strike next or what will happen to me?
IT’S ALL QUITE LOST
On Aunt Cora, who thinks,
because I’m her maid of honor,
I must be honored. I should tell
her how I feel, but I can’t bring
myself to mute her vibrant aura.
Even I, a total aura neophyte, can
make out the shimmer. Do all
brides wear an opalescent halo?
Liam’s family expected
a June wedding. (How cliché.)
But Aunt Cora didn’t want to
wait. What, did she think he’d
vanish, or curdle like old milk?
Or maybe she was worried
he (or she) might have a change
of heart? I don’t pretend to
understand. All I know is they
settled on a Saturday-before-
Christmas wedding. So now
she not only ruins the rest of my life,
she ruins the Christmas before
the rest of my life. Not to mention
Thanksgiving. Holidays will never
be the same again. Nothing, in
fact, will ever be the same.
No more Saturday-morning
pancakes or Sundays filled
with too many football games.
No more late-night black-and-
white movies or yoga exercises.
No more easy laughter. Aunt
Cora is Liam’s. And not mine.
SHE DENIES THAT TOTALLY
Whatever the future holds,
I will always be here for you.
I made that commitment a very
long time ago, she claimed.
We were shopping for her wedding
gown. Waiting for the sales-
lady to bring out another dress
to view. Size six. Off the shoulder.
I could have picked out the dress
she eventually chose without her
even being there. I know her. Too
well. Will I know her next year?
Nothing will really change
that much, she promised. Except
I’ll be living with Liam, and
I’m kind of doing that now.
True. Other than wedding stuff,
I hardly see her at all. Which gives
me much too much time alone,
thinking about my own future.
ABSORBED BY STATUS QUO
I never really thought very far
beyond the day-to-day. Next year
I’ll graduate high school. Then what?
University? Doubtful. Community
college? Maybe. But I still have no
idea what I want to be. Teacher?
I can’t imagine spending my days
trying to keep kids in line, let alone
trying to teach them something.
Astronomer? I actually love scouring
the heavens, imagining what might be
out there somewhere. But how do you
make money doing that? Doctor?
Blood makes me sick. Stockbroker?
Yeah, right. Some tedious job seems
the likely road, and routine might work
best for me. But will it bring happiness?
Fulfillment? I don’t even know if that matters.
Beyond “what will I do,” where will I live?
I can see Grandfather failing, though
he’d never admit it in a million years,
especially not to himself. If he gets sick,
I’ll take care of him, like he’s taken
care of me. But if he dies … what?
My fingers begin to tingle. I’m alone
now, as I’ll be alone then, swallowed
by silence. I rasp razor-edged air.
On my own. Don’t want to be there.
Can’t breathe. On my own. Must.
Breathe. On my own …
SUDDEN FOCUS
Buzz. Silence. Buzz. Silence.
What? Doorbell. My head clears
with a deep breath. Doorbell?
Bryce. “Just a second,” I call
loudly. Don’t leave! I’m here.
And now he is here with me.
I go to the door, trying not to
look as pasty faced as I feel.
An exercise in futility.
Are you okay? are the first
words out of Bryce’s mouth.
You don’t look so good.
“I’m fine now you’re here.” I pull
him over the threshold, close
the door quickly, so the neighbors
don’t notice I have a visitor. I want
it to be our luscious little secret.
Grandfather and Aunt Cora
are in Austin, scouting Baptist
churches that might be available
for an hour or so on short notice.
With dozens in the phone book,
Hours, anyway, providing the perfect
opportunity to spend some quality
one-on-one time with Bryce.
We’ve never been quite so alone
together. His arms surround me,
and I sink into him, grateful for
his warmth. “I love you.”
And I love you. His mouth covers
mine. His lips are soft, and his tongue
tastes of cinnamon. My heart rockets.
This kiss is somehow different than
all the others. It builds in intensity,
and with no one around to take
notice, I have no reason to slow
the swell. Bryce’s apple-rain scent
envelopes me. I gulp it in. Devour it.
Want to devour him. What sorceress
has possessed me, infusing every
nerve ending with intense desire?
SORCERY OR HORMONES
Something has possessed me,
and whatever it is, it stops
kissing Bryce. But only long
enough to say, “Come on.”
