There’s a twenty-minute wait. We sit
in the lobby, people-watching. And
I’m pretty sure we’re
being people-watched too. Funny,
two hours ago, I wouldn’t have felt
nearly as self-conscious
as I do right now. Jenna intuits it.
Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.
Doesn’t she notice
the way people are staring? Then again,
considering how luscious she looks,
perfect little legs peeking
out from under a way-short skirt, and
dream girl breasts gloved sweetly by
a quite tight sweater,
they are probably not seeing me at all.
Jenna reaches for my hand, reminding
me that she asked
a question. Her fingers thread mine,
a checkered weave. “Sorry. Just thinking
about some stuff my dad
said earlier. It’s not important.” Not
nearly as important as how her skin
feels, sea glass smooth
in the palm of my hand. Or the way
her gardenia-scented hair reminds me
of California summer.
Nothing my dad ever says is important.
Not that he bothers to say much to me
anymore. She goes on about
her parents’ divorce, beauty pageants,
orthodontia—oh, and did I know her stepdad
and my parents went to
college together? News to me. Weird connection.
Maybe Fate Does Exist
I’ve never much believed in it before.
But now I wonder if
some things are just meant to be.
If so, I should probably quit over-
thinking everything.
Jenna orders lobster raviolis, Caesar
salad, dares to ask the waiter for cabernet.
His dubious expression
makes her say, Doesn’t hurt to ask, does it?
God, she is ballsy. “Do you drink much
cabernet at home?”
I expect her to answer in the negative,
or maybe with a joke. But, no. Probably
more than I ought to.
Mom always has an open bottle around.
She and Patrick are connoisseurs. The last
two syllables are hissed.
And now I know a lot more about Jenna.
After Dinner
Walking to my car beneath a sift of new snow,
I slide my arm around
her shoulder, and she tucks herself into
the warmth of my jacket, one slender arm
snaking my waist. Very good.
This feels the way it should. The Quattro
is parked out behind the building. We stop
beneath a muted streetlight,
and I turn her so she faces me, her sweater
soft and warm against my thin cotton shirt.
I look down into eager eyes.
“Have you ever kissed a black guy before?”
Who, you? You’re black? I never noticed.
And are you saying
you want to kiss me? She doesn’t wait,
but tilts her chin and parts her lips, a quick
flick of her tongue inviting
me in. Our first kiss isn’t uncertain. It’s smoking.
Cara
Not Uncertain
About the fabric of me.
My skin is unblemished,
kept that way by some
amazing dermatologist
who
discovered the secret of
“zit-free” somewhere deep
in the Amazon jungle.
I’m sure that my hair
is
enviable—a burnished
bronze waterfall. What
I’m more than a little
vague about is
the stranger
who keeps insisting
she is the real me—
and that if I would allow
her to take up residence
inside
this flawless shell,
I will finally come to terms
with who I was born to be.
I’m Not Sure Who I Am
Not sure who I want to be,
or if I have any choice at all.
Maybe I’m two people.
God, maybe I’m many.
Does that make me a freak?
Do I belong in Aspen Springs,
finger-painting scenes from
my childhood, right along with
my messed-up brother? Now
there’s a great family snapshot.
Twin number one: a warped sex
addict, filled with enough self-hate
to try and end it all. Twin number
two: unclear about her sexuality.
In love (?) with a guy. In lust (!)
with a girl. I have zero doubt
about the lust. As for the love,
I believed it was real. But how
can I want to touch someone
else if love is what I truly feel
for Sean? We’ve been together
almost a year, have plans
to continue seeing each other
postgraduation. In fact, I know
his college plans revolve around
me. For the most part, he’s kind.
Supportive. Not once has he ever
tried to force me to give him more
than hot make-out sessions. Sex
is something that, up until now,
I haven’t felt ready for. But without
it, how can I possibly answer
the question grating the inside
of me—scraping till I’m raw. Lust?
Love? Are they mutually exclusive?
Absent sex, how will I know?
Maybe I’ll Find Out Tonight
Sean and I are going out after
his exhibition game. I’m getting ready
to go watch him play when I hear
a familiar name spill from behind
Mom’s half-open bedroom door.
