shaking a spatula to the beat.
i clear my throat
so she’ll know i’m there.
she turns, actually smiles at me.
don’t you just love that song?
i shrug. yeah, it’s okay.
her face is honest and soft.
the words to that song are so pretty.
they make me think of your father.
my father?—i turn—
you never talk about him.
my heart fills with a million questions.
mam reaches into the cupboard
for the old red shoebox
she adds five bucks to every week
after cashing her kmart check.
moving the bills aside,
she holds up a wicker tube—
some cheesy carnival prize
the size of a tampon.
your father gave this to me.
he won it at the arcade
the day i decided what
i wanted my life to be like.
there was a family, picnicking,
that i knew was meant to be us.
and we were supposed to eat
hot dogs grilled on a hibachi
and hold hands when we said grace.
she turns the wicker tube
round and round in her hand.
but when your dad died—
her face grays—that family
died right along with him.
what’s that make us?
i want to ask.
a table with one
of its legs sawed off?
but a timer dings and mam
returns the tube to the shoebox,
closing the lid,
closing down the conversation too.
she slides a casserole out of the oven.
cheese bubbles on top,
and my mouth waters.
looks good, i mumble.
i’m glad—mam turns to face me—
‘cause larry’s coming for dinner.
it’ll be nice to have the three
of us together again.
i glance down at the third plate
set in front of larry’s sometimes spot,
and reality hits me.
i bolt toward the door, calling,
sorry, got other plans!
* * *
carol ann’s mom and dad
insist i call them pete and joan.
they let me hang out
whenever i want,
for as long as i want,
no questions asked.
bill clinton smiles at me
from a poster over their disposal.
before he got elected president
their kitchen was like a
freaking museum.
even the dish towels had
vote clinton! pins
stuck through them.
i arrive just in time for dinner.
joan sets an extra plate,
loading it with tofu kabobs
and curried tempeh strips,
which i pretend to enjoy.
after dessert—
tofutti with carob chips—
me and carol ann wash dishes
while pete and joan slip out back
to smoke pot on the porch.
i glance out the window,
noticing how their hands touch
as they pass the joint back and forth,
how pete winks at joan and
she leans in to kiss his lips—
a deep, smoky kiss that
lasts until the joint burns down
to pete’s fingernail and he says, ow!
and joan lifts his finger to her mouth,
sweetly kissing that next.
tears fill my eyes.
i’ve gotta pee, i mumble.
i hurry to the bathroom,
sit on the edge of the tub.
i want what pete and joan have,
those small things bodies do—
like kissing a burned finger—
which say i love you
more than sex ever will.
* * *
upstairs, carol ann
fishes two hard candies out of
the drawer of her wicker nightstand.
i chew mine instead of sucking it and
my mouth fills with hot minty slivers.
how rude! carol ann snaps,
imitating stephanie on full house.
she loads a cd and
whitney houston’s voice
fills the room. i moan.
give me pearl jam, nirvana, metallica—
music to take me away from my feelings,
not draw me closer to them.
carol ann sits beside me
on the bed. check this out.
she pulls her long hair back,
showing me a hickey on her neck.
i make a face. gross.
hickeys look like what
they are—skin sucked blue.
there’s nothing sexy about them.
me and eric are probably
gonna do it soon, she tells me,
leaning backward across her spread.
her hair is a huge amber fan,
encircling her zit-free face.
when she stretches, her shirt rides up,
showing off the navel piercing
pete and joan signed for.
for our first time, she continues,
eric and i are going to rent a motel room.
you know, so it feels more real.
and i want a bottle of red wine—
one with a cork, not a twist top.
oh, and candles.
loads and loads of them.
she raises up on one elbow.
how about you?
what do you want
your first time to be like?
i used to wonder that all the time—
where jeremy and i would be
when it would happen,
how it would feel,
if it would hurt.
carol ann sits up.
welllll? i’m waiting for an answer here.
a voice inside nudges: tell her!
my tongue wraps
around the words:
something happened…
but when i open my mouth to speak,
the phone rings,
and joan calls up the stairs,
carol ann, it’s eric!
and i swallow
the words down fast.
