The Best and Hardest Thing

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The Best and Hardest Thing Page 6

by Pat Brisson


  on school grounds.

  Dillon,

  a senior at Washington High School,

  is being held in

  the Jefferson County Jail

  in lieu of $200,000 bail.

  Upset

  I read the paper and gasp.

  “Do you know that boy?”

  Gram asks.

  She’s seen it already and

  eyes me now

  across the kitchen table.

  “He isn’t in my class,”

  I tell her,

  not answering her question.

  “Such a terrible waste of a life!

  I thank God you’re not the kind to

  get mixed up in anything like that.”

  I look down at my plate.

  The eggs are cold,

  the toast lumpy with unmelted butter.

  My stomach rises into my throat

  and I run to the bathroom.

  The Buzz

  “Did ya hear about Dillon?”

  “Who hasn’t?

  He could get thirty years—

  that’s what I heard.”

  “But it’s a first offense, isn’t it?

  They wouldn’t be that hard on him.”

  “It’s not a first offense, though.

  He was arrested before on drug charges,

  spent eighteen months in juvie.”

  “Heard about Dillon?

  That guy is so screwed.”

  “Or will be soon.”

  “Yeah, they’ll love him in prison—

  such a pretty face.”

  “Like it’s his face

  those guys’ll be interested in.”

  “Did you hear about Grady?

  Oh my gosh,

  We should really

  do something for him.”

  “Do you think he’s allowed

  to have visitors?

  Maybe we could take him a cake

  with a file in it.”

  “To do his nails?”

  “Get a clue, Claudia!”

  “Grady Dillon.

  It was in the paper this morning.

  I tell you,

  that boy had trouble

  written all over him.”

  “Sad, isn’t it?

  Such a waste.”

  “Kids like him always think

  they can get away with it,

  like the laws don’t apply to them.”

  “It’s a hard lesson to learn,

  that’s for sure.”

  PART FOUR

  in which Molly can barely think straight

  Memo to: Self Subject: Eating, Breathing, Sleeping

  Despite the current difficulties, which include but are not limited to• overwhelming confusion,

  • almost unbearable stress, and

  • severe lack of reliable information,it is important to maintain

  some sense of normalcy

  in regard to everyday activities, i.e.,

  • eating,

  • breathing, and

  • sleeping,so as to present to the world

  at least the pretense of

  life-going-on-as-usual

  and, if possible,

  to successfully avoid going

  stark

  raving

  mad.

  Thank you for your attention to these matters.

  Lunching Alone in the Library

  The cafeteria

  (without Grady)

  is too empty

  to even contemplate for days.

  I land in the library

  and pretend to look for

  something in the 600s,

  breaking off bits

  of the egg-salad sandwich in my bag

  to eat when no one’s looking:

  feeding my fantasy,

  feeding my fears,

  feeding my growing sense of

  abandonment.

  School

  I walk the aggravating maze of school

  and dread the endless, mindless days of school

  and hate the small and cliquish ways of school.

  There are a lot who only play in school,

  but I’m the kind who always prays in school

  for strength enough to last my stay in school.

  I’m one of those assorted strays at school

  who wander through a sort of haze at school,

  oblivious to each new craze at school,

  just hoping that one day they’ll raze the school.

  Rescue Attempt

  Sierra and Jessica,

  from poetry class,

  invite me to sit with them at lunch.

  Talk of boys

  and clothes and music and boys

  and classes and parents

  and boys and homework

  swirls around me

  like a swarm of bees.

  I smile

  and nod and try to join in,

  but mostly I feel

  stung.

  Poof!

  Weeks go by

  and Grady disappears

  from conversations as completely

  as he has from the cafeteria.

  No eavesdropping now

  to learn what others know—

  apparently, no one knows anything,

  and worse yet,

  they don’t seem to care.

  Grady is gone without a trace,

  as if

  he’d never been here at all.

  The First Month: Stress

  My period’s late.

  I think it’s

  stress.

  Condom, noun

  A thin latex sheath

  that covers the penis during sexual intercourse,

  used as a protection against

  sexually transmitted diseases

  and to avoid

  unwanted pregnancies;

  may be purchased without prescription

  at local pharmacies

  under such brand names as

  Trojan

  and Durex.