…don’t care about legalities,
Mrs. Sanders, and I’m certain
the school board won’t either.
Not to mention the press, and if
you refuse to see my side of things,
that’s where I’m going next. Anyway,
I’m sure you could use a fresh start.
You won’t find a teaching position
in this city again. I think the best
option for everyone involved is for you
to move on. The smell of Mom’s drink,
acrid and telltale strong for so early
in the day, hangs like incense in
the air leaking from her room. I hurry
away from it and down the hall.
Poor Emily. Against the furious
force of my mother, she is powerless—
flotsam riding a whitewater
course impossible to divert.
No wonder my father offers gauze-
thin excuses to not come home.
Lately, he’s almost nonexistent.
Something to do with Conner?
Surely I’m not the only one lifting
a backbreaking load of guilt.
Or maybe they really don’t care.
Me? Sometimes I think I might implode
from the pressure. But implosion
is not what’s expected of me.
Everyone I know would totally
freak if they even suspected I have
splintered, alone in my room.
I never reveal that Cara. That girl—
frail and choking back secrets—
is the Cara I am determined to conceal.
Bundled Up
Against the flecks of snow,
flu
ttering from the sky, I sit in
the sparsely populated bleachers,
watch Sean belt a long fly
ball to center, where it sinks
into the fielder’s glove. Sixth
inning. No heroics so far today.
He gives the catcher a little shove
as he turns toward the dugout.
The catcher springs to his feet,
gets in Sean’s face. What the fuck?
Before they can beat each other
bloody, the umpire steps in,
issues a reprimand. Sean smiles
and looks up at me with searching
eyes, as if to ask, Understand?
I shrug. Frustration is evident
in the taut slope of his shoulders.
But there’s also a copper-hot seethe
of anger I hope he never directs at me.
I Have To Admit
It’s not the first time I’ve seen
a hint of someone… hateful
lurking behind nice guy Sean.
Is he flint, waiting for a flick
of steel to spark some inner
grenade? He never used to be
this way, at least never in front
of me. When did his temper surface?
I notice it now in the way
he attacks the ball, charging
grounders, slamming them home.
I see it in how he smacks base
runners, tries to intimidate them
wide. This isn’t about winning.
It’s about conquering, and when
he errs, there’s more than pride
on the line. Bottom of the ninth,
two-all tie. One out, Sean comes
up to bat. Please let him hit!
“Come on, baby,” I shout.
“Piece of cake.” First pitch,
he tenses, swings way out ahead.
Easy. Easy. Thwap! He bloops
one over the shortstop’s head,
an ugly hit, but whatever. Grant
Blakemore takes two quick strikes,
and Sean’s chancy lead pays off
when he steals second. That makes
the pitcher pissy. He throws
hard and inside, nicks Grant’s leg,
sends him limping on over to first.
Our coach plays a wild card,
sends Bobby Duvall up to bat.
He fouls off the first three pitches.
Perfect. Perfect loser, that is. But on
the fourth, he must see the fastball
coming. He squares, slams a solid
hit into right field. Sean scores,
he and Bobby co-heroes this time.
It will be a good night after all.
It Starts Out Great
Sean is famished, so we go out
for pizza. I pick at one piece
while he polishes off four.
Are you sick or something? he asks.
“No. I just like watching you
eat.” Not really a lie. I like how
he tears each bite almost daintily,
wiping tendrils of hot, gooey cheese
with a napkin before they can drip
down the front of his clean denim
shirt. I like the way he’s careful
to keep his food unseen behind
closed lips. Sexy lips. Full. Soft,
for a guy. I like how his arm muscles
flex when he reaches for another
slice. I like the charm of his smile.
I like knowing he loves me.
There’s something safe in that,
and yet, beneath pepperoni and onion,
he wears a thin scent of danger.
Danger Scent Is Somehow Attractive
I follow it to Sean’s truck, its big
chrome bumper leering through
a delicate veil of snow. I climb
up inside, determined to gain
some understanding. I need
to know if this is where I belong.
At this moment, it feels very right.
I scoot close to him. “Let’s go.”
He looks at me with confusion-
clouded eyes. Go? You mean
home? I thought we’d hang out
a little or something. No?