* * *
five minutes after i get home
jeremy phones to say
his parents are leaving
for the weekend
and he’s having a party.
i change into faded jeans and
my favorite nine inch nails tank top.
on my way through the door,
mam calls my name.
i follow her voice
to her tv chair,
where she’s watching unsolved mysteries,
pigging out on double stuf oreos.
desiree, she starts,
all serious,
like she plans to take a stab
at maternal concern.
that or she’s constipated.
you and that jerry boy
aren’t having sex, are you?
i stand in front of the tv.
it’s jeremy.
and why would
i tell you if we were?
she stares through me
like i’m invisible.
her x-ray vision freaks me out.
i step aside.
mam’s pupils light into mine.
he sounds so horny
in those notes he wrote you.
all he thinks about is getting in your pants.
i’m worried about you, desiree.
i fold my arms across my front.
well, if you hadn’t snooped,
you wouldn’t have to worry.
besides�
�i grab my denim jacket
off a hook—jeremy’s a really sweet guy.
i’d appreciate it if you’d cut him some slack.
mam reaches for another oreo.
you could treat larry better too.
he’s been like a father to you,
including you in everything we do.
lately all you do is ignore him.
my stomach is a lava pit.
i want to scream:
you have no idea what
your precious larry did to me!
but i don’t.
i watch mam walk to the fridge
for a coke, and before
her fat ass is planted
back in her chair,
i’m gone.
* * *
i stop at the fart mart
on my way to jeremy’s.
a counter kid with a
million greasy pimples
talks on a cordless phone,
going, yes, sir, no, sir,
probably kissing ass with the boss,
mister mega-fart himself.
i waltz up and down the aisles,
lift a pack of marlboros,
a box of ritz crackers,
a can of spray cheese.
when i turn to leave,
the kid calls, have a nice day!
i wave and holler back, you too!
* * *
i can tell jeremy’s buzzed
as he weaves toward me
and hands me a beer.
the party’s small,
and everyone’s watching mtv—
“creep” by radiohead.
munchies! carol ann squeals
as i unload the crackers and cheese.
a few hours later,
when the food and beer are gone,
everyone’s paired off, making out.
i follow jeremy to his room,
amazed by how neat it is.
his clothes are picked up
and his bed is made,
decked out in a new green comforter—
an emerald island, floating
in a sea of blue carpet.
with the sticky stars glowing on the ceiling,
it’s almost like being at the beach.
a light clicks on in my brain.
if we have sex while jeremy’s buzzed,
he’ll probably never guess
i’m not a virgin.
for a moment
i’m me again.
pre-larry me.
i lie across jeremy’s bed,
patting the empty spot.
jeremy inches toward me,
blurry-eyed from drinking.
but there’s something else
in his gaze—
like maybe he’s drunk on me too.
his lips move slowly,
soft and sweet as butter
melting across warm toast.
he unbuttons my shirt
then starts for my jeans.
when i don’t stop him
like usual,
he looks at me,
grinning, expectant. dez…?
i nod,
grin back.
except before jeremy continues,
he asks, are you sure you’re okay with this?
are.
you.
sure.
you’re.
okay.
with.
this.
seven words
i should have heard before
but didn’t.
seven words that make me
want to cry.
yeah, i whisper,
fighting tears,
because suddenly i realize
i’m not just covering larry’s tracks,
i’m clearing a new path for jeremy.
as his fingers glide across
my breasts, my stomach,
and down, down to a
place that is damp
and waiting,
i imagine i am new again.
i don’t float out of my body
or watch from the ceiling
like i did with larry.
i’m in my body
feeling every kiss,
every touch,
every quake.
jeremy is safe,
my heart tells me.
* * *
afterward,
jeremy’s arm is
looped behind my neck,
nestled in just the right spot.
the other, sleep-laden and heavy,
is draped across my chest.
my boobs are smooshed,
but i don’t move.
i memorize every detail:
jeremy’s sweet, soapy smell
mixing with something
musky and mysterious,
the street light squeezing
through the mini blinds,
covering him in thin white stripes,
the smile teasing his lips.
if i were an artist,
i’d paint a picture of him.
but i suck at art
like i suck at everything in school.
so remembering will have to do.
