by Pat Brisson
Getting Barb on Board
Hey, Barbie Sue!
(She hates it when I call her that,
or says she does—
I think it’s just an act.
Anyway, I’m the only one who does it—
calls her that, I mean.)
It’s me.
I need to talk.
“Okay.”
So I was in Ms. Stollen’s class?
She had us write adjectives for each other.
“Oh yeah, us too.”
So what did people write about you?
“Oh, you know . . . the usual:
intelligent, determined, optimistic.
Why? What’d you get?”
Saintly.
“Saintly? That’s all?”
That’s all that really mattered.
It’s completely bummed me out.
But I’ve made a decision!
“Uh-oh.”
No, it’s great. Believe me.
“Okay, I’ll try. . . .”
I’m giving myself a makeover,
head to foot,
inside and out.
No more
Good Girl/Saint of the Day/Miss Perfect.
I’m on a mission—
oops! Wrong word;
that sounds too saintly.
I’ve got me a plan
and I need your help.
“Okay.”
(I heard the smile in her voice.)
“Count me in.”
One of the Things About Barbara
She’s only got one leg.
Don’t mention it, though.
Take a lesson from Paul Wescott, who,
new to school, back in sixth grade,
went up to her and said,
“I heard you only have one leg.”
She bowed her head,
looked left,
looked right.
“I see two,” she said.
“Yeah, but one’s not real,”
he told her.
“Come here,” she said.
He did.
She kicked him.
Hard.
“Did that feel real?” she asked him.
He never mentioned legs to her again.
And Another Thing
Don’t call her disabled.
It’s a way too
all-or-nothing term.
Like, a disabled car on the side of the road—
if it doesn’t go, what’s the point?
Does it really matter that it has a
flawless paint job or plush interior?
No.
“Disabled” in Barbara’s book means
“can’t do it,”
and there’s not a whole lot
Barbara can’t do.
You might think
“differently abled”
would be better,
but trust me on this—
don’t go there.
It’ll set her off on a rant about how
when they took off her leg
they didn’t give her X-ray vision instead.
If pressed, she might admit to
“slightly-less-able-in-the-walking-department,”
meaning she gets around just fine,
thank you very much,
but maybe not as easily as people with
“original equipment” (her term).
My theory?
All the energy intended for a second leg
goes into Barbara’s brain instead
and stomps around up there,
kicking over ideas,
nudging thoughts,
and marching defiantly to her own
determined beat.
What She Meant
When Barbara said
“Count me in,”
she didn’t mean
“I’ll schlep around the mall with you
and shop till we drop.”
Shopping and schlepping are
not her favorite things.
What she meant was
“I’ll staff command headquarters,
help you fine-tune your strategy,
allocate your resources,
and decide on a plan of action.”
Barbara takes a very aggressive approach to things.
She said that’s what losing a limb teaches you—
life is a battle,
and she’s made up her mind to win.
I Wonder Why She Wants to Help
“We could make you over, too,” I say.
“Why?” she asks. “I like myself the way I am.”
“But what’s in this for you?
Besides my undying gratitude, I mean.”
She sighs and smiles.
“Did you ever see the designer behind the clothes,
the editor behind the magazine,
the director behind the movie?
Did you ever notice how those people are
really, really ordinary looking?
But they’re the ones who manufacture stars!
They’re the ones behind the curtain
working the strings of
the beautiful puppets out front.”
“Oh . . .” I say, as understanding dawns.
“It’s about power.”
“Well, when you put it that way.
Yes.
Exactly.”
The General Idea
We pull things from my closet.
To toss out? Or to save?
I’ve thought this through,
done research,
and tell Barbara what I want:
not quite sizzling, but
hot enough and hinting at much more.
She listens to my input,
like a general with her second-in-command,
evaluates what I have,
determines what I’ll need,
studies the sales,
estimates the cost,
lays out a shopping plan,
gives me a list.
“You’re full of surprises, Barbie Sue.
You never struck me as a fashionista.”
“It’s true,” she says, “I’m not a slave to style;
that doesn’t mean that I’m not keeping track.
