The Best and Hardest Thing

by Pat Brisson

  toward old and loyal friendship.

  And I am anchored here,

  where last they saw me,

  waiting (still)

  for my mother

  to be home with me again;

  waiting (foolishly)

  for the Grady of my dreams

  to come back to me—attentive,

  talkative, and kind;

  waiting (hopefully)

  for Barb, who

  I know

  still carries our friendship

  in a safe spot in her heart.

  My message crawls along those

  strands of hope.

  Why did you leave me?

  Please, come back.

  I’m still here,

  waiting,

  hoping,

  longing for you.

  Things to Do When Others Laugh and Stare

  Pretend you don’t notice.

  Pretend you just remembered something important

  and

  hurry away in the opposite direction.

  Pretend you’re really, really interested in

  the poem you have taped to the front of your history

  binder.

  (Keep a poem taped to the front of your history

  binder.)

  Wear headphones even if you’re not listening to music.

  Act as if you’re listening to something really

  spectacular.

  Stare straight ahead as if they don’t exist.

  Duck into the nearest girls’ room to get away from

  them.

  As long as you’re there, pee.

  (If they seem to be staring, not to be mean, but just

  ’cause

  they’re wondering what it’s like for you,

  try to smile at them.)

  Recite poetry to yourself.

  Practice your acceptance speech

  (Academy Award, Grammy, whatever).

  Practice not caring what others think.

  Practice, if you can,

  forgiveness.

  And if you can’t,

  hope someday you will.

  The Poetry Slam

  Ms. Butler’s all excited about

  this poetry slam

  we’re going to be in.

  She tells us:

  write from your center,

  your core,

  your very self,

  about something only you

  can tell.

  Say it with all the passion

  you can muster,

  with all the fierce, proud,

  wild, angry emotion

  you can bring to it.

  And so I do.

  You Look at Me

  You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,

  and some of you

  stare and whisper, roll your eyes and laugh;

  say things like,

  “Can you believe she’s pregnant?

  Who would ever want to do it with her?”

  You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,

  and some of you

  put your heads down,

  afraid to speak to me,

  afraid that I might talk to you because

  once in fourth grade we sat next to each other

  and were sort of friends, even though

  recently all we ever did was say hello.

  But now, even hello is too much for you,

  I guess, because you’re afraid you might catch this

  and you can’t afford to let anything affect your GPA.

  You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,

  and some of you

  sigh those grown-up

  why-is-she-throwing-her-life-away-like-this sighs

  when you see me,

  and I can feel you writing me off because

  you-can’t-save-them-all-so-

  let’s-concentrate-on-the-ones-we-can-help

  and you pass me over

  and give up on me just when I need you the most.

  You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,

  and some of you

  are careful not to meet my eye,

  careful not to jinx your own good luck,

  you who’ve risked unprotected sex

  and not gotten pregnant

  or who’ve risked it and have,

  but have whisked it all away;

  it won’t happen to me,

  you tell yourselves,

  or it won’t happen again, because

  I’m not like her,

  I’m not like her at all.

  You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,

  and some of you

  make crude remarks—

  rude, uncalled-for, crude remarks

  that would embarrass your fathers

  and mortify your mothers,

  but that make the other guys laugh and

  punch your arm or slap your back as if

  a cutting remark were a skill to be honed;

  as if tearing someone down

  somehow builds you up,

  making you more than

  the little, mean-spirited person you are.

  You look at me as I walk down the hall in school,

  and some of you

  look right at me and smile,

  look right at me and say, “Hi, Molly!”

  look right at me and ask how I did on the biology test

  or the math quiz

  or about what I’m doing my paper on for English,

  and I am so moved by your kindness

  (did you even think that such small acts

  could be considered kindnesses?),

  so moved by those tiny, thoughtful acts that I almost

  want to forgive all the others,

  almost want to believe

  this is enough—

  almost want to kiss your cheeks

  and close my eyes

  and weep.

  I Look at Them

  They sit there wide-eyed,

  silent, absolutely still.

  Then one by one they start to clap.

