by Sonya Sones
and then he winks at her.
He actually winks.
And she just about dies
whenever he does that.
And she says he finally asked
for her phone number yesterday
and when he called her last night
she just about fainted
and they talked for three solid hours,
and she can’t believe
how much they have in common.
They even have the same number
of letters in their names,
and she says he better ask her out soon,
because she doesn’t think
she can go on like this
much longer.
He better.
Because we don’t think
we can
either.
WHEN WE’RE ALONE
Rachel does her Grace impression:
“. . . He’s got this Pig Latin accent
that just about makes me ool-dray.
And we have so much in common.
We even have the same number of zits!”
When she finishes,
we share a guilty giggle fit,
but then Rachel’s smile fades
and she says sometimes
listening to Grace
go on and on about Henry
makes her feel as if
her relationship with Danny
is inferior or something.
She says she can’t remember
ever having talked on
the phone with Danny
for more than twenty minutes
at a stretch.
Not even in the very beginning.
And when she says this,
I suddenly realize
that the same thing’s true
about Dylan and me.
And my heart
sinks
all the way to China.
AT THE COUNTY FAIR
If only
Dylan liked
Ferris wheels.
If only
I liked
roller coasters.
If only
Dylan liked
fun houses.
If only
I liked
bumper cars.
If only
Dylan liked
horse shows.
If only
I liked
video arcades.
If only
I had come with Rachel and Grace
instead.
TEST RESULTS ARE IN
I took one of those
really stupid magazine tests just now.
The kind that’s supposed to tell you
how compatible you are with your mate.
This one was called:
“Is Your Mr. Right, Mr. Wrong?”
If you scored in the nineties
he was definitely Mr. Right.
Above seventy-five meant he was Mr. Maybe.
Above fifty meant he was Mr. Maybe Not.
And anything below fifty meant—
Well, you know.
I answered all those idiotic questions
as honestly as I could.
I should have lied.
I DON’T GET IT
I used to think it was so cute
the way Dylan’s sneakers always
squeaked when he walked.
I liked teasing him about them.
Called them his squeakers.
Loved being able to hear
him coming a mile away.
When I’d hear that squeak of his
heading in my direction,
my heart would dance right up
into my throat.
I used to feel like I was floating
a few inches above the ground
whenever he was squeaking along
next to me.
But now when I hear those
noisy Nikes of his,
I feel like
I want to scream.
I want to stomp on his toes.
I want to trip him up and run away.
I just don’t get it.
HE CALLS HIMSELF CHAZ
I like the ring of it—
chatting with Chaz.
I met him on the Internet last week
and we just seemed to click right away.
No pun intended.
We’ve been getting together
every night since then at ten o’clock
for these long private talks.
Just the two of us
floating through cyberspace.
There’s something so neat
about not even knowing
what he looks like.
Something even neater
about not even caring.
And knowing
that he doesn’t care
what I look like either.
It’s a soul thing,
with us.
A cybersoul thing.
I made up that word.
Chaz really likes it.
MY MORAL DILEMMA
I ask Rachel and Grace
if they think it’s the same thing
as cheating on Dylan
when I chat with Chaz.
Grace says that depends
on who I like talking to more,
the cyberstud (as she calls him)
or Dylan.
Grace says she can’t imagine
wanting to talk to another guy
more than her new boyfriend Henry.
On the Net or otherwise.
She says it’s a bad sign if
I don’t feel that way about Dylan.
But Rachel says one person
can’t completely fulfill
anybody’s needs a hundred percent
and it’s not as if
I’m actually dating Chaz,
so she doesn’t see anything wrong with it.
I love that girl.
CYBER SOUL MATE
It’s almost ten o’clock.
I can hardly wait
to see his voice.
HIS WORDS POP ONTO MY SCREEN:
“So tell me about your day.
I want to know everything that happened
from the minute you woke up this morning to right now.”
I don’t think anyone’s
ever
been this interested in me before.
Not even me.
As I place my fingers
to the keys
and begin,
my heart does the happy chatroom dance.
MORE OR LESS
If Dylan and I had met
by chatting on the Net
in a room in cyberspace
instead of face to face
and I hadn’t seen his lips
or the way he moves his hips
when he does that sexy dance
and I hadn’t had a chance
to look into his eyes
or be dazzled by their size
and all that I had seen
were his letters on my screen,
then I might as well confess:
I think I would have liked him
less.
DOUBLE DATE
All Grace has to do is smile at him
and Henry forgets what he’s saying
right in the middle of his sentence.
And when he can complete a thought,
Grace acts like it’s just about
the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
Henry keeps wrapping
the little curl at the nape of her neck
around his finger,
and he hasn’t let go of her hand once,
even to scratch,
since we’ve been here,
which seems like hours
even though it’s probably only been
twenty minutes.
I don’t know how
they’re going to manage it
&n
bsp; when the food comes.
Dylan and I are just sitting here
across from them in the booth,
trying to make small talk.
Our thighs
aren’t even touching
on the seat.
AT THE MOVIES
I’m sitting between Henry and Dylan.
Dylan’s holding my hand,
but I can tell he isn’t feeling it.
He’s actually watching the movie.
I mean really watching it,
like it doesn’t even matter that I’m here.
And the saddest part is
that I don’t care.
I’d almost rather snuggle up to Henry.
But he’s too busy holding hands
(and everything else)
with Grace.
