around the nearest pretty girl.
Whenever I see Dylan
I kneel down to tie my shoelace
or start searching through my backpack
like I’ve lost my favorite pen.
When we can’t avoid each other
Dylan acts so glad to see me—
only now he calls me Sophie.
I’m not Sapphire anymore.
DELETED
Tonight Chaz asked me:
“What’s your favorite thing to do?”
I wasn’t sure what to say
so I just wrote back:
“I don’t know. What’s yours?”
He’s not real quick at typing,
but I had to wait even longer than usual
for his answer to pop onto my screen:
“I like to jerk off in libraries.”
The words just sat there staring at me,
like something ugly
scratched on a restroom wall.
I felt as if I’d been punched
hard
in the stomach.
I couldn’t breathe.
“You’re kidding, right?”
I typed back.
“No. I’m not,” he wrote.
I read those words again and again,
trying to get myself to believe them.
I felt like I was
plummeting through cyberspace
out of control,
until I took some deep breaths,
pulled myself together
and wrote:
“Consider yourself permanently deleted.”
Then, I clicked off.
And just now,
I changed my e-mail address.
CHAT ROOM CHUMP
How could I ever have let
such a pervert into my life like that?
“Come right in, Mr. Disgusting,
make yourself at home.”
I could have ended up as a headline:
STUPID TEEN MURDERED BY CYBER PSYCHO!
And to think
that just last night
we were talking about maybe even
trying to meet each other
“in the flesh,”
as he put it.
What if
we’d actually arranged that meeting?
What if
he’d chosen the library as the place?
What if
when I got there he’d been—
WHEN I TELL THEM
Grace shivers
and pretends to gag.
Rachel’s eyes
quadruple in size.
Then they scoop me up
in a three-way hug,
and whisk me off
to the movies.
Their treat.
THE HALLOWEEN DANCE IS COMING UP
Rachel says
she’d rather go trick or treating.
Grace says me too.
I say me three.
But Rachel says
if we don’t go
it’ll probably turn out to be
the best dance of the millennium.
And Grace says
besides, trick or treating’s too risky.
What if someone saw us?
We’d never live it down.
I say
I just wish I knew where Chaz lived
so I could go over there
and throw rotten eggs at his computer.
SHOPPING FOR A DRESS TO WEAR TO THE DANCE
Scene One: At the Sale Rack
“How about this one, Soso?” my mother says,
holding up a dress with these
enormous pink roses plastered all over it.
“Mom, I do not want to go to the dance
dressed as a potted plant.”
“Of course not.
I was thinking of a rosebush.”
“A rosebush?!”
“You’ll see what I mean when you try it on.
It’ll look so darling on.”
“But, Mom. It’s ugly.”
“How can you tell
if you don’t try it on?”
“Mom, I hate everything about it.
I like this little black one.
I could go as a beatnik in this one.”
“But being a rosebush would be so original,
so creative . . .”
“So kindergarten!”
“Then try them both on.
But you’re gonna love the flowered one.
You’ll see.”
Scene Two: In the Dressing Room
“What do you think?” I say,
twirling in front of the three-way mirror
in the gorgeous black dress.
“Perfect. For a funeral.
Besides. It’s too tight.
Now, take that one off
and try on the beautiful one.”
Scene Three:
In the Dressing Room, Moments Later
“It looks even more hideous on, Mom.”
“I think it flatters your figure.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
“That’s right.
Why should you care?
I’m only your mother.”
“Aw, Mom.
Please.
Don’t cry.”
Scene Four: At the Cash Register
No dialogue.
Only the crinkly sound
of the flowered dress
being slipped into a paper bag.
OKAY, HERE’S THE PLAN:
I’ll call the store from a phone booth
and ask them to hold the black dress
for two weeks.
I’ll baby-sit
for the Weingartens
and the Bigelows
and the Devlins.
And I’ll give up lunches,
which will save me
another couple of dollars a day
right there.
Then, when I have enough,
I’ll sneak over,
buy the dress
and stash it at Rachel’s.
On the night of the dance,
I’ll leave the house
in the rose disaster dress
but do a quick change at Rachel’s.
And what my mother
doesn’t know,
won’t hurt me.
THE MINUTE MR. SCHULTZ LEAVES THE ROOM
Art class degenerates
into a giggling gabfest
about Halloween Dance costumes.
The only one still working is Murphy,
hunched over his desk,
painting a gray road,
a road
that’s fading away
into the gray emptiness of the horizon
and in the foreground, just
one
tree,
a tree that looks like a poem,
a tree that makes me feel
like weeping.
2 WEEKS, 6 DIAPERS, 5 PUPPET SHOWS, AND 9 READINGS OF “GOODNIGHT MOON” LATER
Rachel donates half of her tuna sandwich.
Grace parts with her pickle.
Henry gives me his carrot sticks.
Zak offers what’s left of his chips.
Danny hands over
the remains of his beef jerky.
And when I stuff today’s lunch money
into the jar,
there’s finally enough
in the Gorgeous Black Dress Fund
to actually buy
the gorgeous black dress.
THE MOCKINGBIRD
I’m watching him up there,
silhouetted on the wire,
alone against
the silky blue sky,
belting out the songs
that he’s borrowed
from all the other birds,
trying on
one voice after another,
pausing briefly
between each one
to see if he’s attracting
the girl bird
of his dreams,
and every now and then
he dances up into the air,
fluttering in a loop
that shows off the patches of white
etched on his wings,
before landing back down on the wire
to begin another song.
And as I watch him,
I’m feeling a lot like him,
like a feathery creature
balancing on a wire,
trying on lots of different voices
to see which one
works best
and every now and then,
doing a little twirl
out on the dance floor,
hoping the boy bird of my dreams
will fly by and notice me,
flutter down beside me
and ask me to dance.