Pay attention, Molly.
You never know what just might
come in handy.”
Makeover: Part One
First, the hair:
blonder, shorter;
moussed, combed, and sprayed
into a carefree, careless style that only takes
an hour to achieve.
Then, the face:
in shades of aqua, ash, and gold;
eyes lined and shadowed;
cheeks blushed and blended;
lips pouty and purple,
or pink or red or
almost black.
Trying to find my look.
On a scale of Boring Virgin to Easy Lay,
one that’s somewhere in the middle,
a sort of maybe-I-do-and-maybe-I-don’t-
but-wouldn’t-you-like-to-find-out look,
one that’s fun and sexy
with a hint of mystery.
I know it’s out there somewhere,
if I can only find the perfect combination of
colors, styles, and products:
the look that’s the me I intend to be,
the look
that’s gonna rock his world.
Makeover: Part Two
I empty out my savings,
borrow money from my gram, and
shop for things I’ve never bought before—
push-up bras, shorter skirts,
tighter tops with lower necklines,
jewelry,
thongs—
to cover up my good girl look with . . .
hot.
But walking through the mall,
loaded down with bags,
I wonder if I’ll have the nerve to
> wear this stuff in public.
Running into Grady at the Mall
I’m coming out of Victoria’s Secret,
carrying that shopping bag
with light and dark pink stripes
that almost screams to passersby,
“Imagine this girl in a red thong,
push-up bra,
and giant, feathered wings!”
(although I’m planning to shove it inside the
one from JCPenney
that doesn’t scream at all,
but barely whispers,
“Bath towels . . . flannel nightgowns . . .
and your granny’s underwear,”)
when who should walk by
but Grady.
And even though I’d planned just what I’d say
on our first meeting,
I blank entirely, forget to smile,
and mumble his name after a short, dramatic gasp.
He gives me that upward nod that boys do
that can mean anything from
“Hey, babe, looking good”
to
“You look vaguely familiar,
but I don’t know from where,”
and I turn a shade of pink not unlike
the bag.
Victoria, wherever you are,
I hope you’re happy.
Grady Dillon: Extrapolation1
He’s so hot,
he must be cool.
He’s super good-looking;
he must be confident.
He’s lean and hard;
he must be athletic.
He’s not from around here;
he must be fascinating.
He’s such a loner;
he must be mature.
He looked at me and almost smiled;
he must be interested!
So Much to Say
I take the bus to Barbara’s,
loaded down with bags.
I want to show her what I bought
from the list we’d made.
I want to tell her about running into Grady
and making such a fool of myself.
I want to ask her if she thinks
he considers me an absolute disaster.
(And because she’s such a good friend,
she’ll smile and say, “Of course not.”)
I’m full of things to talk about,
to ask her and to share,
but when I arrive, she’s different—
the air around her, changed.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She hesitates.
“We have to move,” she says.
No One to Talk To
“Soon?” I ask.
She sighs.
“We’re practically gone already.”
“I thought moves took months,” I tell her.
“Aren’t there, like, a million things
you need to do with lawyers,
real estate agents, and
power companies?
How can you leave so soon?”
“They need my father back at the main office.
It’s a really big promotion—
they didn’t even tell me
’cause they never thought he’d get it.
But since he did, he needs to be there
yesterday.
The company will move our stuff
and sell the house.
We’re only taking suitcases.
We’re leaving right away.”
“Oh, Barbie Sue!
I’ll miss you!”
“I’ll e-mail every day.
You’ll come out soon to visit.
You’ll hardly know I’m gone.”
“That’s not true,” I tell her.
“I know it, Molls,” she says.
Too Soon
A week goes by.
Suns rise and set.
Classes begin and end.
Work gets done or doesn’t.
Pictures are taken.
Late-night phone calls are made.
Gifts are exchanged:
perfume from me to her,
a bracelet from her to me.
And when the week is over,
Barbara leaves.
