Addie on the Inside

by James Howe

  When he walks away without saying

  why or what I’d done or hadn’t done,

  I want to rip the necklace off

  and throw it at him. Like in the movies.

  But I’m not a drama queen, even

  when my heart is breaking. I will keep

  the necklace in the heart-shaped box.

  The fate of the CD is uncertain.

  Drama Queen, Revisited

  I throw myself on my bed, sending Johnson flying,

  and scream, NO ONE LOVES ME! at the top of my lungs.

  My grandmother has sold her house and is moving

  into a condominium (a ridiculous word), and my cat,

  my cat is dead (not you, Johnson), and my boyfriend

  has broken up with me, and it’s all proof that no one

  loves me or ever will!

  And look at me, look at me, what is happening to my body?

  NOTHING! I don’t even look like a little girl, I look like

  a little boy who’s been stretched. And yet, and yet, inside

  I feel so different, like I don’t even know my own body

  anymore or trust it to do what it once did on automatic.

  It used to be light and airy, like the fairy cape I wore

  one Halloween that came all the way from China. Now

  it’s like an itchy wool coat handed down from a relative

  I never even heard of, two sizes too big one day, two sizes

  too small the next, weighing me down, tripping me up.

  And I want my father to fly me through the air and

  I hate it when he treats me like a child, and I want DuShawn

  to love me and I don’t ever want to speak to him again,

  and where is my grandmother when I need her, and why

  are all my friends boys? And I wish Kennedy was here

  (no offense, Johnson) and I wish I hadn’t seen DuShawn

  go off with Tonni after he broke up with me and I wish

  I could see into the future and know that everything

  will be okay, even though I’m the kind of person

  who can’t bring herself to look at the last page of the book

  because I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but right now

  I don’t think I can stand the suspense. So tell me, somebody,

  tell me everything will be okay, and by everything I mean

  me.

  Reasons

  too tall

  too loud

  too pushy

  too proud

  too stubborn

  too bright

  too outspoken

  too white

  too bold

  too bossy

  too fussy

  too I told

  you so

  are any

  of these

  the reasons

  he broke

  up with me

  I don’t know

  I don’t know

  I don’t know

  I don’t know

  “We are lost inside the world”

  It’s a line from a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye

  that keeps playing in my head like a sad song

  with a familiar melody and words I think

  I am beginning to understand.

  Addie This &

  Addie That

  Fun

  The girl on the swing calls out,

  “Addie! Hey, Addie!”

  I can’t tell who it is. It’s dusk.

  It’s dark. I’m on my way

  home.

  She is the only one on the swing set,

  the only person in the playground

  that I can make out. Who is she

  and why is she calling

  to me?

  It doesn’t matter. It’s as much

  the swing’s rise and fall that calls me

  as it is the girl’s voice. I push open

  the iron gate, drop my backpack

  by the fence.

  “Swing with me, Addie!” Her head’s

  dropped back, her hair brushes

  the ground. Her feet point high

  as she pumps and cries,

  “To the moon!”

  To the moon! To the moon! I know

  now who it is, but how can it be?

  Why is Becca here, and why

  would she want to hang out

  with me?

  I start to speak, then don’t.

  I grab hold of the chains,

  push back onto the seat,

  let go, and begin to pump

  my feet.

  “To the moon!” I shout as higher

  we fly. I know she is there

  by the swish of air that sweeps

  my side, and the squeak

  of the swing,

  the steady, reassuring rhythm,

  the breathing that breaks into

  laughter, the one time she cries

  in answer to a question unasked,

  “Who cares!”

  As it grows dark we slow our

  swinging, then stop. Becca drops

  her feet to the ground with a gravelly

  crunch, says, “That was fun,” and

  is gone.

  I thought that little girls grew up

  and never came back. I thought

  I knew who Becca was. I pick up

  my backpack and say to the night,

  “That was fun.”

  Whatever

  The final project of the year.

  We’ll be working in pairs.

  Ms. Watkins calls my name.

  Bobby’s hand is in the air,

  but not before Becca goes,

  “I’ll work with Addie.

  Fine, whatever.”

  Everyone stares at her.

  She shrugs and sighs.

  I remember her

  calling, “Who cares!”

  as she pumped her

  swing higher and higher,

  and I say, to my surprise,

  “Fine with me.

  Whatever.”

  Crooked Smile

  Our private language is now extinct.

  Our jokes are no longer funny.

  DuShawn still has his crooked smile,

  but he smiles it just for Tonni.

  We meet each other only in glances.

  We eat lunch at separate tables.

  I see them holding hands each day.

  I’ll forget him when I’m able.

