist
as he walks me to class. Not when they see
us steal kisses (you’re not supposed
to swap spit in the hallways). Not when
they see us come and go in his car,
stereo blaring. Sometimes grunge,
sometimes country. I’m happy to listen
to Three Days Grace. And, with some
coaxing, he’ll agree to Toby Keith,
though I haven’t quite convinced him
Toby’s music is rock with a Texas
drawl. On weekends we manage
to steal some time together, if I can
talk Grandfather into letting me go
to a game, the mall, or the library. Bryce
will meet me and we’ll cheer our team,
window shop, or make out behind the stacks.
I must say, I’ve become a pretty good kisser.
And I’m starting to like how that makes me feel
in places I’ve always refused to think about.
YEAH, I KNEW I HAD THEM
I took sex ed twice
in middle school.
I totally get the
mechanics, and
when it comes
to spelling the
names for those
places, hey, I’m a
regular champ. But
up until now, the
idea of putting
that knowledge
to genuine use
seemed way too
complicated to
consider. Not to
mention more than
than a little messy.
Okay, when it comes to E X, I’m retarded. But
better late than never.
IF YOU BELIEVE THE HYPE
Pretty much everyone my age
has been doing it since puberty
claimed them. I have no idea
how
accurate that is, but think it must
be a gross exaggeration.
In health class, Mr. Vega said
most self-proclaimed virgins
will
resort to self-satisfaction. Just his
saying the word “masturbation” out
loud bellowed embers in my face.
I
have never … could never …
At least I’m pretty sure I could
never. Mr. Vega also said
that the best way to
know
what you like is to experiment
without a partner. What I like?
That’s up to me? And anyway,
I’m
afraid if I happen to figure out
what I like, I might never stop
doing it. OCD masturbation.
The world is definitely not
ready for that.
WONDER WHO THINKS I DO
Aunt Cora? Maybe, maybe not.
Seems like satisfaction of any type
would make one’s little gold flecks
multiply like jackrabbits. My aura
would sparkle like an Oscar-
night Yves St. Laurent. And anyway,
Aunt Cora is probably too busy
basking in her own satisfaction
to worry too much about mine.
Cherie? She thinks I do, of course
she does. She’s got a grubby mind.
Grandfather? No way. If he thought
such a thing, for even one
minute, he’d cure me, Baptist-style.
The only other person who might
care is Bryce. Oh God, I hope
he doesn’t think I do. Hope …
Wait one sec. Maybe I hope he does.
HOPE HE DOES
Because, so sayeth
Mr. Vega, the big M
is normal. I want Bryce
to think I’m normal,
though I suspect he
might guess otherwise.
(Guess otherwise and like me
anyway? What’s that about?)
Hope he does because
that would mean Bryce
is putting me and sex
in the same thought,
something I’m pretty
sure no one else has.
(Want—really want—him to think
about me in a sexual way? Weird.)
Hope he does, mostly
because putting me
and sex in the same
thought means he’s
got me, Autumn Rose
Shepherd, on his mind.
(Means he’s got me on his
mind in any way at all.)
I WISH I WAS SPENDING
Thanksgiving with Bryce. Just the two
of us, plus cornbread-stuffed turkey,
taters, gravy, cranberries, pumpkin
pie. Skip the green bean casserole.
Aunt Cora loves that stuff. Claims
it’s her specialty. Special? Uh …
Anyway, it’s my fantasy, so
excise the French cuts, smothered
in mushroom soup. Start with
Bryce and me nibbling each other
for appetizers while the bird
roasts and the pies cool
on the counter, perfuming
the kitchen with cinnamon and
nutmeg. Bryce leans me back
over the Formica … scratch that.
Fantasy, remember? Leans me
back over the shiny black granite,
kisses me. And not in a nice way.
And I kiss him back, with every
fiber of me screaming, “Go ahead.
Say okay. You know you want to.
Beg him to—” Except a buzzer
goes off. The turkey’s done. Taters,
too. Gosh darn food fantasies.
