show on the outside.
Then I choose a stick of charcoal
and start sketching a girl
with dark smudges where her eyes should be.
I use an oil pastel
to make a deep red gash
where her heart should be.
Next, I draw a ball and chain
locked to the girl’s ankle.
And then I add the final touch:
a shadowy face on the ball—
mine.
We Don’t Have Any Other Classes Together
But between History and English,
I catch a glimpse of Sophie’s back
up ahead of me in the corridor,
weaving through the stampede of students.
She’s walking by herself.
Which really gets to me.
Because before today,
she always moved in a pack,
with Rachel and Grace
and Zak and Danny and Henry.
Now, she’s alone.
And all around her, people are smirking
and whispering and nudging each other.
I have to fight the urge
to run and catch up with her
and shout at all of them to just CUT IT OUT!
That would only make things worse.
Because Sophie may feel like an outlaw,
but thanks to yours truly,
what she really is
is an outcast.
It takes one to know one.
After School
I’m blowing on my fingers
to keep them from freezing,
waiting for Sophie at the appointed spot—
by the goalpost
at the far end of the football field.
I’m trying not to think about anything.
Especially not about
how I’m wrecking Sophie’s life.
It’s ridiculous how much I’ve missed her.
We’ve only been apart for two hours,
but it feels more like two weeks …
Whoa!
Here she comes now,
flying toward me like a perfect fifty-yard pass,
her brown hair billowing out behind her,
her eyes reflecting the January sky,
her long skirt hugging her legs—
those incredible legs of hers,
that are carrying her closer and closer to me
with every step,
legs that’ll be pressing up against mine
just a few seconds from now …
I used to think
it was only girls
who got weak in the knees.
Sophie Hurtles into My Arms
And suddenly I feel
like I’ve just scored the winning touchdown.
She wraps herself around me,
resting her cheek against my chest.
And the feel of her against me,
the smell of her hair,
thaws every atom
of my frostbitten body
and makes my heart reach warp speed so fast
that I almost keel over.
There are so many things I want to say to her.
But all of them are way too lame.
So I don’t say anything.
I just kiss her …
And the cheering crowd
lifts me up onto its shoulders
and carries me away.
When We Finally Come Up for Air
Sophie’s eyes
are smiling into mine.
And it’s amazing, really,
because all she has to do is look at me
and my lump of a nose
straightens out,
the muscles on my arms
start to sprout,
the circles fade
under my eyes,
my ears shrink down
to a normal person’s size …
If only everyone else
could see
what Sophie sees
when she looks at me.
She Tells Me Not to Worry
“Everything will be all right,” she says.
“They’ll get used to the idea of us being together.
This’ll all blow over.
It will.”
Then she says what she always says—
“Sometimes I just know things.”
And I sure hope she’s right about this thing.
Because if she’s wrong, we’re screwed.
“Come on,” she says. “You’re gonna walk me home.”
“But what if we run into someone you know?”
“What if.”
And she leans in for one last kiss.
Then she punches her fist in the air,
shouting, “Outlaws rule!”
And when she turns and sprints toward Broadway,
I chase after her,
feeling like the luckiest desperado alive.
Then-THWOMPI
A snowball explodes
between my shoulder blades,
rock hard
and seething with ice.
It’s a snowball
that means business.
A snowball
with a message.
A message that’s coming in
loud and clear.
But when we whirl around to see who delivered it—
nobody’s there.
Though I could swear
I hear the wind whispering,
“What a Murphy …
Murphy … Murphy …”
Sophie Rubs My Back
“You okay?” she asks.
And that’s when I notice
that her face has gone whiter
than the snow,
that her lips
are a thin, straight line,
and her eyes are blinking back tears.
So I pull myself together
and do my best stoner impression:
“Whoa … dude,” I say. “That was cold.”
And when Sophie laughs at my pun,
the ache between my shoulders
disappears.
Then We Get on a Roll
And start punning like crazy,
cracking each other up
as we make our way toward her house.
“Man,” she says.
“Talk about trying
to freeze someone out.”