  Spring, When Things Begin to Blossom

  One morning, out of nowhere it seems,

  there they are, small to be sure, but enough

  that I tell my mother it’s time for me to get

  another bra.

  Addie This & Addie That

  “Oh my, yes,” says the woman who’s stopped me

  in the lingerie aisle of Awkworth & Ames, me

  trying to look like I’m just passing through and not

  standing with my mother directly in front of the

  junior bras.

  “Oh, yes,” the woman repeats, “at our house it’s Addie

  this and Addie that, isn’t it, Clay?” The man named Clay

  nods and says, “It sure is,” even while his eyes are telling us

  he’s never heard my name before.

  “It’s so nice to have you back in town,” my mother says,

  and the conversation is sidetracked into where-

  have-you-been and what-have-you-been-up-to and

  how-long-have-you-two-been-married, giving me plenty of time

  to picture the scene when Becca hears from her mom,

  You’ll never guess who I bumped into in the junior bra

  department at Awkworth & Ames and I just know

  how that’s going to play out at school on Monday so of course

  I’m already planning on being sick that day and maybe

  all week

  when I realize her mom is speaking
to me again:

  “I think it’s gutsy of you to stand up for what you believe,

  wearing that duct tape over your mouth and all. And that time

  you told the whole class what you thought about domestic abuse,

  or whatever it was, well, Becca says you were just brilliant,

  that’s all. She only wishes she had your nerve. But I’m sure

  she’s told you all this herself, she certainly talks about it enough

  at home, doesn’t she, Clay?” Clay’s eyes have strayed to the next aisle

  where there’s a lot of lingerie involving lace, and I wish I could press

  an eject button and be rocketed out of here, but I am riveted

  to the spot. How could I not be, when I’m hearing

  what I’m hearing?

  “That’s nice” is all I can think of in response, but it’s enough

  for Mrs. Wrightsman, or whatever her name is now, to say,

  “You should come over sometime, Addie.”

  “Okay,” I mutter as my mother lifts up something involving daisies

  and turns to Becca’s mom and asks with a laugh, “What is

  the point of underwire in a junior bra?” And I wonder if there

  is such a thing as temporary death, because I have just died

  and I can only hope it’s temporary.

  Butterscotch Cookies

  Who knows if she’ll remember?

  Who knows why I’m doing it?

  But when she opens the door,

  sees the plate of butterscotch

  cookies in my hands and goes,

  “Omigod, I haven’t had those

  cookies in, like, years!” I have

  my answer to both questions.

  Two Girls, Hanging Out

  I can’t believe I am sitting

  on Becca Wrightsman’s bed,

  eating butterscotch cookies,

  discussing books we’ve read.

  I can’t believe she is wearing

  a shapeless shirt and jeans

  and not an ounce of makeup

  and not once acting mean.

  I can’t believe she is saying

  it’s been hard for her at school,

  trying to fit in again,

  trying to be cool.

  I can’t believe she is crying

  when I say I understand,

  then telling me she’s sorry

  for the gossip she began.

  I can’t believe she is asking

  if I still have the board game

  we always played at my house,

  she can’t recall its name.

  I can’t believe she is laughing

  at something I just said.

  I can’t believe I am sitting

  on Becca Wrightsman’s bed.

  The Funny Thing Is

  “On the day you wore that tape,” Becca says

  just before I leave for home, “things were getting

  out of hand, the teasing and the gossiping. I

  told my friends I wouldn’t do it anymore, and

  that’s when they cut me out, told me I was a loser

  too, told me the same things could happen to

  me that were happening to you. That’s why I

  was crying in the bathroom. I just, well, I guess

  I just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you,” I say. We are standing on her front steps,

  waiting for my dad to show up, looking down at our feet

  or out at the street. When I spot his car I turn to Becca.

  “We have so much work to do on this project. Want

  to meet tomorrow? My house?”

  “Totally,” she says. “And, hey, maybe you can find

  that game we used to play. Omigod, wouldn’t that be

  so much fun?”

  “Totally,” I say. And the funny thing is, I mean it.

  When You Least Expect It

  Like when you go to put your CD in the player

  and Joni Mitchell’s in the slot, not because you

  put her there but because Grandma left her

  behind. Or you call Johnson “Kennedy” for the

  third time in one day. Or your hand in the dark

  touches the box by your bed and you can’t help

  yourself, you have to trace its outline with your

  fingers and think the word heart.

  It’s those times that surprise you with how much

  you can miss a grandmother, a cat, a boy.

  Grandma Calls and It’s As If She Knows

  Just What I Need to Hear Her Say

  Oh, I know I could have e-mailed,

  but I wanted to hear your voice.

  No, you keep that CD. Absolutely.