  And Ms. Butler smiles,

  and I think perhaps

  I’ve done it right.

  The Seventh Month: The Hardness Surprises Me

  Did I think it would be gently springy

  like a beach ball?

  Or soft and collapsing

  like a feather pillow

  when you put your head on it?

  Whatever I thought,

  it wasn’t this—

  the skin stretched so tight

  around the hardness of my middle

  that the pressure of a desk edge against it

  makes me wince.

  (Bitter) Sweet Sixteen

  Last year on my birthday

  Barb and I went to the movies—

  a sweet romantic chick flick

  that made us sigh and believe

  for a while

  in undying love.

  This year on my birthday

  I went to my doctor’s appointment—

  a quick examination

  that made me wince

  and wonder why anyone would

  choose to go through pregnancy more than once.

  Last year I got two CDs and a pair of earrings.

  This year I got stretch marks

  and a reminder to keep taking my vitamins.

  Last year we ate chocolate cake

  with thick, dark icing, topped with scoops of vanilla

  ice cream.

  This year I gained six more pounds

  and got instructions to avoid junk food

  and too many empty calories.

  Last year I stayed up late with Barb

  and didn’t get to bed till two.

  This year I fell asleep at nine

  but had to get up at two to pee.

  Last year I made a wish

  to find the perfect boyfriend

  and discover lov
e.

  This year I feel betrayed by wishes.

  Last year I was fifteen,

  expecting all good things.

  This year I’m sixteen,

  expecting something else entirely.

  Barb Sends a Card

  Thinking of you

  on the front.

  And

  Missing you

  on the inside.

  And in her familiar handwriting:

  Happy Birthday, Molls.

  Love and hugs,

  Barbie Sue.

  This clinches it for me

  and I call her.

  An hour later

  she still can’t understand

  the choice I’m making,

  but it no longer matters

  because friends can disagree, right?

  And she is,

  after all,

  my friend.

  Not Who But Where (and What)

  I never was before,

  but now

  I am a place,

  and something’s happening there.

  I think of how the circus tent

  transforms the empty lot

  into a stage for acrobats and clowns.

  It springs up overnight

  and hums with life

  and then is gone.

  I have become that place,

  that circus tent that

  holds the bustling show.

  The top-hatted announcer echoes in my head:

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,

  and Children of All Ages!

  I direct your attention to

  the center ring,

  where an amazing feat is taking place.

  An actual human being is growing from

  smaller-than-you-can-even-see

  into a person complete with toes

  and fingers, eyes and ears.

  Only a few weeks left, folks,

  before the show leaves town,

  so tell your friends and neighbors

  to come one,

  come all,

  to the amazing,

  the fascinating,

  the one,

  the only,

  Molly Biden

  Circus and

  Baby-Making Show! ”

  The Eighth Month: Hot, Flying Corn

  I’m kicked awake

  from the inside—

  some fierce internal foot

  pushing the roundness of my belly

  all askew.

  I think of the pots

  of thick corn chowder

  I’ve made with Gram,

  how they come to a boil on our stove:

  bubbles rising in unexpected places,

  splattering us,

  if we weren’t careful,

  with pieces of

  hot, flying corn.

  Birthing Class for Teens

  Seven of us lie on blankets,

  learn how to breathe

  (slowly, deeply to lessen the pain),

  how to relax everything we can,

  how to focus on our support person’s voice

  (two boyfriends, three mothers, one sister, and Gram,

  all looking even more uncomfortable than we feel).

  We watch a video with lots of sweating,

  heavy breathing, groans and grunts,

  and a slippery, crying baby at the end.

  Some of the others wipe away tears,

  but I’m too busy wondering:

  after all the pain and groans

  and sweaty labor,

  how many of us who are here today

  will be giving birth and then

  giving our babies away?

  Question: How Is a Pregnant Girl Like a Library Book?

  Answer: They both have a due date.

  And mine, thank God,

  is July 8—

  almost two weeks after school gets out,

  so I’ll be able to finish that chapter

  before beginning the next.

  But this I can’t put down

  if I get tired of it;

  this I’ll have to stay with until it’s done.

