Woodbury, Minnesota
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Dating Down © 2015 by Stefanie Lyons.
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First e-book edition © 2015
E-book ISBN: 9780738745053
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Vespa illustration by Justin Lawson
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For all the girls who’ve dated down
and picked themselves right back up.
I will call him X.
X
for the reasons I crossed him out of my life.
X
for the number of times I plunged into self-destruction.
X
because his name would only give him a place in your mind
that he does not deserve.
We Begin
I check out
X
with stolen stares
after school
over coffee
under piles of books.
Café Hex—
dingy
yellow
red
gray
X—
cool
calm
smooth
clashes with the warm colors.
Hex seems like a circus.
A messy, disorganized carnival.
Jinxed as if it
might go under any second.
Fold the tents and pack up
the bearded lady.
X—
stacks dishes
wipes tables
long arms
glide over coffee rings.
Concentrating,
he pours coffee
as I pore over homework.
Chemistry and Algebra.
Does a equal b?
Or is a only a fraction of b when divided by point seven?
I’m just a junior, but
I can’t wait for art school
… where less is more
less structure
less law
fewer fatherly obligations.
Pushing paint along canvas,
my goals my gouachemy drive.
Not part of the political push for: Senator Henderson.
Art is when it’s all about me:Samantha Henderson.
I sip coffee
stare
across the café.
X leans his lanky frame
crisscrossed
against the counter.
Steaming pots of coffee
halo his head.
What brings me here over and over?
The colors?
The chaos?
The cute new employee?
This circle of thoughtswirls
round and round
in my brain.
X steps outside.
Does he smoke?
Or is his shift over?
I wonder. Work faster.
Finish my assignments before the
out of business
sign goes up and
the sideshow skips town.
The ringmaster is leaving!
Show’s over, folks!
My cue to go,
he’s no longer around to fill my cup.
My hope to return,
he’ll be here, same time and table.
As for what’s next?
My canvas awaits.
I ask if there are any chocolate muffins.
X
plops down
across from me
smelling of lemons and tobacco.
Delicious.
I feel studious and stupid.
My palms dampen.
I dry them on my jeans.
His nose sports a cast,
a post-party drunken fiasco.
Unsuccessful friends—mostly girls—signed
the tiny clump of plaster
Mara
Rose
T.J.
Jess
leaving a galactic pattern of purple ink
between his eyes.
His cheeks—warm? embarrassed?—blotch with red.
My favorite color.
I stare
past his cast
into his eyes.
We chat.
His eyes shine
vulnerable-yet-experienced
An older boy stopping to talk to a high school girl.
A mellow-type guy floating for a while—him.
A meticulous-type girl studying for finals—me.
X:I do what I please.
Me:I can’t seem to please anyone.
Thinking of my father’s motto—
If you can try, then you can try harder.
His eyes
hover over me like a spaceship
searching for a safe place to land.
They
survey my books, my notes.
This isn’t the real me!I want to say.
I’m a painter! An artist!I want to say.
Me:I have finals.
He shifts his weight
and the luster in his eyes fades.
Does he think I’m naïve since I still live out of a locker?
One semester of college
and he had to take the next few off.
No money.
All twenty-two years of him, strapped for cash.
X:Life’s really the learning experience.
Me:I want to learn about life. All of it.
He changes the subject to
his friends’ bandhis apartment with them
a party they threwhis hangover
coffees at noonwriter, drummer, bass player
the song they wrotea poem he riffs
He’s a free spirit living a true artist’s life.
So much more interesting than
Ted.
Athletic-headed Ted.
Immature,
emotionally dead
Ted.
So much more interesting,
X.
College-boy X.
Older,
indie, hipster
X.
I know nothing about his world
living on his own
bands
underground parties
no longer being a teenager
I only know mine.
And mine,
isn’t that interesting anymore.
The Life
Livin’ the life.
The less-than-stressful life.
The paint-my-own-fate life.
Canvas covered in
cafés
coffee
cream and sugar?
oil and acrylic?
Frida O’Keefe
Claude Gauguin
Pablo Warhol
My going-all-night
’til-nothing’s-left
wrong-or-right life.
A life.
Alive.
Up in the rafters of freedom
down at the dive
bar none
havin’ fun
footloose and fancy free
homework free
high school free
be all I can be in Bohemia
painting the town
painting my day
painting the night
My own post-modern impression
at the gallery
life.
Oh I wish I were …
… livin’ my life.
Consulting April, Pt. I
PickupPickupPickupPickupPickupPickupPickupPickup
April’s phone goes into voicemail:
I’m out being fabulous. Leave a message.
Since when is April a gal about town?
A gal about
eyeliner—yes
comfy jeans—sure
but fabulous?
The ever-shifting landscape of my friend.
I do as I’m told.
Me:It’s me, Sam.
Was just at Hex and wanted to—
My phone beeps.
April.
Before I can say hello, she’s off and running.
April:How dare he …
what a lump …
taken for granted …
honestly, Sam, he’s too much!
The Problem with Ralph.