TURNS OUT
The buzz isn’t fantasy. It’s my cell,
insisting I’ve got a text message.
Bryce. Wonder if he was reading
my warped mind long-distance.
He’s in San Diego, spending
the holiday with his grandparents.
Hey u. CA wud be prettier if u
wur here. ’S cold w/o u.
Abbreviations irritate me. I text
back without resorting to shortcuts.
“Hey, you. Texas is always warm. But
Thanksgiving would definitely be
a lot more fun if you were here.
I’d even cook for you.” I hit
the send button, fall back into
my kitchen fantasy. But not for long.
My cell buzzes again. Wish u wur
cooking 4 me. Gram’s cooking
mostly suks. Hey, are u a good
cook? Cuz if u r, I think I luv u.
DID HE MEAN
He loves me? Like for real?
Or was he just being funny?
My stomach flip-flops. How
should I answer? Should I answer
at all? OMG. Because I think
I love him, too. But do I dare
tell him that? What if he didn’t
mean it? I might scare him away.
But what if he did and I don’t
let him know I feel the same way?
Why doesn’t love come with
an owner’s manual? Maybe I should
try “funny” too. I text, “No matter
what kind of cook you are, I think
I love you, too.” My finger hesitates
over the send button. I reread
his message. Reread mine, too.
Ah, what the heck? Here goes.
OFF
Through
cyberspace
the declaration
travels. Byte
by byte.
I wait.
One minute.
Two. No answer.
Please, Bryce?
Seconds tick
by. Damn!
Joke.
Just a joke,
Bryce. Please
don’t be mad.
Please don’t
Buzz!
I jump. Afraid
to look. But
glad when I do.
Good. C u
Sunday.
I SOAR
Up, up, dangerously close
to heaven, and I’m not
the slightest bit afraid.
I
have never even once in
my life felt like this before.
Like anything is possible.
No matter how messed up I
am,
this amazing guy cares
about me. Maybe even
loves me. That’s seriously
crazy.
My aura must be all the way
past toffee, to coppery.
Gold, even. I have an
in-
sane urge to tell someone
about this. But even Aunt
Cora would have a hard
time believing I’m really in
love.
I CRASH
Back to earth. Back to reality.
Back to Thanksgiving with strangers.
Aunt Cora swore all would be well.
You’ll love Liam’s family, she promised.
And you’ll feel right at home. I’m even
making my green bean casserole.
Yeah, boy. Thanksgiving would not
be the same without it. Everyone’s
supposed to bring something.
How about your special cranberry
sauce? asked Aunt Cora, when I
claimed I didn’t know what to make.
I use two secret ingredients—
orange and cinnamon. It’s easy
but tedious, and three hours until
we’re supposed to ring the doorbell,
I should get to getting, as Grandfather
says. Aunt Cora usually helps me, but
she’s already at the Cregans’, dousing
green beans with cream o’ shrooms.
I DON’T NEED HER HELP
I’ve made this recipe twice a year
(Christmas, too) since I could tell
the difference between a saucepan
and a skillet. It just seems strange,
going through the familiar motions
laughter free. The kitchen throbs
silence. The sound of my sock-padded
footsteps echoes, wall to wall to wall.
I yank open the cupboard, grab
the necessary utensils, clanging them
cacophonously. Noise to battle
the hush-edged aloneness.
Then I line up ingredients in correct order.
Cinnamon. Cranberries. Oranges. Sugar.
CRANBERRIES SIMMERED
Sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon
added. Everything in a pretty glass
bowl, gelling rich red in the fridge,
it occurs to me that contributing
to the eardrum-slicing quiet is the fact
that Grandfather has not yet appeared.
We should leave before too very
long. I explore. Living room? Empty.
Hall? No sign of anything living.
Foreboding strikes suddenly. I march
right up to Grandfather’s bedroom door.
Knock, half expecting no answer.
But on the far side, a drawer closes.
The sound precedes footsteps
across the complaining wood floor.
Coming, Grandfather calls. Coming.
Twice, as if convincing himself
he really needs to get a move on.
