I journey down the skirt aisle,
an explorer in unfamiliar territory,
tossing semi-cute selections
into my basket
as I go.
Once in the dressing room,
I take turns pulling
each skirt on,
then spin before
the mirror thinking:
One of these
is bound to catch
Santiago’s eye.
Caught
One morning finds me
in the kitchen
popping a frozen waffle
into the toaster,
trying to scarf it down
before anyone comes in.
“Morning, Joy,” says Mom.
Too late.
“Hi, Mom. Bye, Mom.”
I break for the door.
“Wait a minute,” she says.
“What is that you’ve got on?”
“They’re called clothes, Mom.”
She gives me that look that says
I’m going to smack you
in a minute.
I hang my head,
pinching myself for being
such a smart mouth.
“Sorry,” I mutter,
and take another step.
“You’re wearing a skirt,” she says,
like I don’t know.
“Yes.”
“You don’t own a skirt.”
“I do now. Bought it yesterday.”
“You bought it?”
“Yes.”
“With your own money?”
“Yes.”
By now, I’m bouncing
from foot to foot,
itching to be anywhere
but here.
A slow smile spreads
across my mom’s face
like sun rising.
“Okay, baby,” she says,
ready to let me go.
“You have a good day.”
I breathe,
and smile back thinking,
That’s the plan.
Runway
Walking to school,
an arctic blast
blows up my skirt
and I shiver,
wishing for the warmth
of jeans.
But I’m on a mission
so I spend the day
sitting cross-legged
pretending to be comfortable.
(If only Mom could see me!)
At lunch, I keep an eye out
for Santiago.
I spot him on the way
back to class,
and saunter by slow enough
so he’ll notice.
Instead, he barely nods.
Embarrassed, I try
to tear up the nearest stairs
two at a time, like always,
only my too-cute pencil skirt
makes that impossible.
My quick getaway
is further interrupted
when I trip and my books
go flying across the stairs.
I bend to gather them
and hear kids giggling
as they stare at my thighs.
I stand up quickly,
cursing the skirt,
wishing for an invisibility cloak,
wondering if Santiago
is worth all this trouble
in the first place.
I Don’t Get It
I thought I had him figured out,
the kind of hair he likes,
the clothes,
the shoes,
the makeup.
Why won’t he even
notice me?
Where did I go wrong?
Fire Drill
“Joy,” KeeLee whispers,
standing next to me
as we line up,
“since when did you
like wearing skirts?”
“Since never.”
“Then why—”
I look around,
make sure no one else
can hear.
“I thought Santiago
would like it.”
“Oh,” says KeeLee,
sounding almost sad.
“What? You tried on heels,” I say.
“But that was different,”
KeeLee says.
“That was for me,
not for someone else.”
I don’t want to listen
to what KeeLee has to say,
so I turn away and hurry
to the exit.
News Travels
Back home,
I rip the skirt off,
drop-kick it into
the back of the closet,
and pull on comfy jeans.
Later that night
when Dad gets home
in time for dinner,
he walks into the kitchen
all smiles,
checking me
from head to toe.
“So where is it?”
“Where’s what?” I ask.
“The skirt?
Your mom told me
you bought one.”
I groan so loudly
the whole world
can hear me,
then run to my room
and slam the door.
Before it closes,
my dad yells out,
“What did I say?”
Sick to My Stomach
I don’t have a fever,
but it’s not entirely a lie
when I tell my mom
I’m sick to my stomach
and need to stay home.
It hurts seeing Santiago
when he doesn’t
see
me.
What Are Friends For?
KeeLee’s a little mad at me
for giving her the slip
during fire drill.
Still, she drops by after choir
to check on the real reason
I’m feeling sick as a dog.
“Forget about Santiago,” she says
when I tell her.
“He’s probably not
good enough for you anyway.”
“Probably not?”
“Definitely not.”
KeeLee has a way
of making me smile.
Is Everybody Crazy Now?
Glory sits down to dinner
by invitation.
Jake does his usual drop-in
right when Mom sets the table.
I see him and cringe,
hoping he doesn’t bring up Santiago.
I’m still trying to figure out a way
to get Santiago to like me.
“Great half-court shot
last Saturday,” Dad says to Glory.
She smiles and we all rehash the game.
During cleanup,
Jake sneaks long looks at Glory
when her head is turned away.
“Man,” Jake whispers,
“that girl’s legs go on forever.
She seeing anybody?”
He’s practically salivating.
I cut my eyes at him
and stomp off to the kitchen.
He’s right behind me.
“Joy, what’s the matter? What’d I say?”
“First, it’s KeeLee. Now it’s Glory.
It’s okay if you’re girl crazy, right?
But let me just look at Santiago
and you’re all in my face.”
“That’s not true. I mean—
Look, it’s different with you, okay?
I’m not trying to change myself for a girl.
But you’re turning yourself
inside out for this guy,
and I don’t see why.
There’s nothing wrong with you
the way you are.
You don’t need to become
somebody else.”
I can’t listen t
o this.
I drop a dish in the sink
and walk away.
“You don’t like who I am now,”
I yell over my shoulder.
“Go find somebody you like better!”
Hiding Out
Shut up in my room for the night,
I jam on my headphones,
and crank the music up so high,
I don’t have to think about why
I just told my best friend
to get lost.
Glee
Friday night,
the lights in the school auditorium
go dim.
A few weeks ago,
KeeLee told me I could invite Jake,
so he’s there, three rows back.
We don’t even wave to each other,
so I have no one to keep me company.
I sigh and silently wish KeeLee luck.
She looks so beautiful, so strong.