“I’ve heard of giving people
the cold shoulder,” I say,
“but this is ridiculous.”
“Why can’t they just accept the fact
that they don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell
of breaking us up?” Sophie says between giggles.
And when we get to the corner,
we don’t even hesitate—
we turn onto Quincy instead of going straight.
Neither one of us mentions it,
but both of us know that if we use this route,
we probably won’t bump into Rachel and Grace.
So what
if it’ll take us ten minutes longer
to get to Sophie’s house this way?
When We Step Inside Her Front Door
We hear the theme song
from Days of Our Lives,
just sort of hanging there in the air
like a layer of smog.
Sophie glances up the steps
and seems to sag a little,
like she’s just put on one of those heavy padded vests
that they make you wear when they x-ray your teeth.
She calls out, “Hi, Mom. I’m home.”
And then she adds, “Robin’s with me,”
in a voice that sounds like what she really means is,
“So don’t come down here—whatever you do.”
Mrs. Stein calls down a muffled hello
as Sophie grabs my hand
and pulls me into the kitchen,
kicking the door shut behind u
s.
I fiddle with the knobs on the radio till I find K-ROK,
the station that plays all the best golden oldies.
Then I start singing along with the Righteous Brothers,
telling Sophie she’s lost that lovin’ feeling.
“No I haven’t,” she says.
And she pulls me to her for a kiss—
one of those incredibly deep soul-type kisses,
that switches off my brain
and switches on the whole entire rest of me …
But a Second Later
Sophie’s mom shoves open the door!
She just stands there, blinking at us.
Like maybe she’s seen a ghost—
a ghost that’s been kissing her daughter!
I’ve never been caught
making out with a girl before,
so I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do.
Apologize?
Act like it didn’t happen?
Run like the wind?
I don’t know who’s
turning redder,
me or Mrs. Stein.
She keeps opening her mouth and closing it again,
like she really wants to say something,
only she doesn’t know exactly what.
Finally,
she clears her throat.
Then she clears it again.
Then
she clears it a third time
and says,
“Hi.”
That’s All She Says
Just “Hi.”
And suddenly
I get this overwhelming urge
to bust out laughing.
But I swallow hard
and pull myself together.
“Hi, Mrs. Stein,” I say. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she says. “And you?”
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” I say,
trying to sound kind of decent and upstanding
and like she didn’t just catch me
in a lip-lock with her daughter.
Sophie,
on the other hand,
doesn’t say anything to her mom.
But if looks could kill…
A Partial List of Mrs. Stein’s Excuses for Coming into the Kitchen Every Five Minutes After That to Spy on Us
- she needs to put the roast in the oven
- she needs some bottled water from the fridge
- she needs to add Post-its to the shopping list
- she needs to recycle the junk mail
- she needs to check on that roast
- she needs to search for some toothpicks
- she needs a sheet of paper and a pen
- she needs an envelope and a stamp
- she needs to check on that roast again
- she needs to get the laundry out of the dryer
- she needs the iron and the ironing board
- she needs to make sure that we aren’t having sex
- she needs to check on that roast again
But In Between All of Her Mom’s Interruptions
Sophie and I
still manage to engage in
some pretty serious footsies
while we do our homework.
Then we start playing that game where one person
draws a random squiggle on a sheet of paper
and the other person
has to turn that squiggle into something.
Which is when K-ROK starts blasting out
Ray Davies singing “You Really Got Me.”
That’s when I notice that Sophie’s squiggle
sort of looks like Ray Davies.
So I tell her I’m gonna turn it into a portrait of him.
“Who’s Ray Davies?” she asks.
And while I draw him,
I tell her all about him—
about how he was
the lead singer of the Kinks,
this amazing British rock group
from the sixties.
I tell her
the name of every song Davies ever wrote,
who performed it,
and what instruments they played.
And when I finish, Sophie just stares at me
in this real I-don’t-believe-this kind of way,
and says, “But I bet you can’t tell me
where they bought those instruments.”
“Well, actually,” I say,
“I think they got them from this store called—”
But Sophie puts her finger to my lips.
