So, if you look around your classroom
at the thirty people sitting there,
fourteen of them probably aren’t virgins.
And of those fourteen,
3.5 of them have an STD.
But which 3.5 people are they?
And which one is the person with only half an STD?
My Beard’s Completely Grown in Now
Which means it’s finally stopped itching.
And even though the usual jerks at school
still tease me about it every day,
it’s been way worth it.
Because Sophie says
she loves it even more now
than when it was first sprouting.
She says
she loves the color of it—
calls it “cinnamon red.”
And she loves the feel of it—
like rubbing her cheek
against cashmere, she says.
But most of all,
she loves that I grew it just for her.
And I love that that’s why she loves it.
And that when I look in the mirror,
I see a new me,
a different me,
a me reinvented.
After School on Tuesday
Sophie invites me over to her house.
“Are you sure your mother won’t mind?” I say.
“My mother won’t know.
And neither will my father.
They went to see a marriage counselor
and said they wouldn’t be home till 4:30.”
I pull out my cell phone to check the time.
It’s only 3:20.
If Sophie and I hurry,
we’ll have almost an hour alone together!
“Come on,” I say.
“I’ll race ya!”
The Whole Way Over to Sophie’s House
I’m fantasizing about everything
I’m gonna do with her when we get there …
if she’ll let me, that is.
Which she probably won’t.
Not that I’m complaining
about the fact
that all Sophie wants to do so
far is kiss.
Well, okay.
I guess I am complaining, a little.
But it’s not really me who’s complaining.
It’s my body.
My body’s all like, “Geez.
Is she ever gonna let me get to second base?
How much longer am I gonna have to suffer?
I want more and I want it NOW!”
My mind knows this is greedy.
My mind knows this is messed up.
My mind knows this is just plain wrong.
But my body
has a mind of its own.
When We Get to Sophie’s House
We rush straight upstairs to her room.
Then we start kissing.
And we kiss for a long time—
till I can feel Sophie’s heart
beating crazy fast against mine,
feel her breasts
pressing against my chest…
so soft … so warm …
so … so …
And before I even realize what I’m doing,
my hands are slipping under her T-shirt,
sliding up her torso …
up … and up … and up …
but just before they reach their destination,
Sophie gets this look on her face—
this look that’s begging me to stop.
So I force myself to slam on the brakes.
Because even though
I’m lusting after Sophie’s breasts
in a huge way, in a major way,
in a throbbingly intense way—
I’ve got to face
the painful fact
that Sophie’s still not ready
for that to happen.
I Knew This Day Would Come
I knew it the whole time I was researching
all the different types of STDs you can catch,
and all the things you can do to catch them,
and all the things you can do
to keep from catching them.
All that whole time,
I knew I’d eventually be standing
where I am right now:
in front of my entire health class,
with everyone looking at me
like I’m something they wish they could
scrape off the bottom of their shoe,
while I stand here talking to them
about leaky blisters, and oozing sores,
and genital warts, for chrissake.
The whole time I was doing
all the stupid idiotic research
for this stupid idiotic report,
I knew this day would come—
when I’d be standing here,
staring into the smirking faces of my classmates,
while they fire questions at me like spitballs.
Questions like the one that Henry just asked:
“How do you spell ’vaginal discharge’?”
A Few Minutes Before Art Class on Friday
Sophie and I walk into Schultz’s room
and find him scrambling
to erase a huge picture off the board,
muttering to himself about what he’s going to do
to the person who “drew this abomination.”
It’s clearly a caricature of yours truly:
ears bigger than tennis rackets,
raccoon circles under the eyes,
beard like a fur ball some cat spit up,
nose more crooked than Harry Potter’s scar.
They’ve drawn me with one of my hands
crammed down the back of a girl’s jeans,
and the other hand crammed down the front.
Schultz has already erased the girl’s face,
though it’s obvious whose face it must have been.
When he glances over his shoulder and sees us,
his face turns redder than a maraschino cherry.
But he just smiles at us and says, “Hey kiddos.
Grab a box of oil pastels and some newsprint.
I’ve got a terrific project planned for today.”
