Reckless, Glorious, Girl
Page 8
& shares it with me.
“Here’s my list,” Rodney says.
Types of Powers: Top Ten
1. Aquatic Breathing—easily my favorite.
2. Poison Immunity—who wants to be poisoned?!
3. Hyperawareness—I need to know where I am & who I am at all times.
4. Enhanced Senses—again, always aware. Also super taste for fried chicken—check.
5. Night Vision—who doesn’t want to see in the dark?
6. Botanical Communication—I like plants.
7. Clairvoyance—seeing the future would be rad.
8. Flight—obvious.
9. Enhanced Lung Capacity—would help with gym.
10. Hybrid Soul—I just really like the sound of that one.
“You can keep it. I have another copy.
Besides, they kind of keep changing
depending on my mood.”
He hands it over & I study it close.
“What do you think would be on your list?”
Turns Out
Falling in the lunchroom is actually kind of a cool move.
A way to get everyone talking about you, at least.
Chloe, Eliza, Brianna & Olivia say hi & invite me to sit
at their table. The circular one in the middle.
Not the ones on the sidelines—
the ones that get pushed away.
They are the center. That’s where they sit.
In science class, they would be: the nucleus. It’s true.
They are the sun & we’re all just revolving around them.
I say yes the day when Mariella & StaceyAnn are out.
Both of them at a meeting for the soccer team. Not me.
I play zero sports during the school year. I sit. Stay silent.
Try & make conversation, but it goes something like this.
“That fall was ahhh-mazing,” Olivia says.
(Not really, I think but say nothing, just nod.)
“How in the world did you do that?”
(Uhhh, it was super easy, I just
tripped over my own two feet.)
“I loved that you just bowed—like you didn’t even care.”
(I TOTALLY cared. Still care. Caring currently.
And the bow was totally StaceyAnn’s idea.
Can’t take credit for that one.
Also—it’s what they do in all the old movies
my mom makes me watch, so there’s that.)
“What do you do on the weekends?”
(Hmm … garden with my mamaw
& play games with my best friends.)
“You should sit with us more often,” Eliza says.
“Yeah,” I finally say, finding my voice.
“That’d be cool.”
I spend the rest of the lunch nodding & smiling along.
They seem to kind of like me but have no idea
who I really am.
I guess that’s partly
because I’m trying to figure that out myself.
Hands Down
Lunch is still my favorite part of the day, & when it’s chili
& chicken noodle soup, I’m glowing. A type of food heaven
Mamaw says exists only if you love life enough to eat it alive.
I do. They serve pimento cheese or peanut butter with honey.
Mamaw says this is what the South is all about.
Recipes for building muscles & heart. She tells me to eat
with your whole body. Learn to love the time it takes
to make something from scratch. Homemade.
Says food is joy, is communion, is what it takes
to always bring you back to the table.
On these days, she slips me two dollars for extra honey.
She knows I need all the sweet I can get.
All Morning Long
I stay steady daydreaming. Blame
the window to the left of me & the fact
it faces sky & lawn & so many endless
possibilities outside this dead-end classroom.
Blame Mamaw, who planted all the many wild
ways to be in the world. For sure blame Mariella
& StaceyAnn, who say daydreaming’s the best part
of school anyway, so why not spend forever doing it?
Blame Mr. Brady, who speaks sometimes
like a robot & drones & drones & drones on.
Predictions, specific scientific evidence. Blame
Rodney & the way his chin sits in his open palm,
his own daydreams floating up—on top of his head
dancing with mine. But most of all. Blame me
& my own mind. The way it wanders most times
without me. Sees me from space—up above.
& directs me right on up, up, up & into the clouds.
My Dreams Get Lost
I’m a kid again. Playing family & house.
Mariella, StaceyAnn & me building our lives,
the ones we dream about.
“I’ll be a doctor who also acts on the side
and a writer who owns a bookstore. I’ll own
the bakery where Mamaw works and a house
that fits my whole family. Mom can have her own
room and Mamaw can plant an even bigger garden
and we’ll all live together happy and comfortable.
I’ll fall in love, of course. Have lots of kids—maybe four
or five—a whole big, sprawling family. Definitely not
one. One kid is too hard. I’m an only child. It’s rough
out here alone. On my own. I’ll have it all.”
Those were the kinds of dreams we had then. But now.