“Robin,” she says, flashing me a heart-stopping grin.
“I was kidding.”
Then She Asks Me
How come I know so much
about prehistoric rock and roll.
And I explain that it’s because my parents
turned me on to it when I was like zero years old.
I mean, my dad used to play
his Beach Boys records for me
when I was still swimming around in the womb,
for chrissake.
And after I was born,
instead of singing me “Rock-a-Bye Baby,”
my mom used to sing “Baby, I Love You,”
this awesome old song by the Ronettes.
My parents didn’t read to me
from Mother Goose.
They turned me on
to the Mothers of Invention.
I grew up knowing more
about Dr. John the Night Tripper,
than I did about Dr. Seuss.
“I didn’t bother collecting bugs …” I tell her.
“… I had the Beatles!”
“And Ray Davies,” Sophie Says
Then she grabs my pencil
and starts drawing a picture
of this happy little guy jumping for joy.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“It’s Hooray Davies,” Sophie says.
So then I draw this dude
spinning around inside a blender.
“Say hello to Pureed Davies,” I say.
Which cracks her up.
And we spend the rest of the afternoon like this—drawing funny pictures for each other.
We draw Toupee Davies,
Valet Davies, Partay Davies,
Betrayed, Dismayed, and Tooth-Decayed Davies.
And when we finish, Sophie says,
“That was the most fun I’ve ever had drawing
in my entire life.”
I love having an artist for a girlfriend.
It’s Time to Go
But it’s hard to say good-bye to Sophie.
And downright impossible to kiss her good-bye,
what with her mother lurking, silent but deadly,
just a few feet away from us in the hallway,
giving me the evil eye …
You know, on second glance,
Sophie’s mom doesn’t look that unfriendly.
In fact, I could have sworn
she just cracked a smile at me.
It couldn’t be because she likes me, though.
It’s probably because I’m finally leaving—
and with her daughter’s virginity
still intact!
But I wouldn’t be
so sure of that if I were her.
There was that one six-and-a-half-minute stretch
when she forgot to check on us …
(I’m just playin’ wit’ ya.)
On the Walk Home
I’m watching the sun
paint the snowdrifts pink,
my grin so wide
it practically won’t fit on my face,
still floating
from my afternoon with Sophie,
feeling like someone who’s fun to be with,
like someone who’s cool,
someone who’s funny,
someone who’s got a girlfriend,
someone who’s worthy
of ha
ving a girlfriend, even …
just floating along
feeling like
someone.
As I Pass by the Playground
Of my old elementary school,
I happen to notice
a couple of little kids
zipping around on the ice rink.
I watch as the girl skates up behind the boy,
yanks off his hat and whizzes away with it,
making him lose his balance
and crash down hard on his butt.
The boy doesn’t even try to get up.
He just sits there and starts crying.
The girl looks guilty at first.
Then she slams her mittens onto her hips.
“Geez,” she says
as she skates back over to him
and starts pulling him up by his sleeve.
“Don’t be such a Murphy”
And when I hear her say this,
I feel like I’ve been kicked,
real hard,
in the stomach.
“Don’t Be Such a Murphy”
It was Fletcher Boole who coined that phrase.
Not long after I moved here
in the middle of fourth grade.
I was such a clueless little goofball back then
that it took me forever to figure out
that he was using “Murphy” as an insult.
But when I finally did,
I started lying awake at night,
inventing new last names for myself:
Robin Greightguy.
Robin Nycekidd.
Robin Neetboi.
So that if Fletcher or anyone else
ever tried to use my name
to diss someone again,
they’d end up having to say something like,
“Whoa, man …
you are such a Kewldood!”
Kept myself entertained for hours that way.
But I’m Not Feeling Particularly Entertained at the Moment
I’m trudging toward my house
with my fists jammed deep into my pockets,
trying to make sense out of what just happened.
I mean, I knew the Murphy-as-insult thing
had followed me to middle school.
And then, this fall, to high school.
But, until now,
I hadn’t even considered the possibility
that I’d become a legend
in my own time.
That even after I left a place,