A Girl Named Mister

by Nikki Grimes

  slipping out the door,

  racing home quick as feet

  can meet the air.

  But no matter how fast I flee,

  step by step

  guilt gains on me.

  Thoughts on the Long Walk Home

  I.

  It’s not that I thought

  angels would sing,

  or the sky would part.

  I’m not a kid.

  But I did think

  there’d be this trade,

  that I’d give something up

  and he would too.

  Instead,

  I’m somehow less

  and his more

  is still locked away

  in a mystery

  of bone and skin,

  and the sin of it

  is that I’m empty now,

  and keyless.

  II.

  It wasn’t worth

  all the guilt,

  I know that much.

  Besides, once he got past

  the feeling-up part,

  it was mostly pain.

  Why do all those

  stupid songs say

  the first time

  is the best?

  III.

  What would Seth say?

  I’m not ready to tell her, yet.

  Not ready to see the look in her eye,

  the one that says

  What happened to the promise

  you made to God?

  Sorry

  I wish it was easier

  breaking God’s law.

  I wish that commitment band

  didn’t burn my finger

  like lye.

  I snatched it off that night,

  opened my bedroom window

  and tossed it.

  If Mom asks where it’s gone,

  I’ll say I lost it.

  What’s one more lie?

  I already told God

  I didn’t mean it,

  that I hadn’t planned

  to give myself away.

  But just between me and you,

  that’s only half true.

  Thought Soup

  My mind’s a mess.

  Wasn’t it yesterday

  I looked for Trey around

  every corner, down every hall?

  Now, for the last three days

  all I do

  is duck whenever

  he comes into view.

  I need time to think,

  to figure out

  what I’m feeling

  and why.

  Instant Message

  I switch on the computer

  Mom worked overtime

  to pay for,

  check my IM

  and click on slickwillow,

  the screenname Coach

  gave my best friend, Sethany,

  ‘cause she’s tall and willowy,

  and the enemy always

  counts her out,

  thinking she’s a girly-girl.

  But once she hits the court,

  look out,

  ‘cause she’s a slammer,

  and God help the girl

  across from Sethany

  when she’s at the net.

  “hey! waz up?”

  The words pop

  on the computer screen.

  “before you answer,

  wat’s a 6 letter wd

  for sequester?”

  “wat’s sequester?” I write.

  “sigh. that’s Y U cant

  beat me at Scrabble.

  U have heard of the dictionary?”

  “whatever,” I write.

  “i’ve got more important things

  on my mind.”

  “oooh! this is going 2 be hot,

  i can tell.” ☺

  “well, i was with Trey last week.”

  “and?”

  “i-was-with-Trey last week.”

  “OMG,” Sethany writes. (:0)

  “exactly.”

  Wish

  I didn’t tell Seth this,

  but I wish I had waited.

  I know, God.

  You wish I had too.

  How come your voice

  is coming through loud and clear now?

  Why couldn’t I hear you before?

  Never mind. I know.

  Call me Jonah.

  I was too busy running

  in the opposite direction.

  Just one more thing

  for which I have to take the blame.

  New Territory

  The next day

  Seth nods to me

  across the classroom,

  like always.

  Except there’s something off

  about her silent hello,

  a look that says

  I guess I don’t know you

  as well as I thought.

  Email

  “Waz up, girl?

  Hardly seen u since-

  u know.

  I’m missing u.

  When can we meet?

  Trey.”

  I hit delete.

  Wish I could do the same

  with that one, wrong night.

  Let’s Talk

  The next day

  Trey meets me after class.

  He leans in for a kiss.

  I love those lips

  and get lost in them, for a minute.

  But then I come to my senses.

  “Trey, we need to talk.”

  He pulls back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I mean -”

  My hands go clammy.

  “I don’t want to talk here.”

  “Let’s go to my place then.”

  A siren goes off in my head.

  His place? Alone? Again?

  “Fine,” I tell us both,

  promising myself

  this time will be different.