I just want to make it through middle school. Not trip
again. Not bleed through my underwear, not have zits
that cover my chin or my forehead. Get a first kiss maybe
or someone to like me. No one ever likes me. Will anyone
ever like me? I dream that I fit in everywhere.
Everywhere I go. I belong.
Seventh-Grade Dream
I go on & see myself
the way I want to be seen.
“Envision! Envision! Envision!
Anything you make
with your own two hands
is worth it. Anything you make
with your own two hands
is worth it.”
Mamaw’s mantras float in my head.
This is the year that the boys notice me,
all of me. The year I make them daydream
about me. The year they talk about
how funny I am, how laid-back & chill I am,
how they wish I was their girlfriend.
& say things like: She’s the total package,
whatever that really means. This is the year
that Chloe & Eliza & Olivia & Brianna
decide they need a fifth member of the crew
& invite me in. The year they finally see
that a slumber party is not the same without me
& that I’m the perfect addition to their squad.
The year I finally become part of a “squad”
rather than a social misfit, even though I love
Mariella & StaceyAnn. It’s time to be seen.
Time to shine.
This is the year I’m named most popular,
most talented, class president, most stylish,
best laugh, prettiest smile, best body
(okay, I know, I know that’s not an actual
yearbook category, but still).
I would like to have the best body, the best legs,
the best hair, the best everything, anything.
I’ll take it! All of it.
It’s Day of the Girl
My teacher Ms. Harrison says. & she’s always,
always talking in exclamation points. She says things
like: “Seriously, you should know this! & Have you ever
stopp
ed to think? & What do you think of this? & You
will never believe it & I’m telling you right now!
& Believe me when I say! & Truth be told! & Do you know
what I am trying to say? & Mark my words!”
& seriously, she should know that she makes my brain
feel like it’s in a hard-core gymnastics class. Gymnastics,
another sport I’m crap at. But back to my brain. My
elastic, bombastic, energetic, ecstatic, electric brain.
The one that’s been my best company for twelve years.
But lately it feels jumbled when I try & say
what’s inside it.
Sometimes there’s too much up there,
& I stumble around letting my insecurities
bubble up to the top, without me.
You All Have Beautiful Voices
So you should use them as much as possible!”
Ms. Harrison says. “Your voices are bridges
that connect you to the world. Your voices
are oceans collecting all your visions
& ideas & washing them to the shore.
Your voices are anchors & pulleys,
ships & buoys. Always, your voices
are the tallest trees in the forest.
They rise up. They are canopies & shelter.
Balm & salve. They can heal & calm.
Use them to build yourselves up & help others
climb toward who they’re meant to be.
Your voices are magic! The kind
that mends & cures, rejuvenates
& renews. Go on and use them, use them
up until all I hear is a chorus of breath!”
First of All
I have no idea what Ms. Harrison is talking about
most of the time. She is at least a billion years old
or that’s what she told us last week, laughing.
& THEN, she had us make metaphors & similes
with the idea of old. You know:
As old as the hills (that’s a massive cliché, by the way)
Old as when dinosaurs ruled the land
Old like shoes that have run a hundred miles
Old as the sea
As old as history.
& then! She had us use her as an example—
Ms. Harrison is a fossil (she really howled at this one)
Ms. Harrison is a cool antique you find at a flea market
Ms. Harrison is a dusty old-fashioned book you find in
your attic.
“Full of knowledge, I’m sure,” Ms. Harrison said.
“I’m seventy-two & counting.
That’s nearly sixty years older than you.
& you might be wise to listen to what I have to say.”
So I’ve pretty much decided she’s a wild genius
& even though I’m almost always lost in her class,
I figure she knows the best ways out.
Alternate Names for Gym Class
The Stinky Pit
Laugh Factory
House of My Sadness
Volleyball Drama
The Place Where No One Scores
The Home Run to Nowhere
Slam Dunk Me in the Face
Goal: Never Again
Destination: Spikesville
The Place Where I Dribble the Ball Alone
House of My Sorrows
(that one seems a little dramatic, but still)
Jump Rope Disaster
(which is my current favorite,
since I tripped during the fitness test last week
& busted my lip in front of the whole class & God,
who I don’t even know if I believe in,
especially since I can’t think of any good God
that would invent gym class
& then make me completely miserable at it).