  You love Joni as much as I do.

  When are you coming for a visit?

  The guest room is waiting. I call it

  Addie’s Room. What? No, I don’t

  change the name for other people!

  Yes, I did see that Op-Ed piece in

  the Times, and I couldn’t agree more.

  How’s Johnson doing? And how

  are you, sweet pea? I hope

  you’re not still moping over that

  dreadful boy. No, he was nice,

  just immature, that’s all. I’m

  sorry he broke your heart.

  When is school done for the year?

  Well, you should have a party.

  You can too dance! Just let the

  music carry you, sweetheart.

  Remember what I always say:

  They’re all love songs.

  You don’t have to have a boyfriend

  or a girlfriend to know love.

  Just open up your heart and

  let the world in. Your heart

  is bigger than you can imagine,

  and so is the world, and so,

  granddaughter, are you.

  Letting the World In

  It happens so quietly I almost miss it. I am

  standing in a doorway with a plate of nachos

  in my hands, my dad behind me in the kitchen

  calling out, “Don’t fill up on those, there are

  enchiladas coming!” My mother going, “Oh,

  Graham,” in a voice that says they have known

  each other for a million years. And here,

  here, in the living room before me, my friends

  are dancing in their funny, awkward way,

  Bobby with Kelsey, Zachary with Joe, all trying

  to find the beat and not trip over Skeezie’s

  enormous, outstretched feet.

  My own feet begin to move, my knees begin

  to dip, my thrift store skirt starts to swirl,

  and this is when it happens so quietly I almost

  miss it.

  My heart opens

  and the world comes rushing in.

  I Am Who I Say I Am

  I am who I say I am,

  I’m not some fantasy

  of how you think you think you know me

  or who I ought to be.

  I am a girl who is growing up

  in my own sweet time,

  I am a girl who knows enough

  to know this life is mine.

  I am this and I am that and

  I am everything in-between,

  I’m a dreamer, I’m a dancer,

  I’m a part-time drama queen.

  I’m a worrier, I’m a warrior,

  I’m a loner and a friend,

  I’m an outspoken defender

  of justice to the end.

  I’m the girl in the mirror

  who likes the girl she sees,

  I’m the girl in the gypsy shawl

  with music in her knees.

  I’m a singer and a scholar,

  I’m a girl who has been kissed.

  I’m a solver of equations

  wearing bangles on my wrist.

  I am bi
gger than I ever knew,

  I am stronger than before,

  I am every girl I have ever been,

  and all that are in store.

  I am who I say I am.

  I’m not some fantasy.

  I am the me I am inside.

  I am who

  I choose

  to be.

  Acknowledgments

  In one way or another, many voices contributed to the making of this book.

  In poetry: Alan Shapiro and my fellow students in Alan’s poetry workshop at the Fine Arts Work Center, Provincetown, Massachusetts. In addition to these fine poets, I am indebted to the work of Billy Collins, Donald Hall, Marie Howe, Ted Kooser, Dorianne Laux, W. S. Merwin, Naomi Shihab Nye, Sharon Olds, Mary Oliver, and Linda Pastan.

  In song: Leonard Cohen, Ani DiFranco, Thea Gilmore, Patty Griffin, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell, Tom Waits, Dar Williams, and Lucinda Williams.

  In inspiration: Maureen Ryan Griffin, friend and poet, for reigniting my love of poetry. Shari Conradson and her eighth-grade students in Sebastopol, California, for their many letters and insights over the years, with special thanks to Shari for her friendship and to Hannah Maschwitz, who wrote in a letter about The Misfits, “I love Addie’s character! She’s got a strong personality, but sometimes I think that the readers don’t actually know what her soft side is.” These words were the key that enabled me to open the door to this book after two years of trying.

  In Addie-tude: In addition to Shari: Cathryn Berger Kaye, C. J. Bott, Lucy Calkins, Lisa de Mauro, Lisa Duquette, Helise Harrington, Sue Hagadorn, Deborah Holmes, Mary Jane Karger, Connie Kirk, Lisa McGilloway, Jane Roberts, Janet Trumble, and Kate Walton.

  In support and friendship: My colleagues, friends, and family. There are too many individuals to mention without fear of leaving someone out, but I must acknowledge my special debt of gratitude to my very supportive family, Sy Bucholz, Dan Darigan, Arielle Ferrell, Donald Ferrell and Joanna Mintzer, Donald R. Gallo, Robin Jilton, Judy Leipzig and John Gallagher, Tom Owens and Diana Helmer, Richie Partington, Kristy Raffensberger, Richard and Roni Schotter, Ginee Seo, Melissa Whitcraft and Steven Mintz, and Richard Wilson.