WALKING HOME
The light changes
and Dylan and I head across the street,
arm in arm.
That’s when it happens:
I notice our reflection in
the window of Starbucks
and I get this weird feeling
that something isn’t quite right.
Only I can’t put my finger on it.
Then it hits me:
what’s wrong is that it looks like
I’m taller than Dylan,
which is totally bizarre
because I’m wearing my flattest shoes
and I know for a fact
that he’s taller than me.
At least he was taller
six weeks ago
when we first started
going out together.
I’ve heard of people
outgrowing relationships,
but this is ridiculous.
GOOD NIGHT
We’re standing under the porch light,
face to face,
leaning our foreheads together.
He’s playing with my fingers,
whispering something
about what a great time he had tonight.
And all I can think about
is that his hands look smaller than mine,
like the hands of a little boy.
Q AND A WITH CHAZ
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“You.”
Me?!
“Yikes.”
“Yeah.”
HIM
I wake up
thinking about him.
All day long
I’m dreaming about him.
I fall asleep
thinking about him.
Only
it’s the wrong him.
IF IT WEREN’T FOR DYLAN
I wouldn’t be feeling
like a
low-down
dirty rotten
good-for-nothing
deceitful
despicable snake.
I could just be
enjoying this thing with Chaz
totally and completely,
without one
single
speck
of guilt,
if it weren’t for Dylan.
IT’S STRANGE
I used to wish like anything
that he’d want to spend
every
minute with me.
But now that he’s practically
glued himself to my side,
I keep tripping over him.
Like he’s my Siamese twin or something.
He’s always
pushing me
to go further
but I just don’t want to
and maybe it’s because
I’m not ready
or maybe it’s because
I don’t love him enough.
Or maybe
I don’t
love him
at all.
Or maybe I never did.
TOO LATE
Way back in the beginning of September,
when I wasn’t even sure yet
if he liked me,
I used to imagine what I’d do
if Dylan told me he loved me.
In my fantasy I’d just throw back my head
with a triumphant sexy laugh,
and then
he’d rake his fingers through my hair
and kiss me hard on the mouth.
But tonight
when he finally said the magic words,
I didn’t laugh and he didn’t kiss me.
He just peered at me with this worried look
and I suddenly felt like crying.
AND RIGHT THEN, MURPHY POPPED INTO MY HEAD
It was so weird, but he did.
And I found myself wondering
if anyone has ever told Murphy
that they love him.
His mother maybe has.
Or his father.
But I wondered
if a girl ever has.
Or if one ever will.
And somehow
that made me feel even sadder
than I already was.
And then I found myself wondering
if this was the one time,
the first and last time,
that a boy would ever say it to me.
TONIGHT’S CHAZ CHAT
He writes:
“Of course,
I don’t really care what you look like,
But—
what do you look like?”
I think for a second
before I answer:
“Well, people say
I’m sort of a combination of
Marilyn Monroe, Julia Roberts,
and Madonna.
What do you look like?”
And he writes back:
“Same.”
I burst out laughing
and suddenly find myself imagining
what his laugh sounds like,
and what his lips look like,
and how they’d feel
covering mine.
LITTERBOX ICG
If I could marry a font
I’d marry his.
I just love it,
the way all of the letters lean
at those quirky little angles.
They remind me of the letters
in those thought balloons
in the Sunday funnies,
like words that Snoopy
or Garfield
might be thinking.
And those question marks are—
well, they’re adorable.
They just are somehow.
If I could marry a font,
I would definitely marry his.
SHOWER
I step into the steam
and let the water
rinse my body clean
while rivers flow in ribbons
down my arms
and waterfalls caress my breasts
and swirl in lazy trickles
to my thighs
as soap melts into creamy suds
that slide across my skin
like foaming clouds,
and all the while
I’m thinking about Chaz,
imagining he’s with me in this mist,
imagining he’s
with me . . .
BIT BY BIT
“Okay,” I write.
“Describe how you’ve been picturing me.”
“I don’t have to picture you,” he replies.
“I’ve got a very powerful computer.”
For a second I panic,
thinking of all the times
I’ve chatted with him
wearing my ratty old nightgown.
But then he writes, “Just kidding.”
And I write, “Whew!”
And he writes,
“Actually, I see you as a curly-haired redhead
and a few freckles
sprinkled across your perfect nose.”
“Right!” I reply,
“Except for the hair, the eyes,
and that part about the freckles and the nose.”
Then I add,
“What do you look like?”
“Why don’t we meet
so you can find out?” he asks.
“Gulp,” I answer.
“Ditto,” he writes.
I DON’T KNOW HOW TO TELL DYLAN
I used
to think I was
in love
with him.
But that
must have been
a different him.
Or maybe a different me.
Because
when I look at him now
I see a friend,
not a boyfriend.
And when he kisses me,
all I feel is
the overwhelming
overness of it.
WHEN DYLAN CRIED
When Dylan cried,
I felt way more powerful
than I wanted to feel.
I started crying too.
I couldn’t help it.
And then we hugged each other
tighter than we ever had before,
knowing that we never would again.
LOWER THAN LOW
He said he wasn’t mad.
He said he understood.
He said he’d be okay.
So,
why do I feel this way?
WE SAID WE’D STILL BE FRIENDS, BUT
Whenever Dylan sees me
he pretends he doesn’t notice
and he tosses both his arms