I imagine him pajama-clad
and candy-stripe-eyed, but
the grandfather who opens
the door is one I’ve never, ever
seen before. “Wow. I didn’t
know you even owned a suit.”
A genuine grin creeps cheekbone
to cheekbone, and his eyes—
clear as a cold-water creek—fill
with delight. Dug it out of mothballs.
Today is a special occasion.
Thought Cora might appreciate
you and me dressing to the nines.
Go put on something real pretty.
It’s an order. But a gentle one.
THE WHOLE THING
Is so unexpected, I’m halfway
changed into a plum-colored silk
blouse when my fingers start to
tingle and my breath stutters short.
Wait. Why now? Nothing’s wrong
except … Except for this sudden
feeling like the world just flipped
upside down. South Pole on top.
Santa’s lair at the butt end. I close
teeth. What is going on with me?
It’s just one dinner at the home of total
strangers. One stupid holiday meal,
Grandfather and me putting on the dog
to impress … who? One Thanksgiving,
not a commitment, not forever … Dread
stuffs itself into my head, and I can’t say
why, let alone know how to fight it.
IT’S NOT EXACTLY UNUSUAL
For anxiety to trill suddenly.
But usually, somewhere in my brain,
there’s a certainty that it’s ridiculous.
This doesn’t feel that way. This feels
like a warning of coming chaos.
I finish buttoning my blouse,
tuck it into the striking tie-dyed skirt
Aunt Cora gave me on my last birthday.
I’ve never worn it before. It seemed
like a treasure. One to hang in
the closet, a safe place to keep
it. Now that it’s on, it’s only cloth.
I finish dressing, brush back my hair,
tie it loosely with blue velvet ribbon.
Grandfather will be pleased.
But I’m frightened by what
I see, held completely still in
the mirror’s glass grip. The girl
captured there, staring back at me,
is someone I don’t recognize.
THAT GIRL
Curves softly
inside flounces
of fabric. She looks
like the woman
I’m afraid to grow into.
Lifts her hand
with uncommon grace.
She could pass for
the sophisticate
I’m too clumsy to be.
Touches cheeks
blushed berry in
steep hollows.
I wish I knew who
sculpted her face.
I don’t know
that girl. The only
thing familiar about
her is how she wears
fear in her eyes.
IT IS THAT GIRL
Who gets in the car with
Grandfather. That girl who
rides, silent as a ghost, for
ninety-three minutes, barely
even acknowledging her
grandfather’s faltering small talk.
That girl who stares out
the window, counting water
tanks and watching big and
bigger American flags flap
in the wind. That girl who
quick-freezes after arrival.
Coming? asks Grandfather,
exiting the driver’s side and
then, in a most gentlemanly
fashion, circling the car to
open the passenger door.
What can that girl do but join
her grandfather on the wide
sidewalk? Together, the two
assess the Cregan place—
a huge, upscale tract home.
One of those houses that
resembles its huge, upscale
neighbors to a creepy
degree. The houses come
in three hues—beige, gray,
and not-quite-white. Not much
to distinguish one from another
except the number of stories,
size of the garage, and gravel
color. Even the plants—native
Texas species, known to thrive
in this climate—are the same.
All, no doubt, must be approved
by the homeowners’ association.
Part of me likes the conformity.
The order. Part of me wonders
if anything ever disturbs it.
Wind? Rain? Hurricane?
Birth? Divorce? Argument?
What difference does it make?
THE DOOR FLIES OPEN
Before we make the welcome mat.
Some sort of chaos, after all?
But no. It’s just a jacked-up Aunt Cora.
Come in! Everyone’s here. She snatches
Grandfather’s elbow, tugs. All right,
he snarls, tugging it back. I’m working on it.
Maybe his suave exterior is nothing more
than a barely disguised case of nerves.
I follow, cradling my cranberry surprise
as if it might jump from my arms. Aunt Cora
leads us into the kitchen, where most
of the celebrators have gathered.
She sidles up to Liam, pulls him over