  Also known by the slang terms

  “rubber,”

  “jimmy hat,”

  and “raincoat.”

  Some guys think condoms

  cut down on their pleasure,

  interfere with “the moment,”

  are a bother to put on.

  Well, screw them!

  No, wait, I take that back—

  guys who don’t wear condoms

  are precisely the ones

  you should never screw.

  Condom: An Acrostic

  Consider this:

  One-third of sexually active teens have unprotected

  sex,

  Not because they don’t know better, but because they

  Don’t think they’re at risk. And I had to pick

  One of those guys who don’t use protection. Just

  My luck.

  Waiting, Watching, Hoping: Questions

  When I wake up:

  Did it start during the night?

  Eating breakfast:

  Will I finally get it today?

  Seeing the other girls in homeroom:

  Are they waiting for theirs, too?

  When my teachers talk, talk, talk:

  I could just be late, couldn’t I?

  Walking through the halls:

  Is it like this for everyone?

  In bed at night:

  Why me????

  The Second Month: No Period Yet

  Maybe it’s more than stress.

  Maybe I’m really sick.

  Maybe I have cancer like my mother did.

  Maybe I’m going to die.

  Missing My Period: Blank Verse

  I miss that sudden warmth between my legs,

  the thick and sticky unexpected stain

  on toilet paper, underwear, or sheets.

  I want to bum a tampon from a friend

  and have another reason to complain

 
about this monthly curse of blood and cramps.

  I need the silent fear of accident,

  the tension of not knowing if I’ll leak

  right through my skirt or favorite pair of pants.

  Give me just one more chance to see

  the bloody water in the toilet bowl

  and feel relief at flushing it away.

  I miss you, friend from Red Bank, Cousin Flo.

  I didn’t think I could, but now I know

  some things you can’t appreciate until

  they go.

  What She Would Secretly Tape to the Door of the Boys’ Locker Room If She Had the Courage

  Oh, naked little penis,

  I’ve heard the pro and con,

  but I think you’re better-looking

  when you have a raincoat on.

  Pregnancy: The Elephant in the Middle of My Room

  Determined to ignore it,

  I stumble into its heaving side

  and trip over its trunk on my way to

  just-another-day

  at school.

  When it shifts

  uncomfortably

  in my tiny space,

  I fear it will crush me

  with its weight,

  and I run away to avoid

  being trampled.

  In bed at night, I’m silent,

  barely sleeping,

  still,

  this fearsome thing

  so close and

  unrestrained.

  There’s an elephant before me

  in the middle of my room.

  And one of us is

  trainer,

  and one of us

  is trained.

  The “Where Is My Period?” Blues

  Oh, I got the “where is my period?” blues.

  I said I got the “where is my period?” blues.

  I sent an invitation, but I guess it plumb refused.

  Didn’t think I’d miss it, until it stayed away.

  You know I never thought I’d miss it, until it stayed

  away.

  Now all my sunny days here have turned to stormy

  gray.

  The boys all think they’re players—so macho and so

  tough.

  Yeah, the boys all act like players—so macho and so

  tough.

  But girls have got it harder, so we’re made of stronger

  stuff.

  If I don’t get my period, I’ll do what must be done.

  Yes, I may not get my period, so I’ll do what must be

  done.

  But, Lord, be kind and let me find the bleeding has

  begun.

  The Third Month: Facing the Possibility

  Maybe I don’t have cancer.

  Maybe that funny way I feel about food

  and the way my breasts are so tender lately

  and the fact that I’m so tired every day

  means something else.

  Maybe I’m not going to die.

  Maybe I’m just going to wish

  I would.

  The Test

  I’ve taken tests before and gotten A’s—

  like doing laps in some familiar pool.

  But this is one I haven’t studied for—

  like falling in the ocean late at night.

  I hold this test—this plastic magic wand—

  between my legs and softly pee and pray,

  then breathe and wait and try to breathe again,

  and break a sweat and shiver, blink and cry

  and curse the answer that I know will come.

  The smart girl positively fails this one.