The Friend Situation, Continued
Barbara was a really, truly friend,
the one who’d tease and push me
out of grouchiness
with just a whispered word
or cross-eyed grin;
the one whose assets balanced out my deficits
in such a way that,
if combined, we’d make a perfect
One.
Barbara,
who was prettier than me
(but not as thin),
funnier than me
(but not as smart),
happier and more adjusted,
but who, when her parents said she had to,
upped and moved to Cincinnati with them,
leaving me
behind.
It’s Not the Same
Even in classes we didn’t have together,
an emptiness sits near me,
chilling the surrounding air and
soaking up the light.
I make it through the day
(just barely),
hating that she’s gone.
That night on instant messenger:
“Well, did you talk to him?” she writes.
“Who?” I ask.
“Grady!” she responds.
My brain does a stutter step—
“Oh, right!”
I can’t believe I
hadn’t thought of him all day.
“FOCUS!” Barbara screams in caps.
And then The General orders:
“Wear something hot tomorrow,
and accidentally meet him during lunch.”
I take a courage-raising breath
and type back, “Sure.
Wish me luck.”
Now Back to Our Previously Scheduled Program
The next day I am someone else
in short black skirt
and low black top,
and Barbara’s gift around my wrist for luck.
Transparent boys who never noticed me before
are raising eyebrows at me now and nodding,
their lips in tight, small smiles of approval.
But sexy’s not real comfortable.
My legs are cold;
my knees don’t want to stay together
when I sit.
My breasts in their new bra
seem not quite mine.
Is Grady even here? I wonder.
It’s almost lunch,
but I’m not thinking food.
Math Lesson
In math, Ms. Murtag’s mention of adjacent angles
makes me sigh.
What lovely things those words imply—
two entities so close,
so snug,
so right-smack-up-against-each-other
with nothing in between . . .
ahhh!
I write emotional equations in my notebook:
If x = me
and y = Grady,
then
x + y = b (where b = bliss).
Who knew math could be so hot?
Grace Before Lunch
When I get to the lunchroom,
let there be a seat next to him.
When I sit next to him,
let him say, “I was saving this for you.”
When I eat my lunch,
let nothing get stuck in my teeth.
When I make a joke,
let him think it’s funny.
When he makes a joke,
let me not laugh too hard.
When I can’t think of anything to say,
let him think I’m mysterious, not dumb.
When the bell rings at the end of lunch,
let him say, “Same time tomorrow?”
; When I smile and say, “Sure!”
let him smile and say, “Great!”
When I walk away,
let him watch.
When I walk away,
let me not trip.
Magic Moments (in Tetrameter)
I scan all the lines in the lunchroom at noon,
my pulse keeping beat to the words in my head:
“Just find him, just find him, just find him,” and then
the room gets all blurry; my breathing stops short.
I see him! Alone! And he’s looking at me!
I walk with a lunch that I know I won’t eat
to a seat that’s still empty and right next to his,
and there, at that moment, is where it begins,
not just in my head or in e-mails to Barb—
for real, in a world that is suddenly bright.
And “Hi!” I say shyly, still striving for sexy.
And “Hey!” he says back, looking straight in my eyes.
In the Girls’ Room: A Sonnet
I’m finished up and almost on my way
when two girls, talking, laughing, very near,
say just enough to make me stop and stay
inside the stall to find out what I’ll hear.
“She can’t think Grady’s interested in her!
He’s two years older, not to mention hot.
She’s such a Goody Two-shoes amateur.”
“But I’m completely, positively not!
So someone better warn this wannabe
to end her silly crush, ’cause one thing’s sure:
if Grady’s looking for a girl, it’s me,
and I am gonna be the one to score.
She’d better go and find some other guy
and kiss her Grady Dillon plans good-bye.”
Out of My Stall
They leave.
I will myself two inches taller,
slam the door wide open,
and emerge—
a hard, more focused version of myself.
Kiss my plans good-bye?
Think again, whoever-you-are.
My time in the shadows is over.
My eyes in the mirror
are pinpoints of intensity.
My blush becomes my war paint.
Grady
will be
mine.
PART TWO