The Best and Hardest Thing
Page 6
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