in preschool.
We’ve been friends since
before we even knew the difference
between boys and girls.
I’m still not sure he does.
I hope I didn’t embarrass him
when I laughed.
It’s just that I thought he was kidding.
God.
Zak.
Why did you have to ask me out?
Why did I have to say yes?
I can’t believe I said yes.
I can’t wait until tomorrow night is over.
TOMORROW NIGHT IS OVER
We went out for pizza
and then we went bowling.
That part wasn’t too bad.
But when we were walking home
and he tried to hold my hand,
I freaked.
It wasn’t like I was afraid
he was going to confess
to being my masked man or anything.
There was less than zero chance of that.
But I had no idea how to break it to him
that I wasn’t interested.
Then I got this sudden
flash of inspiration
and told him that
I couldn’t possibly hold hands with him
because I thought of him as my brother,
as the brother I’d never had,
and I didn’t want to give up my brother
just to have a boyfriend
because I’ll probably have
lots of boyfriends in my life
but only one brother
and I wanted that brother to be him.
Then I gave him this real sisterly hug.
He looked confused but kind of flattered.
And I was so relieved that I’d
thought of a way to reject him
without actually making him feel rejected,
that I could have kissed him.
But I figured I better not.
Under the circumstances.
THANKSGIVING
I’m thankful
that I’m actually starting to forget
how amazing it felt to dance with him.
I’m thankful that when I try to remember
that steamy look he had in his eyes,
I can barely picture it.
I’m thankful
to finally be able
to lie in bed at night
and occasionally see something other
than that mask of his
floating in front of my face.
I’m thankful
to be able to have
three or four thoughts
in a row
that are not even about him.
(It’s that fifth one that’s the killer.)
I’m thankful
that I’ve almost managed
to convince myself
that I’m not
obsessed with him
anymore.
GELT SHMELT
Hanukkah’s here early this year.
Whoop-de-do.
Why can’t it just stay put on the calendar?
Like Christmas does.
Christmas is so reliable.
Sure, Hanukkah’s got its good points.
Like that it lasts for eight days.
But it was much more fun when I was little.
Back when my parents used to give me presents.
Things that they actually shopped for
and took the time to wrap up.
Now they just hand me a check
(when they finish arguing
about what the amount should be).
This year
they haven’t even bothered
lighting the menorah.
And Mom said
she didn’t feel up to making her latkes.
I sure miss them.
WINTER BREAK
Every single person
in the city of Cambridge, Massachusetts,
has skipped town.
Every single person but me.
Rachel’s family went to Bermuda.
Grace’s went to Florida.
My family never goes
anywhere.
Not to Bermuda.
Not to Florida.
Not to Jamaica.
Not even to frigging Vermont.
My parents say they can’t afford vacations
and putting me through college
(which is about the only thing
I’ve ever heard them agree on).
I say
I can’t wait till college.
At least then
I’ll be going somewhere.
THE WEIRDEST THING HAPPENED TONIGHT
I was looking out my window,
watching the swirling flakes
of the first snowfall
hushing the whole world,
when this white dove
fluttered down onto my balcony railing.
I stood very still, staring at it.
It stared right back at me
with this bright glass eye,
then began cooing softly,
like it was trying to tell me
that everything would be all right.
I felt like we were drifting together
in the same mirage
until it flew away.
And now that it’s gone,
I’m wondering if it
was ever really there.
I DREAMT ABOUT THAT WHITE DOVE LAST NIGHT
We were flying together
over the streets of Boston.
I had these strong white wings
that knew just what to do.
And when I woke up just now,
I started thinking about how
lots of people come to Boston
on vacation all the time.
So I decided to pretend
I’m one of them today,
and take myself on a vacation.
Only I won’t have to leave town to do it.
Who needs parents, anyway?
BON VOYAGE
Mom looks up from the TV
as I head towards the front door.
“Where are you off to?” she asks.
When I tell her my vacation plan,
she raises an eyebrow.
“Clever,” she says with a little smile.
And for a second it seems like
she might even be thinking about asking
if she can come along.
I sort of really wish she would,
but I sort of really wish
she wouldn’t.
It’s a moot point
anyhow,
because all she says is,
“Well,
make sure you’re home before dark.
There are lots of weirdos out there.”
Then
she goes back to watching
From Martha’s Kitchen.
FIRST STOP: BREAKFAST AT THE RITZ-CARLTON HOTEL
The waiter’s nostrils flare
when all I order is
a cup of Earl Grey
and one measly scone.
I pull out my sketchbook
and draw the scone before I eat it,
plus the hundred-year-old lady
with the huge hat
at the table by the window.
I sip my tea
while eavesdropping on two women
discussing the relative merits
of their male masseuses,
and try to imagine
what it would be like
to be lying naked underneath a sheet
while a strange man rubbed oil
all over my body.
Then the waiter brings the check
on a fancy little silver tray
and scowls at me while I sketch it,
before I pay it.
SECOND STOP: SHOPPING IN FILENE’S BARGAIN BASEMENT WITH OUT MY MOTHER
I just fou
nd
the most outrageous lime green panties
with these little squiggly things
that look just like sperm
swimming all over them.
I picked them out.
By myself.
And no one tried to talk me out of them.
No one pressured me to choose
the darling frilly pink ones instead.
I’m going to walk right over
to that cash register and
buy five pairs of these sperm panties.
And I’m going to cherish them.
Always.
THIRD STOP: A VISIT TO THE MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS
I head straight upstairs
to the Impressionist Gallery,
to see my favorite painting:
Le Bal à Bougival.