* * *
when i get home,
i reach in my underwear drawer
for the tiny calendar i use
to keep track of my periods.
carol ann says
i’m lucky to be so regular,
that i’ll never be caught
like she was last june,
bleeding through a pair of white jeans
in the middle of a history final.
she’s right.
i’m never early. or late.
every month’s exactly the same—
four days, x’ed in red,
twenty-six days apart.
since larry did what he did,
i have a new calendar ritual.
just before i crawl into bed
i x away the day that just passed.
it’s like i’m saying to myself,
you survived another twenty-four hours
without killing someone or screaming.
except i mark my surviving larry x’s
with a black sharpie
so when i do get my period
and switch back to red,
i won’t screw up the system.
i’m still waiting though,
still watching those black x’s
march their asses across four rows,
moving in on the fifth.
after my first time with jeremy,
i mark black x number thirty.
Ariel
After talking with Dad, I start on my homework. When the phone rings again, I let the machine screen the call.
“Hey, Ariel.” Shane sighs. “Look, I know you’re home ’cause your voice mail kicked in, which means you were on the phone. I need to talk to you. Pick up, okay?”
I hurry toward it. “I’m here,” I answer. “I just got off the phone with my dad.”
Shane’s one of the few people I told about having a dad in prison who didn’t get all weirded out. “Have a nice talk?” he asks me.
“Yeah, we did.”
“How’s your headache?”
I’d forgotten about my lie. “Better.”
“I left you two messages,” Shane says. “How come you didn’t call me back?”
“Oh, um, I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair first,” I lie again.
Shane clears his throat. “When I didn’t hear from you, I got worried you were still upset with me about the joke. Ariel, I shouldn’t have done that. I was playing around with you because I was bummed you wouldn’t let me in. But it was a mean and stupid thing to do, and I’m really sorry. Forgive me?”
Even if I was still upset, the awkward softness in Shane’s voice could easily melt it away. “Yeah, I forgive you.”
“Good. Thanks.” Shane pauses. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah.
Mom’s working late. We’re going out to dinner when she gets home.”
“Cool. Look, um, I still have an hour before work. Can I stop there on my way? Maybe we can sit at the kitchen table and talk. I’ll wear my Boy Scout badge.”
Not again. “Shane,” I start, trying to sound upbeat, “some night when you don’t have work—when my mom’s home—I’ll show you the house and we’ll hang out in the rec room where it’s private and watch a DVD or something.” I shove my hair behind my ear. Again and again. After about the eighth time, I stop myself. “How does that sound?”
There’s a long silence. I’m starting to get the headache I lied about.
“How old are you?” Shane asks.
I laugh nervously. “You know I’m almost sixteen. Why are you asking me that?”
“Because. The sixteen-year-old girls I knew at my old school passed the I-can’t-make-Mommy-mad-at-me stage at, like, twelve.”
His words hit me like a slap in the face. In fact, a slap would have probably hurt less.
“Shane, stop. You’re hurting my feelings.”
“And you think you’re not hurting mine, Ariel? More than anything, I want to take care of you, and you’re guarding the door and clinging to your mother’s rule like I’m a friggin’ predator or something. How do you think that makes me feel?”
Tears well up in my eyes.
“Look, Ariel, I care more about you than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”
“You…do?”
“Yeah, I do. That’s why this is eating me up inside. I just want to see you. To sit in the same room with you and look at you and talk with you and, and”—his voice cracks—“and keep you safe from the real pricks of the world.”
Steadying the remote, I point it at Bart Simpson’s face. When the screen goes black, I get a sudden chill. Why do I feel like I’ve shut down something bigger than a TV show? I take a deep breath. Let it out. “Okay. Park near the shrubs so the neighbors can’t rat me out. And don’t come to the front door—cut through the garage instead.”
“Be there in fifteen minutes,” he says. “Can’t wait to see you.”
“Me too,” I say back, but Shane’s already hung up.
I hurry to the bathroom for a quick shower so Shane won’t find out I’ve lied. I wet my hair but don’t wash it. There’s not enough time for that.
Eleven minutes later, I hear knocking at the kitchen door. I rush to my room and glance out the window. Sure enough, Shane’s black Yamaha is parked beside our long row of hedges. “Just a second!” I call, grabbing my robe, reminding myself that if I really had showered when I said I did, I’d be completely dressed by now.
Blue Plate Special Page 7