A topic usually reserved for
school hallways
the cafeteria
Chemistry
English
Study Hall
locker rooms
before final bell
after pep rallies
and daily texts.
In other words …
I give my basic speech.
Me:He’s a dolt …
April:You’re right!
Me:Doesn’t care …
April:I know!
Me:He’s rotten.
April:He is!
Me:You can do better,
speaking of better …
April:I can!
So, what’s up?
I feel dizzy with excitement.
New-boy jitters.
I inhale just as April’s phone beeps.
It’s Ralph.
Me:I thought you just said—
She puts me on hold.
What good is a life on hold?
Consulting Gavin, Pt. I
Gavin:Oh Henderson, why do you hang out in such seedy places?
Me:Seedy? It’s a coffee shop.
Gavin:Barney’s has a coffee shop.
Me:And very expensive clothes.
Gavin:Exactly!
Me:That’s not why I called.
Gavin:You met a guy!
Me:How’d you know?
Gavin:I’m all-knowing.
Is he cute?
Me:He’s older. And tall. Very tall.
Gavin:And cute?
Me:Yes, he’s cute.
Gavin:As cute as George?
Because, George is dreamy.
Isn’t George the dreamiest?
Me:A real dreamboat.
Gavin:Great. Now we’ve got that settled.
Why are my friends so annoying when in love?
Gavin:So, he asked you out?
Me:What’s with the twenty questions?
Gavin:I’m curious! … I’m nosy!
Me:Thought you were all-knowing?
Gavin:I’m waiting …
Me:No, we just talked.
Gavin:When he does, make sure he pays.
You’re worth it.
Me:Don’t be archaic.
Gavin:College boys should pay.
Me:He’s not in college.
Gavin:You said he’s older. Do we need to talk about this?
Me:No! He’s college age. Just not in college.
Gavin:Then what’s he doing?
Me:Working.
Gavin:Good! So he can afford to take you out!
Me:He’s laid-back. And cool.
Gavin gasps.
Gavin:He sounds adorable!
Me:I think he is.
Gavin:Then have him take you somewhere other
than that grimy café.
Home
I take the long way home:
Division Street to Western Ave.
My stretch of Chicago.
I receive sisterly questions:
Where were you, Sam?
How come you didn’t call?
Did you take Angie Hippo off my bed?
I’m telling Mom.
She’s Jane.
And she’s not my mom.
I trail behind the household police:
Melanie.
a.k.a. My five-year-old sister.
I walk through the family room:
Vote Henderson! signs
I see—
Jane.
a.k.a. Queen Vanilla.
pixie cutproperly combed
pearls poisedon collarbone
make-up made updiamond studs
She’s camera ready.
A posture-perfect picture of primness.
Dad:Samantha, where have you been?
Me:Thinking.
Dad:You’re seventeen. How much you got
to think about?
Funny guy.
Suggests I “think” about attending his upcoming rally.
Dad:Miguel wants the whole family there for pictures.
Primness and rallies—
Equally fake.
Falling fast out of fashion.
My father fawns over Queen Vanilla feigning a
back acheheadachesomething ache
for attention.
Jane:Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, Missy!
Name’s not Missy …
I wrinkle my nose at Jane who’s pretending to be
head of the house
sitting upright
uptight
in her chair
trimming and folding
trimming and folding
her campaign contribution.
I bound
up the stairs
&n
bsp; thinking it’d be funny
if her perfect pearls
or other jewels
suddenly went missing.
… and you’re not my mom.
My Mom
My mom is, graceful.
Her long, wispy limbs balance dishes while dancing.
With standing ovation, I watch a wine glass rest on her head
dazzling
vibrant.
My mom is, doting.
Her grand gasps and glowing accolades, hang on my
artwork.
With reassurance, I gladly give up my Gauguin imitations
encouraging
visual.
My mom is, lively.
Her kinky curls jump as she cracks kooky jokes.
With fascination, I join her clever chorus of “knock knock … ”
witty
vivacious.
My mom is, dead.
Politician for the People
Before he was a
politician for the people
my father was a
devoted son-in-law for Grandpa’s business
coach for my soccer team
study partner for spelling bees
supporter for opening Mom’s ballet school
cheerleader for my report cards
jokester for April Fool’s Day
pizza pusher for movie night
storyteller for bedtime
doting husband for his sick wife
dedicated dad for his only daughter.
But now,
he can’t be all those things
for me
and
for everyone else
For the People—Miguel
My father’s favorite helper.
His little lackey.
My surrogate brother,
as Dad likes to say.
Miguel
makes everything go away
or come to life
rushing and researchingrecommending and reporting
rephrasing and reworkingrebutting and rebuilding
relabeling and realigningreacting and readdressing
recouping damages
repairing reputations
rewording stump speeches
reviewing voter turnout
restructuring schedules
rethinking and rethinking and rethinking and rethinking.
He’s a fixer of problems.
He’s along for my father’s political ride.
And he’s doing it all while receiving his M.B.A.
restructuring his classes
refusing a social life
reassessing his career path
repeating the mantra