  Choices: A Pantoum

  At least I have a choice:

  I could have a baby;

  I could have an abortion.

  Oh, God, what should I do?

  I could have a baby.

  Could I raise a baby by myself?

  Oh, God, what should I do?

  Right now I can barely think straight.

  Could I raise a baby by myself?

  Abortion would mean I could get on with my life.

  Right now I can barely think straight.

  I really have to make a decision.

  Abortion would mean I could get on with my life.

  Raising a baby would change me forever.

  I really have to make a decision.

  I never imagined this would happen to me.

  Raising a baby would change me forever.

  I could have an abortion.

  I never imagined this would happen to me.

  At least I have a choice.

  I Think, Therefore I Am . . . Confused

  In math class I think,

  I can’t support myself

  how could I support a child?

  I decide to have an abortion.

  In English class I think,

  I could get a job.

  Gram would help me; I know she would.

  I decide to have a baby.

  At a career-day assembly I think,

  I absolutely have to go to college

  and have a career.

  I decide to have an abortion.

  At lunchtime I think,

  Lots of people go to college later.

  I don’t have to go right after high school.

  I decide to have a baby.

  Eating dinner with Gram I think,

  She’s old.

  I can’t put her through this.

  I decide to have an abortion.

  Lying in bed that night I think,

  But she loves little kids and

  there’s always day care.

  I decide to have a baby.

  My problem isn’t making a decision;

  it’s recognizing the right one

  once I’ve made it.

  In the Dark

  It’s midnight in my bedroom, and I’m watching

  passing cars throw light shows on my wall.

  Years ago you called them “bedtime movies”

  when I was young and couldn’t fall asleep.

  Remembering, I feel your weight beside me,

  the spot of warmth your hand left on my back;

  hear again your lullabying whisper,

  the tiny sound your smile made in the dark.

  If you were here, I’d force myself to tell you,

  risk your shocked and disappointed face,

  crave your arm—so strong!—around my shoulder,

  know that we could somehow make this work.

  Alone, I watch the lights across the ceiling—

  a terrifying ghost show in the dark.

  Is there still time for me to leave this theater?

  Or am I stuck here till the very end?

  PART FIVE

  in which Molly makes major decisions

  Epiphany: A Prose Poem

  On the way home from school I pass a church, where

  a mother is getting her daughter from day care. It’s

  winter and the little one’s wearing bright red mittens.

  She runs ahead and her mother calls, “Slow down,

  Emily! Wait for me!”

  But Emily runs straight to a wall, at the end where

  it’s low enough for her to climb on. She walks along

  the ledge slowly, balancing carefully. By the time her

  mother catches up, the wall is higher—it was built

  on a hill—and the girl is nearly three feet from the

  sidewalk below.

  “Careful, Emily. Don’t fall.” She offers a hand, which

  her daughter refuses. “I can do it, Mama. I can do it

  myself.” When she reaches the point where the wall

  ends, she claps her mittened hands, holds out her

  arms, cries, “Catch me, Mama!” and leaps into her

  mother’s waiting arms.

  The mother smiles. The daughter laughs. The red

  mittens blaze against the dark green of the mo
ther’s

  coat. My cheeks prickle with the cold. And at last, I

  know what I’m going to do. I’m going to have a baby.

  The Try-On: A Triolet

  I try on the baby idea for size,

  although I’m guessing it won’t be a fit;

  try seeing myself through a stranger’s eyes:

  I try on the baby idea for size.

  But even a stranger won’t find this wise—

  like jeans so tight you can’t even sit.

  I try on the baby idea for size,

  although I’m guessing it won’t be a fit.

  The Idea of Adoption Comes to Me in a Dream

  In the middle of the night

  I throw off my covers,

  am out of bed and

  halfway across the room

  before I know it.

  My heart races.

  My arms cradle

  an invisible infant.

  My brain chases

  the dream I was having

  to snare it before it fades.

  (The weight of that baby

  is so real,

  I won’t put down my arms,

  afraid I’ll drop him.)

  “Wait!” I whisper

  to the shadow in the dream.

  “Come back!”

  And I feel my arms extending

 

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