My List of Superpowers
1. Chaos Manipulation—so I can confuse the gym teachers & they can never find me.
2. Enigma Force—so everyone will want to be close to me, near me.
3. Emotion Vision—to figure out how everyone around me is feeling so I don’t have to guess.
4. Supernatural Strength—always first place.
5. Healing Vision—my favorite.
6. Telepathy—so I can read minds, especially Rodney’s mind. What is he thinking? What is he feeling? I must know.
7. Rainbow Manipulation—I’m not exactly sure what that entails, but I want it. Badly.
8. Age Manipulation—MUST GROW UP.
9. Teleportation—could I get to high school already?
10. Self-Detonation—in case I ever make a fool out of myself … again.
I make a whole list to match Rodney’s
& I almost give it to him.
But at the last second,
I chicken out.
Maybe being brave
should be at the very top
of the list of superpowers I really wish I had.
Egomania
“That’s what we’re learning today,” Mr. Brady says,
all egotistical, as if he’s mastered the art already.
“Brag,” he says, drawing out the word.
“Show us who you are!”
Some of the boys shout out, their voices flying
from their mouths.
Freshest, astonishing,
otherworldly, godly,
spectacular, miraculous,
fantastic, brilliant,
towering, awesome,
stupendous, superb.
As if they’ve been waiting their whole lives
to tell about how magnificent they are.
Mr. Brady looks at us. Silent. Mariella is quiet, reading
her YA novel tucked tight into her desk. She thinks
she’s slick. & StaceyAnn is curling the letters in her name.
I’m busy drawing a highly realistic rendition of myself
vomiting in a trash can, my hair a puff of cotton candy
around my angelic face. & the vomit really spewing
& spinning from my mouth. Sure, it’s immature.
But it’s a JOKE! If Mr. Brady doesn’t understand that,
then he has no sense of humor whatsoever.
Turns out, Mr. Brady has no sense of humor whatsoever.
& neither does our principal, Ms. Shipman.
Or the counselor, Ms. Rodriguez.
Except I think she kind of understands when I say,
“Sometimes I feel like the people who talk the most
do the least amount of work.”
Trouble
“You simply cannot draw yourself vomiting in class,”
Mamaw starts. Mom is nodding in the background.
“And then get caught. You have to be more careful.”
“Or how about not do it at all?” Mom jumps in.
“Oh, right. That’s true,” Mamaw adds, then mouths
don’t get caught at me again for emphasis.
They’re both irritated. Annoyed when they got the call
from the counselor to ask if everything
was okay at home, & furious when I lied
& said I didn’t do anything wrong.
I didn’t think Mr. Brady would do a follow-up phone call
to try & pretend he cares about my well-being.
He does not.
“You’ve had a strong start to the year, Beatrice.
Let’s keep it that way,” Mom adds.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I shouldn’t have done it.
I was just tired of everyone else having the answer,
especially the boys. And feeling like I never, ever
know the right things to say.”
Mamaw & Mom stare at me now, which seems like
neither of them knows the right things to say, either.
In Other News
We stay silent until Mom says she has something to say,
a question she’s been mea
ning to ask us.
Mamaw & I look up, surprised. “What’s on your mind?”
Mamaw asks.
“Well, I know this is not the perfect time to bring this up,
but I figure now or never. And since Beatrice is grounded
and will be staying with us all weekend …”
Now I’m getting nervous. What is she trying to say?
“I met someone,” Mom starts.
Harrison Douglas immediately flashes in my mind.
Why in the world didn’t I return to my Google search?!
Who is he? And how did he get a place in Mom’s heart?
“His name is Harrison Douglas. I met him at the hospital.
He’s in medical sales, and he is kind, funny, and single.”
Mom starts to laugh a little at this, which is strange.
Is she embarrassed? Nervous? She must really like him.
Mamaw’s eyebrows have absolutely not left
the tip-top of her forehead. They’re stuck up there.
She’s smiling, but I can tell this is new.
Besides the occasional date, Mom has been single,
just the three of us. & since Mom’s folks passed away
a few years back, it truly is just Mamaw, Mom & me.
This is new territory for everyone.
“What I’m saying is … I would like you both to meet him.
I never ask this unless it’s serious, but this feels like
it could be. Would you both come to dinner?”
I’ll Cook