The lyrics of Christina Aguilera
fill the room.
“Words can’t bring me down,”
sings KeeLee.
Her voice rubs the air
soft as silk
and I smile knowing
KeeLee doesn’t need luck
after all.
The New Girl
I.
On Saturday,
I jog to the neighborhood
basketball court,
find Santiago
mixing it up
with some new girl.
A minute later,
their game is over
and they leave the court,
laughing at some private joke,
like he owns her.
I reel from the gut punch,
but can’t keep from staring.
There’s something about her,
something familiar.
The naked face,
unpainted lips,
plain hair flipped up
into a ponytail,
dirty sneaks,
boys’ jogging shorts,
oversized shirt.
The new girl,
the old me—
we could be twins.
II.
I collapse
on the park bench,
wait till my heart stops
thundering inside my chest.
I feel something wet on my cheek,
wipe it away with the back of my hand,
and run all the way home.
Aftermath
Two days later,
I’m still mad.
Next team practice,
I snatch the ball
before my turn,
make a mad dash
for the hoop,
and slam the ball like
it’s Santiago’s face.
Coach doesn’t even have to call time.
I bench myself
before he gets the chance.
Fuming
No point being mad
at Santiago.
He didn’t tell me
to try to be
someone else.
Confession
Three days of moping
around the house,
and Mom is wondering why.
She bugs me
till I tell her about
Santiago,
the dumb things I did
to get his attention,
and the new girl
who didn’t have to do
anything at all.
Mom listens, pushes the hair
from my forehead,
and asks me:
“Why do you care so much
whether he likes you?”
It’s a hard question
and I take time to think
before I answer.
“Because—
because he makes
my heart beat fast.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom says,
“he may be the first,
but I promise you,
he won’t be the last.”
Then she holds me close
long enough for me to leave
a puddle on her shoulder,
long enough for me to feel
some of the hurt drain away.
The Call
One night
the phone rings.
Mom answers the call
then gives me the news
and the world falls away.
Some man was in his car
texting.
He never saw Jake
till it was too late.
S.O.S.
16 and ¼ blocks
from my house to
Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.
14 and ¼ blocks.
I run
counting each one.
12 and ¼ blocks.
Keeping count
gives me something
to concentrate on.
10 and ¼ blocks.
Something other than
my fear.
8 and ¼ blocks.
6 and ¼ blocks.
Oh, Lord.
Please!
3 and ¼ blocks.
I’m coming, Jake!
I’m coming!
Room 321
Room 321.
That’s what the nurse told me.
The elevator groans
all the way up
to the third floor.
How long did I stand
outside his door,
afraid to go in,
afraid not to?
Why did I fight with him?
Jake is worth
ten Santiagos.
He’s my friend.
What if Jake doesn’t forgive me?
What if he doesn’t wake up
long enough to try?
Hand shaking,
I grab the doorknob,
take a deep breath,
and push.
Vigil
Jake’s mom
leaves us in the room alone.
one hand holding his,
the other wiping
a stupid tear
from my cheek.
If I start bawling
like some little girl,
Jake will never let me
live it down.
I swallow hard
and give his hand a squeeze.
When he doesn’t squeeze back
I die inside.
I lay my head down
on his blanket
and fight for breath.
When I can’t stand
his stillness anymore,
I stumble out the door.
Concussion
Even the word sounds
like it could break you.
The doctor says
it’s why Jake is still asleep.
But if the doctor’s so smart,
how come he can’t say
when my friend will wake up?
Or if?
I need an aspirin.
Visiting Hours Are Over
I take the stairs down
to the ground floor
so I can cry
in secret.
Once outside,
the cold air clears my mind.
I text KeeLee,
ask her to talk to God,
and to put in a good word
for Jake.
Gift
The next afternoon, I’m back
determined to get through to Jake.
I lean over his bed,
give him a shake.
“Enough already!”
I tell him.
“Wake up!”
That’s when
Jake slowly opens his eyes
and gives me the shadow
of a grin.
It feels like Christmas.
“Hey,” says Jake.
“Hey,” I s
ay,
and suddenly I know
this is all the conversation
I’m in the mood for.
Standing Watch
24 hours later,
I change my mind.
I want to hear more
than a word or two.
I want to see Jake move.
His stillness stops my heart.
Jake? Are you in there?
The Old Jake
Sitting up in bed,
laughing with his nurse,
the old Jake
sees me at the door,
fakes a shot
with an imaginary ball.
“Nothing but net!” he says,
then waves me in.
That’s my Jake.
I can breathe again.
Peg-Leg
That’s my new name for Jake.
Lucky for him
the driver wasn’t going that fast
so the only thing broken
was his leg.
Still, he’s pretty banged up.
But after watching Jake
for a few days,
the doctors
get him and his cast
up on crutches
and send him home.
That’s good for me
’cause I’m worn out from running
back and forth
those 16 and ¼ blocks
to see him.
I Hate to Say It
I drop by Jake’s after school,
find him in front of the television.
He makes a place for me
on the couch.
I grab the remote
mute the sound,
and get to the point:
“I’m sorry about our fight, Jake.
You were right.”
The words are out
before I know it.
(What was it I said to Caden
about sticking with
who you really are?)
I tell Jake about
Santiago and the new girl,
and how ridiculous I feel.
“Don’t call yourself ridiculous!”
Jake is quick to say.
“That’s my job!”
It takes me a minute
to tell that he’s joking,
to catch his grin.
But when I do,
I punch him in the arm,
smiling at my friend,
glad to have us back.
Readjustment
I sort through my closet
pack up the heels,
the skirt,
the lacy pink shirt I bought