  Dr. Jekyll

  Inside the door,

  Trey drops our backpacks

  on the floor,

  and reaches for me

  as if he’s grown

  an extra pair of hands.

  They’re everywhere-

  at my buttons,

  fiddling with my zipper.

  I push him away.

  “Stop it, Trey.

  We can’t do this.

  I can’t do this.

  I’m sorry.”

  Trey goes stone-still,

  then drops his hands

  to his sides.

  His eyes go glacial.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  “Whatever.

  I need to hit the shower.

  You know where the door is.”

  “But Trey-”

  “Go run hot and cold

  somewhere else.”

  Do-Over

  It’s me.

  I must’ve done

  something wrong,

  not made myself clear.

  I mean, he loves me, right?

  So it shouldn’t matter

  if we’re not together

  like that.

  Maybe if I just

  explain it to him right.

  I’ll try again, tonight.

  Phone Call

  He won’t return

  my texts, or phone calls.

  It’s all I can do

  not to wait for him

  at the gym

  after basketball practice.

  I just want to ask

  what happened to him loving me?

  Why can’t we still be

  together?

  I don’t understand.

  He said I was his girl.

  He said he was my man.

  Vanishing Act

  Days disappear in a haze

  of Shakespeare, career fairs,

  pop quizzes, history homework,

  and the white noise of teachers

  calling on me

  for answers I’ve suddenly forgotten


  how to give.

  Reality Check

  I’m slow.

  But even I know

  this isn’t going to work.

  Just try telling that

  to my heart.

  Exit

  My head keeps spinning.

  I need some space to think.

  Later that day, I say to Trey,

  “Look. I can see

  you want to cool it for a while,

  so let’s.”

  Trey is all shrugs.

  I wonder what that means,

  but not for long.

  “Yeah, well,” says Trey.

  “Whatever.”

  I suddenly shiver

  in the winter

  of his words.

  Pit Stop

  The bathroom

  seems light-years away.

  I barely make it

  before the flood of tears

  puts my shame on display.

  It’s official.

  I live in regret.

  That’s the black room

  at the end of the hall.

  Call before you come.

  I may not be

  in the mood for company.

  The Book

  These days, I wake

  and look at The Book,

  a familiar stranger

  collecting dust

  on my bedside table.

  I haven’t felt the weight of it

  in my hands for weeks.

  How can I even

  call it mine anymore?

  I know the score.

  It’s fragile pages

  make it clear:

  sex outside of marriage is sin.

  Spin it any way you like,

  I blew it.

  One voice tells me

  to search the Psalms

  for forgiveness.

  Another says

  Don’t go crying to God now.

  And so I pull away and stew

  in a new kind of loneliness.

  Substitute

  I slip into my mother’s room,

  raid the small shelf by her bed

  hunting for a book a little less holy,

  some story about God twice removed.

  I know its crazy,

  but I need to feel Him here,

  just not too near,

  you know?

  There was this one book I remember,

  something Mom used to bug me to read.

  What was it?

  I scratch my memory

  with a finger of thought.

  Come on, Mister. Think!

  I tell myself.

  But it’s no use.

  Frustrated, I take it out

  on her door,

  slamming it on my way out.

  Good thing Mom wasn’t

  home from work,

  or I’d never hear

  the end of it.

  In Plain Sight

  I collapse into Mom’s recliner

  and reach for the remote,

  my drug of choice.

  My fingers graze the cover

  of a dog-eared book

  sitting face-up on the end table.

  The title clicks:

  Mary, Mary.

  That’s it!

  The book of poetry my mom

  has loved forever,

  a book about Christ’s mother.

  I quickly scan

  the first few pages,

  find the language

  a little old-timey.

  Still, it reads like a diary,

  and the mystery of that

  makes it worth

  trading in the remote.

  I slip the slim volume

  into my jeans pocket

  for the short ride to my room.

  I figure I’ll flip through

  a few pages before

  hitting the homework

  like I’m supposed to.

  That’s the plan.