I run my hand along the meaty
muscle of his thigh. Wow. All
that lifting paying off. “Can we
go someplace private?” I sigh,
and implicit in the soft exhale
is something I’ve never offered
before. Sean does not fail
to notice. Really? He hesitates,
then starts the truck and heads up
the highway toward Virginia City.
Thank God it has stopped snowing.
My fingers play with the pendant
Sean gave me, sliding it back
and forth along the chain, the motion
sensuous. The road snakes south,
then north, ultimately taking us east,
and I wonder if life is like that. Go
one way, then another, to end up
someplace else. Finally Sean pulls
into a turnout overlooking city lights.
“Beautiful.” I lift up on my knees,
turn to face him, kiss him as if this
might be our last kiss—intention clear
in the race of my heart and the way
my tongue tangos over his. He pulls
back. Wait. Are you sure? In answer,
I squirm free of my sweater. Now, that’s
wet and rough and punctuated
by sharp nips of teeth. He lays me
back across the seat and his thumb
runs along the waistband of my jeans.
Danger scent envelopes me. You
are ready, aren’t you? He fumbles
at my waistband and I hurry
the unbuttoning, desire a steady
thrumming, like rain upon
tin. Strangely, I’m not afraid.
Sean is a hot salt rub, friction
against my skin, and it all feels
good. Right. I reach for his belt,
want to touch what’s below his belly
button. Except… it isn’t how it should
be. Sean rolls away. Goddamn it. No!
Stunned, tears spatter my cheeks.
“What’s wrong? What did I do?”
Hands shaking on the steering
wheel, Sean whispers, It wasn’t you.
Kendra
It Wasn’t Me
That’s what you said—
it wasn’t me who sent
you running, spinning
into someone else’s arms.
No,
it had nothing to do with
me. So why do I think
if I had only been thin
as rays of dawning sun
it
all would have worked
out differently? Flawless,
you needed a girl without
imperfections, and that
wasn’t
the troll who lives in
the room beyond
the looking glass. No,
your perfect girl wasn’t
me.
An Ugly Rumor
Has surfaced, scum rising to stink
up the hallways at school. I get it
from Bobby Duvall. Did you hear
about Mrs. Sanders? His tongue, I swear,
lolls to one side, like a summer-tired
dog. She and Conner were… you know.
“What are you talking about, Bobby?”
But I see the story in his eyes, and in
how some of the other kids passing
by stare, then quickly look away.
Kali Benson told me. She was in
the office and heard Jerkwad Taylor
&
nbsp; talking to the superintendent. Looks like
we’ll have subs for the rest of the year.
I want to scream that it’s a lie. But
certainty plunks into my empty stomach.
Of course it’s true. Conner trashed me
for a teacher. A woman twice his age.
I don’t see what all the hype is about,
you know? I mean, she didn’t, like, force
herself on him. Ask me, he was a lucky
son of a bitch. She’s a fucking babe.
I smoke him with my eyes. “Shut up,
Bobby. The whole thing is totally vile.”
Blood whistles in my ears, and my face
drains, cold. The mirror would tell me it’s
the color of chalk. I reach one shaky hand
inside my locker, grab a small bag of dry-roasted
almonds. I take five, chew them one
at a time, seven calories each. Thirty-five total.
I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since breakfast,
yesterday. So why is it so hard to swallow?
Distracted
Light-headed. Irritated by the stupid
gurgling in my stomach. Five almonds
will not get me through PE, which means
I have to eat lunch or risk passing out. Good
thing I brought a salad. Lettuce. Red cabbage.
Half a carrot, grated. No dressing. Forty-three
calories, all negative. Now, to find a private
place to eat. I can’t handle the swarm of voices.
Every time I let my ears pick up conversation,
hey hear the same snippets: Mrs. Sanders.
Conner Sykes. Sex. Sex. Sex. Goddamn him.
He told me he loved me. I loved—love—
him, too, so I said okay. Did he love me?
Did he love her, too? Did she love him?
Love is supposed to take the “wrong”
out of making love. Was any of “us” right?
Too Icy
To run outside, we’re doing laps
around the gym. The wood is slick
and hard, but I like how my legs feel,
pounding against it. Some of the girls