What My Mother Doesn't Know

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What My Mother Doesn't Know Page 7

by Sonya Sones


  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.

  He lets go of it a second later,

  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

 

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