by Sarah Tregay
The Boat
My mother gives me money
to pick up some dinner
in order to celebrate
the first draft of her novel.
“No,” I say. “I have homework.
And I’m tired of running your errands
when you’re the one with a driver’s license!”
She looks at me funny, then says,
“Just take the boat” “Huh?”
“into Newmarket” “What?”
“for lobsters.” “Lobsters?”
I didn’t know you could go
anyplace useful in a boat.
I’m from Idaho,
where boats are for
fishing, waterskiing, and boogie boarding.
Not errands.
“I thought that was how
you were doing groceries,” Mom says.
I don’t tell her
I’ve been walking into Durham
when all I had to do
was borrow the boat.
I Don’t Like Lobster Anyway
I sulk
on the dock
bobbing on the waves
until
my mother
promises
me
pizza.
Dominoes
Do you hate the person
who tapped the first domino down?
Or do you hate the domino
for not standing up for itself?
And if you are the second domino,
and you get toppled, do you hate yourself?
Dad tapped the first domino
by opening the proverbial closet.
Mom fell over.
And me? I toppled too.
(And landed on the far side of the continent.)
But I can’t hate my dad
just because he’s gay.
I love him.
Nor can I leave Mom
when she’s so down.
She needs me.
And this
pile of dominoes
is not my fault.
Half-and-Half
Half the time I’m angry with Dad
for opening up that closet door
and letting the whole mess spill out.
If I could, I’d push it back:
his change of heart,
his boyfriend Danny,
the mess he made of our family.
I’d slam the door and lock it tight.
Half the time I’m mad at Mom
for running from Pandora’s box
and not finding her way back home.
If I could, I’d break her free:
from her depression,
her ideas about independence,
her East Coast childhood haunts.
I’d bash the bolts and bust her chains.
Oyster River High School
isn’t so bad
(once the bus driver picks you up).
At least no one has pointed out
that wearing the same outfit more than once
and/or
wearing white shorts after Labor Day
is some sort of fashion faux pas.
In fact,
J.D.,
a bulky soccer player with
boy-next-door dimples,
sandy red hair, and a Prince Harry grin,
who sits at my lunch table,
thinks I’m into sports.
I should say, “Not really,”
but instead, I tell him, “Distance,”
and hope he thinks cross-country
instead of walking into Durham
for groceries and laundry.
The Leftover Lovers YouTube Performance #1
(LINUS THOMAS ON GUITAR/VOCALS,
KATIE RASKOLNIKOV ON BASS,
AND IAN WONG ON DRUMS)
I see couples riding double on a Schwinn bike
I think of you and I know what I like
I’m sitting in the back of class
Picking my nose and thinkin’ past
Boise High School auditorium
Dancing barefoot in the gym
Westside Drive-In, the Egyptian
Gene Harris Band Shell
Blue Sky Bagels
I see brunette girls laughin’ in the library
I think of you and think of me
Eating pancakes at the IHOP
I think of you and have to stop
Boise High School auditorium
Dancing barefoot in the gym
Westside Drive-In, the Egyptian
Gene Harris Band Shell
Blue Sky Bagels
I think of you and know what I like
I think of you ridin’ double on my Schwinn bike
I think of you and know what I like
I Know I Like Him
I know
Linus is my boyfriend
and he’s adorable
in his own Linusy ways.
I know
he’s my second-best friend
who’d tie for first
if it wouldn’t hurt Katie’s feelings.
I know
how smart he is
and that he’d trade it all in
for an ounce of athletic ability.
I know
his music is like my poetry—
an inward glance and
an outlet for expression.
I know
we could be made-for-TV soul mates
who fall ass-over-teakettle
in crazy, amazing love.
I know
I like resting my head on his shoulder
while we watch movies
on the couch.
I know
I like kissing him in the hall between classes
while everyone else
tries not to see.
But how do I know
when it’s love?
A Feeling Like Falling
Katie says, “You can’t choose the time and place
the when and where
and with whom
you fall in love.”
She says, “It just happens
like that weird feeling just before you fall asleep
when you gasp in surprise because your
muscles just relaxed
and you feel like you are falling.”
She says, “Marcie, you shouldn’t
worry about it—
give it time
to actually happen.”
I guess,
I worry that I won’t do it right.
That it’ll be the wrong time,
the wrong place,
the wrong person.
I mean,
I am related to my father
who fell in love
when he was already married
at the straight-friendly bar across from the opera
with a guy named Danny.
If Only We Could Be Together
If only Linus and I could walk downtown on
Thursday nights
when musicians play on the street corners
and art galleries serve crackers and cheese.
If only we could dance on the sidewalk,
look up at the sequined sky,
and wish upon the same shooting star.
If only Linus could teach me chords on his guitar,
reach around to adjust my fingers
and help me strum.
If only we could sing about autumn mist and sealing wax,
hear our voices mingle,
and stir the air as one.
And by being with Linus
I’d figure it out.
I’d learn what love is.
If only Linus would kiss me,
touch the skin under my shirt,
press his fingers to my ribs, and feel my beating heart.
Then I’d know.
I know I’d know.
I’d know
I was in love.
Americ
a Runs on Dunkin’
On a Monday
in mid-September,
J.D. brings me a Boston cream doughnut
and coffee in a pink-and-orange Styrofoam cup.
He tells me not to worry,
“Carbs burn off at practice.”
“Yeah,” I agree with a shrug.
“Thanks for breakfast.”
J.D. smiles down at me
and doesn’t notice Sam
passing us in the crowded hall.
She rolls her eyes skyward
and shakes her head.
Later, I’m shaking mine too
because I can’t quite believe
that J.D. thinks
I am skinny enough
to be a runner.