THREE HOURS BEFORE THE DANCE
Even though I wash it,
twice,
with shampoo that’s especially formulated
with essential fatty acids
derived from natural botanic oils
to replace valuable lipids
and restore the emollients necessary
for the hair to remain
soft, pliable and supple
with a healthy, radiant shine,
and even though I remove
the excess moisture from my hair
and evenly distribute a small amount
of instant reconstructor and detangler
to enhance strength and manageability,
and even though
I work it through to the ends,
leaving it on for three minutes
and then rinse thoroughly before adding
the revolutionary polymerized
electrolytic moisture potion
that actually repairs split ends
while providing flexible styling control
by infusing the roots with twenty-three
essential pro-vitamins,
and even though I massage it in
to make my hair feel instantly softer
and fuller with added shaping power,
and then rinse it again
with lukewarm water,
towel dry and apply the desired amount
of styling gel to the palm of my hand,
and then comb it through
and blow it dry,
it still looks pathetic.
TWO HOURS BEFORE THE DANCE
Eyeliner
should be a no-brainer
for someone as good at drawing
as I am.
But even though
I’m extra careful,
the line on the left eyelid
ends up just a tad thinner
than the line on the right eyelid.
And when I try
to even them out,
the left line ends up
thicker than the right line.
And forty minutes later,
when I finally manage to get them even,
they’re both half an inch wide—
which is not a good look,
even for a beatnik.
So I scrub it all off
and settle instead
for some “Just Say Yes”
Moisture Lick Luminous Lip Gel.
In my case, less is definitely more.
ONE HOUR BEFORE THE DANCE
We pull up in front of Rachel’s house.
Mom kisses me on the cheek,
says I look dope in my new dress
(she’s trying to sound so with it
but she’s so totally without it)
and tells me to have a good time.
Like she really means it.
And for once
she doesn’t give me the evil eye
and warn me to watch out for the boys.
Maybe she’s using reverse psychology.
Maybe she’s finally growing up.
Maybe she’s just giving up.
Or maybe
she’s terrified
that I’ll never get married
and end up living with her and dad forever.
Now
there’s
a scary thought.
SHE HAS NO IDEA
That I’m about to go in there
and switch into the gorgeous black dress.
Do I feel guilty?
Sort of.
But not enough to keep me from doing it.
A girl’s got to do
what a girl’s got to do.
R AND G ANSWER THE DOOR
Rachel takes one look at the
gigantic pink roses all over my dress
and says, “Oh, Fifi. You poor thing.
No wonder you were so obsessed.”
Grace says, “Are you thirsty?
I could go and get the hose . . .”
I say, “Thanks. But I’d rather have
a swig of some Miracle-Gro.”
We burst out laughing,
race up the stairs
and lock ourselves in Rachel’s room
to perform the Sacred Transformations.
Grace slips into her Juliet costume
(Henry’s going as Romeo).
Rachel puts on her Bert costume
(Danny’s going as Ernie).
And me?
I’m just going as
the beatnik who’s deliriously happy
not to be going as a rosebush.
I SLIP INTO THE GORGEOUS BLACK DRESS
And instantly feel
as smooth and as soft and as silky
as the satin that it’s made of.
So full of possibilities.
Like anything could happen.
And something is
going to happen.
Tonight.
I can feel it coming.
And I’ll be wearing this dress
when it does.
Sometimes I just know things.
AT THE DANCE
Mr. Schultz is
selling tickets at the door,
dressed as Howard Stern.
Not a pretty picture.
The gym’s been transformed
into a haunted house,
which basically means that some spider webs
are hanging from the basketball hoops.
It’s loud,
dark,
crowded,
sweaty,
and I’m very glad to be here.
GUESS WHO?
I’m dancing with a bunch of girls,
bouncing like kernels of popcorn
in a hot frying pan,
when this guy pushes through the crowd
and starts dancing right in front of me.
Real close.
He’s wearing this evil-looking mask,
and I don’t recognize his eyes.
He seems older than the other boys . . .
And I suddenly think:
What if this is Chaz?
What if he’s tracked me down somehow?
I
stop
breathing.
Then Rachel shoves him
and says,
“Move over, Fletcher.”
And my lungs
fill back up
with air.
IS IT MY IMAGINATION
Or is the drummer
staring right at
me?
His wild eyes
are dancing with mine,
swimming into mine.
He’s choosing me to play to, me
out of all the other girls
at this dance.
I’m
afraid
to blink.
But the second the song ends,
this blonde leaps out
from behind the velvet curtains
and kisses hi
m
so hard on the mouth
that it looks like it hurts.
After that
he doesn’t look my way
again.
THERE’S DYLAN
Dressed in those pale blue hospital scrubs
that they wear on ER,
with a stethoscope dangling around his neck
and his hair all grown in and spiked up,
wailing on an air guitar.
Looking so hot.
I’ve got this crazy urge
to run up and tell him
I’m feeling faint,
like maybe I’m having
a heart attack or something.
(Well, I am, sort of.)
And then
I could keel over
and he’d have to catch me in his arms
and give me some emergency
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
I could use some of that right about now—
But here comes Angela Pierson,
sneaking up behind him,
putting her
delicate little hands
over his eyes.
Dressed like a nurse.
MASKED MAN
He walks up to me
and holds out his arms.
I ease into them
and we begin to dance.
The music
is slow
and
saxophony.
I can feel the heat
of his hands penetrating
the thin fabric of my dress
at the small of my back.
His fingers roam up to my shoulders,
melting away my shyness,
as he draws me close enough
to feel my breasts against his chest.