  There’s no flipping ahead or skipping pages,

  no matter how much I want to know what happens.

  I only hope this heroine has heart and guts enough

  to last until The End.

  The Ninth Month: Almost There

  I am so full of baby

  I can barely

  breathe.

  He crowds my lungs

  and butts my bladder,

  elbows and knees himself into my ribs.

  My breasts,

  like overblown balloons,

  rest upon the shelf my belly makes;

  the nipples stare back wide-eyed

  from my bedroom mirror.

  I scan my naked body like a crowd,

  searching

  for that one familiar face.

  Where is she?

  I ask the strange reflection.

  Where is that girl I used to know

  and be?

  Talk, Talk, Talk

  Like a burst of energy,

  it shoots through me—

  a shot of joy

  that gives me strength

  for what’s ahead.

  Barb called last night to say

  she’s coming for a visit

  after school gets out.

  And when she gets here, we will laugh

  and hug each other and

  dance around for joy,

  patching the holes made in our friendship

  by those months of almost silence,

  with nonstop,

  nothing-else-matters,

  too-wired-to-go-to-sleep,

  best-friend-forever

  talk, talk, talk.

  PART SIX

  in which Molly gives birth, gains wisdom, and brings the story to a close

  A Girl Goes into Labor at School: A Prose Poem/Play

  Scene: Molly, a pregnant sixteen-year-old, in a classroom (the teacher and subject don’t matter; she’s not paying attention to either). The other characters are cardboard cutouts. Molly doesn’t speak but conveys everything through her expressions and actions: pretending to take notes, gazing out the window, moving around in her seat, grimacing, etc. The description of the internal and external action are told by a girl in voice-over.

  It starts with a

  twinge

  (easy enough to ignore), then nothing . . . nothing . . .

  nothing . . . until another

  twinge

  (also easy to ignore), then nothing . . . nothing . . .

  nothing . . . until another

  twinge,

  again and again for several hours and several different

  classes (now the twinges are more noticeable and less

  easy to ignore), then

  contraction.

  She feels her belly harden and a crampy pain at the

  bottom of it. She rubs the hardness away when she

  thinks nobody’s looking. Then nothing for a while,

  and she worries and wonders and tries to ignore it, but

  then another

  contraction,

  and she squirms in her seat and takes slow, deep

  breaths, pretending it’s not really happening because

  no way is she ready for this to happen here today—

  she’s not due for another three and a half weeks—and

  before she’s ready for it another

  contraction,

  and she knows from the classes she went to with her

  grandmother that she should be counting how many

  minutes apart they are, but the part of her brain that

  still makes superstitious deals with the Universe tells

  her that if she doesn’t count the minutes then the

  contractions will go away and she’ll discover it was all

  a big mistake and she won’t go into labor for anotherr />
  few weeks, when school is out and she’s more ready,

  but then anotherc o n t r a c t i o n ,

  longer than the others, and she closes her eyes and

  bites the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out

  because she’s really starting to think that the Universe

  will not be making deals today and, whether she

  counts the minutes or not, the contractions are going

  to keep on coming, and she feels so crampy and her

  belly is so hard and she wants to cry because this is

  just so unfair, then

  contraction

  trickle,

  and she thinks, Oh my God! Have I wet myself? Am I

  bleeding? What the hell is happening here? And she starts

  to think that she would rather sit in this desk forever

  than get up and walk out in front of the entire class

  with pee or blood or whatever it is trickling out of her.

  And she imagines herself sitting here until dismissal

  while everyone around her packs up and heads for

  home and they shut off the lights and the hallways get

  silent and she could quietly leave unnoticed. And thencon TRAC tion

  trickle . . . trickle . . .

  Has any person actually died of embarrassment? If not,

  she is convinced she will be the first unless she just

  concentrates very hard and makes it stop. She’s read

  articles about these guys in India who can make their

  hearts practically stop beating just by concentrating

  on it, and if they can do that, surely she can do this,

  because she wants it so much more than they could

  possibly want their hearts to slow down, because