It leads him down the hall,
into my bedroom. I think
I should stop it. Don’t know
if I can. Don’t know if I want to.
Autumn (me?) has no control
as it invites Bryce onto my bed.
He pushes me back against
my pillow. Peels away his shirt.
Unbuttons mine. Stares down
at me with love (lust) harbored
in his eyes. Wow, he says, before
kissing me again. Only this time,
his lips move across my neck,
down over my collarbone. To
the soft mounds beneath. I want
to say, “Wait.” But it won’t let me.
I can barely catch my breath, but
this time for all the right (wrong!)
reasons. My heart jackhammers
in my chest. Bryce must hear!
His lips stop traveling my torso,
long enough to encourage me
out of my jeans. His come off too,
and I might stop to fold everything
correctly, but it insists I just leave
our clothes heaped together
and take a good long look at Bryce.
Except for sex ed pictures, I’ve never
seen a penis before. But I’m def
seeing one now. “No,” I want
to say. But it reaches out. Touches
Bryce there. Likes how the skin
feels. Likes the heat. “Stop,”
I want to say, but it makes Autumn
(me?) do things she doesn’t know
how to do. I realize suddenly that
it means to make her go all the way.
This is like watching a movie, only
I can’t find the remote. No way
to pause
. No way to reverse.
Off go my panties. Now everything
moves slow motion. Finally I find
my voice. “Wait. I’m not sure …”
It doesn’t let me push him away,
but it does let me say, “I’m a virgin.”
THAT SLOWS HIM DOWN
But he doesn’t want to stop.
Instead he becomes gentle.
You want to, don’t you?
I want to say, “Maybe not,”
but it maintains control,
kisses him. “Yes. I want to.”
I won’t hurt you, he promises.
Let me make you ready.
He touches that place.
Kisses that place. It moans.
No, Autumn moans. No, I moan.
And I see that it is really me.
REALLY ME
Here with Bryce,
wanting to give
him all of me.
I’m scared.
But he has made me ready.
“I love you.”
The words spill
from my mouth
just before
a bright flash
of pain.
Breathe.
He is in me when he promises again,
And I love you.
Did it hurt?
Can I keep going?
He waits
for my answer.
“Not too much.
And yes.”
He starts to move.
Slowly at first.
Rhythmically.
I follow his lead and together
we move faster.
Into the tornado.
Rocked by an
apple-scented
maelstrom,
skin to skin
with the person I love, every vestige
of doubt vanishes
in white-hot bolts
of lightning.
No pain now.
No sense
of wrong.
Everything is perfect.
WE LIE TOGETHER, SILENT
For a while, legs knotted,
his fingers twisted in my hair.
A foreign scent lifts from our
skin. After-sex perfume.
Not altogether unpleasant.
Eventually he says, We should
probably clean up. Ever
showered with a guy before?
For some crazy reason,
embarrassment attacks.
I’ve just gone all the way. And
suddenly I’m worried about him
seeing my naked body? “Never.”
Whether it’s the tone of my
voice or the look on my face,
he grins. First time for everything.
The sheets are a mess, and I
am compelled to strip them
immediately. Hope OxyClean
can handle it. Meanwhile,
Bryce has started the shower.
By the time I get there,
the bathroom is rain-forest
steamy. We step into the shower
together. Hot water streams
over my bruised, used body.
Bryce picks up the soap.
You wash my back and I’ll
wash yours. He washes more
than my back. And I do
the same for him. It’s all so
decadent, all so someone
other than me. I’d call it fairy-tale,
but it’s more like pornography.
Would you look at that! It’s
ready for more already.
You are some kind of magician.
I’m not sure how long it usually
takes for it to get ready again,
but it definitely is. I don’t think
magic has anything to do with
it. Just a good lather rub. And me.
THE SECOND TIME
Is better than the first. Does
it just keep getting better?
This is probably not the time
to try and find out. Peaks of
afternoon have worn down toward
soft hills of evening. “Guess you’d
better go soon,” I say, wishing
he could stay here forever.
Bryce finishes dressing. Okay.
I’ll go. But only under protest.
He always says the right thing.
“Can we get together tomorrow?”
He smiles. Can’t get enough
of me? Well, the feeling is mutual.
Promise infuses the day’s last kiss.
That makes it the best one yet.