Then I remember
that ever since we ran away,
the fridge hasn’t always
been full of carbs.
Give Me a Break, Sam
I am not some horrible person.
I was just talking to him—
not batting my eyelashes
or pulling some CosmoGirl
how-to-hook-a-hottie move.
A lot of girls (and some guys)
would think J.D. was cute.
Any girl with a pulse
would’ve wanted to brush that
powdered sugar from his lips.
Sure, I have a boyfriend.
A wonderful, sweet, talented boyfriend.
But Linus isn’t here right now.
So give me a break.
Talking to Linus Is Depressing
Linus tells me about his music lessons,
then puts me on speaker and strums his guitar.
I can hear him singing softly to keep the beat.
Hmm, hmm come September
Hmm, hmm I’ll remember
All those sunny days I spent with you
Hmm, hmm come October
Hmm, hmm I’ll be sober
Every lonely evening without you
Hmm, hmm come November
Hmm, hmm I’ll reconsider
Walking down the highway to reach you
Hmm, hmm come December
Hmm, hmm I’ll be dismembered
by the snowplow passing through
“Linus!” I shout into the phone. “Stop it!”
“Those aren’t the real words,” he promises me.
“I forgot the words and made something up.
What did you think of the guitar, sans words?”
All I can say is that it sounds nice,
and I really miss watching his fingers move over the strings
because that was my favorite part
of having an emo-rocker boyfriend.
“Favorite?” he asks.
“I also liked the kissing,” I say.
It doesn’t come out funny, or flirty, or however I meant it.
It just reminds us that we’re having
a long-distance relationship.
The kind everyone says
is doomed from the start.
BFF
Sometimes I want
nothing more
than to be writing poems
in my blue notebook
while Katie doodles
anime ninja girls
battling bat-winged
skeletons with vampire fangs
in hers.
I want to
trade notebooks with Katie
so my poems will grow emo vines
with bloodthirsty flowers
and her ninja girls will voice
their anger and
odd romantic attractions
to the homely monsters.
HOME Is a Four-Letter Word
Missing Katie,
I tell my mother
that I want to go home.
But all she does is ask me
what kind of mother she would be
if she left her daughter
to fend for herself
2,700 miles away?
I wonder if
I shake her hard enough,
will all the pieces
of her scattered thoughts
fall into place?
September 14–11:45 P.M.
EmoK8: if u weren’t going out w linus, whose bones would u jump?
MarsBars: hello 2 u 2
EmoK8: i think i need a boyfriend.
MarsBars: All this talk about falling in love, now u want some?
EmoK8: u got me thinking.
MarsBars: as long as ur not worrying abt it. *grin*
EmoK8: i’m not worrying. i need advice.
MarsBars: good-looking guys are, well, nice to look at. but homely ones can be sexy too—so don’t rule em out.
EmoK8: i need some lovin.
who’s a good kisser?
MarsBars: i kissed angelo in 8th grade.
it was slobbery.
EmoK8: who’s better looking, angelo or garrett?
MarsBars: naked?
EmoK8: u’ve seen them naked?
MarsBars: no. overactive imagination. angelo.
EmoK8: but garrett shaves his legs when he races.
u don’t think that’s hot?
MarsBars: angelo shaved everything when he made it to the state swim meet.
EmoK8: everything?
MarsBars: well, everything that wasn’t under his Speedo.
remember his bald head?
EmoK8: that was soooo funny!
MarsBars: i wish linus had to shave.
i think i’d like scruffy kisses.
EmoK8: nah. japanese guys are really hot and they don’t shave much.
MarsBars: if you think asian guys are cute, ask ian out.
EmoK8: ian?
MarsBars: yeah, you two hang out all the time.
you’d make sweet rock n roll.
EmoK8: you’d go out w Ian?
MarsBars: yeah. ian minus the drumming can b really sweet.
EmoK8: ian’s a geek.
MarsBars: so are you. *wink*
EmoK8: i see being in solitary confinement in the NH wilderness has not done anything for ur sense of humor.
MarsBars: very funny.
speaking of solitary confinement,
i should get back to my jailer
b4 she realizes i stole her Mac.
EmoK8: luv ya bye
MarsBars: luv u 2, nite
Speaking of Good-Looking Guys
On the fourteenth Boston cream,
I tell J.D.
that I prefer
glazed sour cream,
or jelly with powdered sugar.
And he says
he might bring me one
if I’d be his date
for the homecoming dance.
And before I say anything,
he goes on to explain
that all school athletes
are strongly encouraged to attend.
“Tradition,” he rambles, “is big here
and since you have to go too,
we might as well go together.”
“Yeah,” I agree,
as if I wasn’t totally thrilled
to be asked to the dance.
Thank God for Football
I had to come clean
so I sat across from J.D.
over slices at Wildcat’s,
the UNH game blaring.
“I’m not on the track team,”
I said,
figuring he’d hate me
and save me from saying
the next thing
on my list.
He mumbled through mozzarella
that it was okay.
Which wasn’t exactly
what I wanted to hear.
A conversation-halting touchdown
rumbled through the pizza parlor
before
I told J.D. that we’d be going
to the homecoming dance
as just friends.
Which,
&nb
sp; now that I think about it,
would have been
a really stupid thing to say.
Because we are
just friends.
I Don’t Have a Dress to Wear
so I ask Mom to take me to the mall in Manchester.
“Even better,” she says, and plans a day trip into Boston.
I imagine Filene’s Basement
overflowing with satin gowns
and strapless velvet dresses.
I am so happy
to get Mom
out of the house
and weaving
swerving
down Boston’s
curvy streets,
that I hardly
notice we’re in
Aunt Greta’s