I sit down
on the oak bench,
gaze up at
the life-sized dancing couple
and let myself slip
through the gilded frame,
right into Renoir’s
so soft world . . .
I want to be that woman
in the long white dress,
waltzing in the arms
of that redheaded man.
I want to feel the heat
of his hand holding mine,
and press my cheek
to the fur of his beard.
I want to feel the thrill
of his arm round my waist,
his eyes on my face,
his leg between mine.
I want to be that woman
in Le Bal à Bougival
and dance forever
with that unmasked man . . .
BUT SUDDENLY—
“Sophie.”
Someone is saying my name.
“Sophie?”
Asking it,
like a question.
And I’m wrenched from the painting
and snapped back to the reality
of the hard oak bench.
There’s someone sitting next to me.
Speaking to me.
“How ya doin?”
It’s . . . Murphy.
MURPHY?!
And he looks
so happy to see me
his tail’s practically wagging.
“Oh! Hi,” I say,
trying to sound friendly, but wishing
I could get the heck out of here.
“It’s an awesome painting,
isn’t it?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“My all-time favorite,” he says.
“Mine, too,” I admit.
MURPHY TELLS ME
That he has a book about Renoir
and that it says in there
that the dancing man
is Renoir’s friend, Paul Lhote.
He tells me
that the woman is
a seventeen-year-old girl
named Marie-Clementine Valadon.
He says
when she was older
Marie-Clementine became
a well-known painter herself.
And Murphy says
there’s something about her
that reminds him
of me.
WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Oh, no.
Tell me
that I didn’t do
what I think I just did.
I didn’t
ask Murphy
to have lunch with me just now,
did I?
Man oh Manischevitz.
Lunch with Murphy.
In a public place.
This is going to be totally Twilight Zone.
FOURTH STOP: LUNCH AT PIZZERIA REGINA WITH MURPHY
We climb the stairs,
and duck out of the cold
into the roasted garlic sweet tomato scent
of Regina’s.
I slide into the ancient wooden booth,
positioning myself with my back to the door,
so if anyone I know walks in,
they won’t see me sitting with Murphy.
“What do you want on the pizza,
Marie-Clementine?” he asks.
I can’t help smiling at this.
“Whatever vous want,” I say.
And when Murphy smiles back at me,
I realize
that I’ve never seen
him smile before.
And it’s nice, his smile.
WHILE WAITING FOR PIZZA
Murphy reaches into his backpack
and pulls out a sketchbook
and a pencil.
He says the light
coming in through the window
is perfect right now.
So I reach into my backpack
and pull out my sketchbook and pencil.
“It is perfect, isn’t it?” I say.
Then we grin at each other
and start sketching everything
in sight.
FIFTH STOP: SKATING ON THE FROG POND ON BOSTON COMMON
We pull on the rented skates,
wobble our way to the edge of the pond,
and glide out onto the ice,
weaving ourselves into the flow
of the darting mob.
Almost instantly,
this kid going way past the speed limit,
smacks into me.
Murphy has to grab my hand
to keep me from falling.
after he steadies me.
And what’s truly bizarre
is that I almost feel disappointed
when he does.
“I know a better place to skate,”
Murphy says. “It’s kind of a secret spot.
No one to knock you over but me.
I’ll take you there tomorrow
if you want.”
Was that me who just said
“I’d like that”?
BEFORE WE SAY GOODBYE
Murphy writes something down
on a scrap of paper from his sketchbook
and presses it into my hand.
It’s something scary.
Something numerical.
Something distinctly phone numberish.
“So you can call me
about going skating tomorrow,”
he says.
It’s such a little slip of paper.
It would be so easy to lose it.
I wouldn’t have to call him,
if I lost it.
E-MAIL FROM RACHEL AND GRACE
The one from Rachel says
that her hotel has a pool
with a waterfall in it,
and that the lifeguard is devastating
(she’s already drowned twice),
and that her bungalow is painted
a color called “sky blue pink,”
and that she feels guilty because
she doesn’t miss Danny one bit,
and that she’s getting an extreme tan.
The one from Grace says
that she was walking on the beach
in Boca Raton with her cousin
and they met this old man named Harold
who has just about
the most amazing garden ever,
which he grew completely
out of mystery seeds
that washed up on the beach,
and that she misses
the bejesus out of Henry,
and that she’s getting an extreme tan.
They both say they miss me
and want to know
what I’m doing to keep busy.
So I’m going to e them back
and tell them all about
the vacation I took myself on today.
Well,
maybe not all . . .
OKAY
So maybe my old fantasy
about kissing Murphy
did flit acro
ss my mind
once or twice today.
But it wasn’t like a
physical attraction kind of thing.
It was more like an
I-feel-sorry-for-him kind of thing.
Because probably no one
has ever kissed him before.
And maybe no one ever will kiss him
his whole life long.
Unless I do.
And it would be sort of neat
to be the very first girl
that a guy ever kissed.
But just because I thought about it
doesn’t mean I’d ever really do it.
Since if I did, he’d probably think
I wanted to be his girlfriend or something.
Which I definitely don’t.
HE TOOK ME THERE THIS AFTERNOON
To this hidden pond
in a little clearing
deep in the woods near the reservoir.
We decided
we’d call it
Valadon Pond.
Now I’m soaking in the tub,
trying to thaw myself out,
watching the steam curl into question marks,
remembering the feel of
the shivery wind
rosing my cheeks,
the soft scents
of pine needle
and new snow,
the mirror-smooth ice
gliding past
beneath my skates
and the warmth
of his gloved hand
holding mine.
OH, MAN
I probably
shouldn’t have let him
hold my hand.
What if it
gave him
the wrong idea?
I hope
he doesn’t think