He’s acting like everything’s fine,
but I can’t help noticing
that he doesn’t seem to be able
to look either one of us
in the eye.
And I Know Exactly How He Feels
I’m so freaked
by that picture on the board,
that I can’t even bring myself to glance at Sophie.
Besides, I don’t think I could stand to see the look
that’s probably on her face right now.
So I just gather up
some pastels and newsprint,
then sit down at my desk and start doodling—
all these real pissed-off little pictures
of fists hitting chins and bats cracking skulls.
A little while later,
when the rest of the class arrives,
Schultz runs his hands through his long white hair
and tells us that today
he wants us to draw the mood we’re in.
The mood we’re in?
I rifle through my box of pastels,
choosing my colors carefully:
pus green, puke grey, crap brown,
and bloody-murder black.
When I Pass In My Drawing at the End of Class
Schultz studies it for a while,
nodding his head slowly up and down,
like a bobblehead
thinking deep thoughts.
Then he tells me
he’s got this friend named Felix
who teaches a drawing class
at Harvard.
“Felix stopped by yesterday,
and when I showed him some of your work,
&nbs
p; he was so impressed with it
that he offered to let you audit his class.”
“Audit it…?”
“That’s when you take a class for no credit.
You just sort of sit in on it.
Unofficially.”
Schultz says Felix really hopes I’ll say yes
because he thinks I’d be
a real inspiration to his other students.
An inspiration? Me? Whoa …
He says the class meets
on Monday and Wednesday nights.
And that the first meeting’s next Monday.
He says I can think about it and let him know.
But I don’t have to think about it.
After Class
When I tell Sophie what Schultz said,
she throws her arms around me.
“Oh, Robin! That’s so cool!”
“Yeah. I guess it is,” I say, “but I wish Felix
had invited you into the class, too.”
“I am a little envious …” she says.
“Okay—I’m a lot envious.
But that guy was right to choose you.
You’re like in a whole other league.
I mean, you could be the next Renoir.”
“Well, if your prediction comes true,” I say,
looking into Sophie’s soft blue eyes,
“I’ll paint a thousand portraits of you.
And I’ll hang them in galleries all over the world,
so everyone can see how beautiful you are.”
When I say this, she blushes.
And God—
she looks so amazing when she does that.
“It will come true,” she whispers. “It will.
Sometimes I just know things …”
Friday Night
Sophie called a minute ago.
Her voice sounded choked,
like she was trying hard not to cry.
She told me she was gonna have to
cancel our date.
We’d had this sort of special night planned,
in honor of my being asked into the class at Harvard.
We were gonna have dinner together at Pinocchio’s
and then take a walk along the river.
But Sophie said her mother’s forcing her to go
to this dumb family dinner, instead,
in honor of her great aunt’s third cousin’s
annual thirty-ninth birthday or something.
My heart crashed
straight down to my feet
when she told me,
like an elevator with its cable cut.
But I said I understood.
And that it was okay.
Even though I don’t understand.
And it isn’t okay.
Seems like
Mrs. Stein’s new favorite hobby
is thinking up evil ways
to keep Sophie and me
apart.
On Saturday Morning
When Sophie’s mom finally lets her out of the house,
we head straight over to the museum
to celebrate our five-week anniversary
by sitting on the wooden bench
in front of Le Bal à Bougival,
and sketching the painting of the dancing couple.
Then we just sort of wander around Harvard Square,
being in love and stuff.
I take Sophie into Second Coming,
my favorite oldies record store.
And she tries to look interested, she really does.
But I can tell that she thinks it’s a big yawn.
So after a few minutes, I suggest we head over
to the Christ Church Thrift Shop
to see if there’s anything buy-worthy.
The second we walk in the door,
Sophie spots an old yellow hat.
Her eyes widen as she sets it on my head.
“Omigod,” she says.
“With this hat and your red beard,
you look exactly like the guy in Le Bal à Bougival!”
And I guess the idea of this must turn her on,
because she pulls me behind a bookcase
for a kiss so hot that it practically vaporizes me.
That settles it—I am definitely buying this sucker.
