tonight
to a place I never
expected to be: inside
the Yellow Mini,
listening to Mark
talk about
his dad’s death
and his quest to bury
his dad’s key.
He even showed me
the dirt in his nails,
as if he thought
I wouldn’t believe him,
as if it really mattered
that I did.
Then he said he wanted
to show the spot to
someone and he thought
that someone could be me,
that something about me
made him think
I’d get it
and not laugh
at him or call
him crazy.
The whole time
I was listening
I kept thinking
how strange it was
to be inside
the car
that is normally
reserved
for popular people,
like maybe it was all
a mirage,
Except Mark was real
enough, gripping
the steering wheel,
turning to me,
telling me
more and more
of his story,
the words pouring out
inside the metal hull,
my ears their only
audience,
like he was performing
a symphony of sorrow
just for me.
I kept thinking
he’d eventually notice
who he was talking to
and stop and try
to lock his words
back up inside
the tough image
of himself he likes
to project at school,
but he talked
all the way home,
then even more
in the driveway.
When he said that what he did
with the key was weird
but simple, I told him
that Chopin said Simplicity
is the highest goal.
That’s what I strive for
when I play.
He thanked me
for listening and said he hoped
I’d forget about
at the party
because shit like that
happens to everyone
and that, in the grand scheme
of things, it didn’t really matter.
And the funny thing was,
as I walked into my house
later than ever before,
my mom trying
her best to hide
in the curtains,
like she thought
I’d come home
in a million
pieces,
it suddenly didn’t.
Simplicity
Stacey's Mom
It was so simple:
his two arms around
her, forming such a lovely
shape, one that’s been captured
in so many ways through the years
in so many famous works of art. As
I watched, I couldn’t help thinking how
hugging used to come to us so naturally; we
did it with both girls, and each other, all the time,
yet just now it was like he had to relearn the gesture,
like someone in rehab, learning to walk after an accident.
Into the Adult World
Annabelle's Mom
It’s like Annabelle’s growth replaced
mine—her limbs, her hair, her ability
to laugh and walk and talk became my
milestones, my own thwarted.
I used to envy the girls I’d graduated
with when I saw them, turning
from girls into women, their newfound
confidence and plans for the future.
They’d coo over Annabelle in her stroller
and, in a way, I knew they envied me,
like they thought I was the one who’d
crossed over into the adult world.
They thought becoming a mother gave me
an automatic ticket, one that let me
bypass all the growing up
they still had to do.
On the outside, I was doing adult things:
shopping for food, banking, arranging daycare,
but inside I was still seventeen, shy, unsure,
stepping timidly outside of myself.
It took me years to make my way
from secretary to agent, baby steps up
the ladder, learning to speak up
and walk like I really belonged.
Now, watching Annabelle pack for New York,
flinging her generic clothes into her bag,
I know it will all be different for her—
nothing will hold her back.
I want to grab her and hold her and tell her
how proud I am of who she is. I did a better job
than I expected. She is stepping out the way
I wish I could have. Part of me will
go with her.
LIGHTENING UP
Mark
Tonight, I don’t feel the full
weight of my body
when I hit the mattress.
Like before
I buried my dad’s key,
I wasn’t a body
but a torpedo clunking down
ready to explode
And send bits of heavy metal
all over my room
and through the walls
to my mom’s room
Where she sleeps alone in a king
-sized water bed that must
feel wide as an ocean
beside her.
Tonight, I want to wake her up
and show her how light
I am, like she could lift
me up herself.
It sounds crazy but I picture
the two of us doing
an old-fashioned dance,
twirling around,
My hand on her small back,
steering her away
from the clutter of stuff
we should
Go through one day, things
like my dad’s big oak
desk under the window,
or his stacks
Of Outdoor Life magazines
that are so covered in dust,
they look exactly like
tombstones.
First Step
Annabelle
Sunday night
Packing for New York,
I picture this:
The bus crossing
the Lincoln Tunnel, emerging
into Manhattan, Christopher and me pointing
out the Empire State Building
the Chrysler Building,
and other famous landmarks.
The yellow taxis winding
through busy streets, cutting
through Greenwich Village, taking
us to where the conference is waiting
at NYU.
In the morning,
the store grates scraping,
pigeons cooing,
and cars honking
will wake everyone up and send us hurry
ing
to our workshops.
In the evening
Christopher and I will be gazing
at stars splashed across the high ceiling
of the Planetarium
My mom is helping
me pack and I can feel her thinking
that this is my first step to leaving
her behind—she keeps sighing
heavily, like she is picturing
the saddest things in the world.
I know it wasn’t easy, having
me so young, raising
me alone, putting
her dreams on hold, forgetting
about things she’d been wanting
to do forever, like dancing
on Broadway, singing
in musicals, taking
on the world like I am about to.
I can’t imagine anything stopping
me from living
the kind of life I want.
And when we’re in the workshops, learning
about ways to make a difference, sharing
ideas with other kids, I know I’ll be thinking
about my mom, working
at a job she doesn’t really like, giving
me so much.
Whatever I end up doing
it will have meaning
because of her.
I won’t leave without telling
her that.
On the Bus
Christopher
Packing for New York
I picture this:
Greyhound rolling
down the highway
in the middle of the night.
Through the mountains
climbing, falling
in the path of high-beam light.
In the window
we’re reflected,
touching, talking, sleeping tight.
MY YELLOW MINI
Mark
Is bright as the sun,
speedy and slick.
It takes me places I need to go,
determined and quick.
Maybe it’s true that my dad wouldn’t have wanted me
to buy it. Maybe he would’ve seen it
As a ticking time bomb, like the one that landed
on his roof as a kid.
But I don’t believe that—not now that it helped me
find the land he loved. Now,
If he’s looking down, he’ll see me and Mary
winding up the mountain.
He’ll hear me humming Chopin
and he’ll know that I’m okay.
Copyright © 2011 Lori Weber
Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8
Published in the United States by Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8.
www.fitzhenry.ca godwit@fitzhenry.ca
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Weber, Lori, 1959-
Yellow mini / Lori Weber.
ISBN 978-1-55455-199-6 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-838-4 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8645.E24Y44 2011 jC813’.6 C2011-905599-6
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S)
Weber, Lori, 1959-
Yellow mini / Lori Weber.
[ 248 ] p. : cm.
Summary: A powerful free-verse novel that intertwines the coming-of-age stories of five teens and
their relationships with each other, their parents, and themselves.
ISBN: 978-1-55455-199-6 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-838-4 (epub)
1. Teenagers – Juvenile fiction. 2. Parent and teenager – Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
[F] dc22 PZ7.W4347Ye 2011
Fitzhenry & Whiteside acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.
Cover and interior design by Daniel Choi
Cover image courtesy Christie Harkin
eBook development: WildElement.ca