  Stirring Memory

  Our golden boy

  nestles in my arms,

  clutching my breast

  nursing, oblivious

  to the braying of donkeys,

  the mooing of cows,

  and the smell of offal

  pervading this stable

  in the heart of Bethlehem.

  Joseph hangs over my shoulder,

  his face a mask of wonderment.

  I sigh, no less in awe

  than he.

  Husband.

  Mother.

  Son.

  These new words

  roll round my mind

  like shiny marbles,

  bursting with color and light.

  Was it truly only

  nine months ago

  I blushed

  at the very idea of a wedding bed?

  So much has happened since then.

  I close my eyes, straining to remember

  a time before the angel Gabriel,

  a time before the Lord Jehovah

  visited just long enough

  to turn my world

  upside down.

  Silent Conversation

  Early evening

  is my favorite time of day.

  I take my time

  winding down the hills of Nazareth

  to the village well.

  My feet know the way

  so I can concentrate on enjoying

  my silent conversation

  with Jehovah:

  me meditating on his word,

  Him speaking to my heart.

  Some evenings,

  when the wind strokes my cheek,

  I can almost hear him

  call my name.

  Dawn

  Playful pouting is not seemly,

  Father told me,

  not during the holiest of seasons,

  and perhaps he was right.

  But I do not understand

  why I must be

  as heavy and somber as he

  at Passover.

  The coming festival fills me

  with joy-

  a few days away from Nazareth,

  another chance to stand

  in the temple of our God,

  another opportunity

  to feel the sway

  of sweet psalms sung

  by the Levite choir there.

  Why should such wonders

  weigh me down with the sadness

  I see on Father’s face?

  Mother reminds me

  that each of us comes to Passover

  with a different heart.

  What matters, she tells me,

  is that we give that heart

  to God.

  Her wisdom is enough

  to send me to Father’s side.

  “Forgive me, Father,” I say.

  “Let me help you pack

  for the journey.”

  A Thing to Ponder

  I lie on my pallet that night

  wondering what it was like

  when the Angel of Death

  stole the firstborn

  of all under Egypt’s wing,

  save those blessed ones

  whose homes were blood-marked

  for salvation,

  those faithful Jews

  who knew God was

  as good as his word:

  Pharaoh’s kingdom would suffer

  until he set God’s people free.

  Would I have shuddered

  as the Shadow of Death

  passed me by?

  Would I have had

  enough breath left

  to praise Jehovah?

  And now, because of that

  long-ago night,

  we Jews are free,

  Pharaoh having lost

  his taste for Jewish slaves,

  the life of his young son

  a price too high

  after all.

  Jerusalem, City of God

  T
he latter rains

  have wet the earth,

  but my poor eyes

  are dry as the desert wind.

  The three-day journey to Jerusalem

  punishes with aching calves

  and blistered feet.

  Why is it I always manage to forget

  the tedium of this trek?

  I feel a complaint

  rising to my lips,

  but bite it back

  when I remember holy Scripture.

  “Let the Israelites keep the Passover

  at the appointed time.”

  I chew on God’s words,

  determining to put one foot

  in front of the other.

  I shade my eyes

  and look ahead,

  finding my betrothed in the distance,

  his gait as steady as it was

  when we left Nazareth.

  He may be closer to my father’s age than mine,

  but Joseph will make a fine husband,

  I think for the hundredth time.

  Then I’m distracted

  by the glittering jewel

  rising out of the desert:

  Jerusalem!

  The setting sun bounces golden

  off the walls of the temple

  where Jehovah resides,

  and my heart beats faster.

  I awake to new strength

  surging through me,

  and lengthen my stride.

  As we draw closer to the Holy City,

  I pick up the pace,

  pausing every now and then

  to wipe away my tears.

  Reflection

  Back home in Nazareth,

  my family and I

  relax after dining,

  sated with food and new memories

  of the Passover festival.

  The songs of the Levite choir

  still ring in my ears.

  My soul carried them with me

  like waterskins,

  refreshment for

  the long journey home.

  The glint in my father’s eye

  reminds me of

  the golden incense holder

  I’ve heard men speak of.