Monday Mostly Stinks
It doesn’t really bother me
how Rachel and Grace flatten themselves
against their lockers when they see me passing by.
Like I’m this skunk getting ready to spray.
At least Sophie isn’t there to see them do it.
But when I’m walking to English class
and Dylan snatches my new yellow hat off my head,
then yanks open a window and flings it outside,
and everyone else around us cheers,
I gotta admit—that gets to me.
I’d like to beat that guy to a pulp.
I really would.
I’d like to slam my fist
right into that disgustingly straight nose of his
and make it look a little bit more like mine.
But that ain’t gonna happen.
Because, let’s face it—
Dylan’s on the wrestling team.
And I may be pissed,
but I’m not brain-dead.
So I just nail him with a look
that lets him know I think he’s scum.
Then I sprint down the two flights of stairs,
run outside, grab my hat,
and race back up again.
But somehow, someday,
I’ll find a way to make that jerk pay.
One Hour Before My First Drawing Class
Is Sophie right about my hat?
Does it make me look like that guy
in the painting?
Or does it just make me look
like a pathetic fourteen-year-old loser
Does my beard really make me look older,
like Sophie says?
Or does it just make me look homeless?
Do you think there’s enough time
for me to get some plastic surgery
between now
and seven o’clock?
Mom Drives Me Over to Harvard Ten Minutes Early
We pull up in front of the Carpenter Center.
“Oh, Robin,” she says,
getting all wiggly-voiced and teary-eyed.
“This is going to be so fabulous for you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “See you at ten.”
Then I leap out of the car as fast as I can,
so no one will see that my mother drove me.
Besides, she’s got that look on her face,
like she’s thinking about
doing something desperate—
maybe even like hugging me in public!
When she drives away,
I turn to look at the modern building,
taking in all the curved concrete walls
and the strange ramps reaching out of it
like arms trying to grab me
and yank me inside.
It looks so what-am-I-doing-here?,
so sore-thumbish, so entirely out of place
among all these ancient ivy-covered buildings,
that it kind of reminds me of a UFO.
Or of an alien.
Or of me, even.
At Five Minutes Till Seven
I walk up one of the ramps
into the Carpenter Center,
take the elevator to the fourth floor,
and follow the signs to Studio B.
But when I finally find the door,
the actual door to the actual studio
where the actual art class will be held,
my heart shifts into overdrive.
And no matter how hard I try,
I can’t seem to work up the courage to pus
h it open.
So I just stand here staring at it
like an idiot …
Until a girl’s voice from behind me says,
“There are things known
and there are things unknown,
and in between are the doors.”
I whip around and see a short girl
looking up at me through wire-rimmed glasses
from under a brushfire of curly red hair.
“Know who said that?” she asks.
“Jim Morrison,” I say, “of the Doors.”
“Damn,” she says, flashing me a grin
as she whisks past me and shoves open the door.
“You’re the only one who ever got that right.”
I Thought There’d Be More People Here
But there’s less than a dozen students,
sitting around on tall metal stools
in front of easels.
A few of them look up
when the girl and I come in.
Though even after
they see us walk to the front of the room
and sit down next to each other
on the only two empty stools,
they just turn back around
and go on talking among themselves—
like my being here
is the most normal thing in the world.
Like I
have just as much right to be here
as anyone.
Even So, I Feel Like I’m Crashing a Party
Like any second now,
one of these Harvard students
will realize I’m only a high-school freshman
and toss me out of here on my butt.
So I’m just sitting on this stool,
sort of crossing and uncrossing my arms,
trying to be all inconspicuous and nonchalant,
half expecting
to overhear one of these people
calling someone a Murphy, even,
when this old guy steps out of a supply closet
and heads to the front of the class,
slipping a charcoal pencil behind his triple-pierced ear.
He’s as bald as a basketball and nearly as round,
wearing a T-shirt and jeans and a tie-dyed apron
with a thousand layers of paint speckled all over it.
When he notices me watching him,
he smiles
and tips an imaginary hat to me.
And somehow, when he does this,
it makes me feel … I don’t know …