I AM LOADING
My sheets into the washer
when a little voice nags,
Uh. Hello? Nice time and
all, but I think you forgot
something kind of important.
Something important, like
protection. You know, birth
control. You can get pregnant
the first time, remember?
Or maybe that’s what you want?
Why on earth would I want
to get pregnant? Maybe as
a way to keep Bryce attached
to you? A way to make sure
you won’t be alone after all.
But that might make him
think you trapped him? Might
drive him away? Nah. He’s
the type to stay. Even without
him, you wouldn’t be alone.
THAT LITTLE VOICE
Is crazy. I don’t want to get pregnant.
(I don’t want to get pregnant, do I?)
A baby would change my life forever.
(Like my life is so perfect right now?)
I’d have to quit school. Be a dropout.
(You could finish up via the Web.)
I’d get fat. Have morning sickness.
(There are ways around those things.)
Grandfather would disown me.
(Grandfather doesn’t own me now.)
Aunt Cora would be disappointed.
(Aunt Cora has already moved on.)
Marriage is nothing but a trap.
(Who said anything about marriage?)
A baby needs a mom and a dad.
(Not like Bryce would disappear.)
But what if he did disappear?
(Then I’d still have a baby to love.)
A NEW FANTASY
This one can include Bryce and me
in the kitchen, only with a baby,
sleeping soundly in a pink nursery.
A little girl.
I feed Bryce breakfast, kiss him
good-bye. He heads on out the door
to work. The baby wakes.
Wanting her mommy.
I breastfeed her, change her,
put her in a pretty, soft dress.
Take her to the park in a stroller.
Everyone wants to see her.
She’s a model baby. Hardly
ever cries. Has my red hair
and Bryce’s hazel eyes.
The perfect combo.
AM I NUTS?
I am all about order.
Dryer buzzes.
Remove sheets immediately.
Fold, wrinkle-free, perfect corners.
What is a baby?
Dirty diapers.
Messy high chairs.
Sour spit-up on clothes.
Babies need order too.
Clean diapers.
Clean clothes.
Clean high chairs.
Clean babies are happy babies.
Smiling babies.
Cooing babies.
Cuddling babies.
Cuddling babies fill you up.
Fill you with happiness.
Fill you with devotion.
Fill you with love.
I AM MAKING MY BED
When Grandfather and Aunt Cora
breeze through the door,
talking
about details. Wedding talk is details.
… people on the guest list.
… people in the wedding party.
… people the church can comfortably hold.
Even all the way down the hall in
my room, I can hear how Grandfather’s
staid voice has bloated with enthusiasm.
… flowers for the altar.
… flowers for bouquets.
… flowers for centerpieces.
Grandfather discussing flowers?
Surreal! They don’t even call my name,
sure of the fact I’m here somewhere.
… reception location.
… reception music.
… reception food.
I don’t want to think about any
of it. I only want to think about
Bryce. Making love. And babies.
I GO TO JOIN THEM ANYWAY
Mostly because they’ll probably
come looking sooner or later.
Just as I reach the kitchen,
I hear a cork pop. Loudly.
Aunt Cora screeches. Ah!
Where’s my glass? She turns,
smiling, as I come into the room.
Guess what? We found a church.
I point to the champagne
bottle, foaming merrily down
its neck into a bubbly puddle
on the counter. “I figured.”
Want some? She glances quickly
at Grandfather, who is scribbling
notes at the table. He shrugs,
so she pours three glasses,
before I even say, “Guess so.”
I’ve had champagne a couple
of times. Always very small glasses.
I’ve never, in fact, gotten drunk.
Glasses raised all around,
Grandfather offers the toast.
To Cora and Liam, and to two
lives together as one.
Who knew he was a poet?
As we clink-and-drink, I offer
my own silent toast to Bryce,
me, and new directions.
The champagne goes down
like a froth of hope. Aunt Cora
refills our glasses, but I’m already
feeling a bit on the “sparkly” side.
My brain fuzzes with thoughts
of the afternoon, and when I catch
Grandfather talking about the relative
merits of orchids versus roses,
I laugh. Inappropriately. Aunt
Cora looks at me. Really looks
at me, head cocked like a pup
at a whistle. Come here a minute.
SHE PULLS ME INTO THE HALL