by Sarah Tregay
neighborhood
instead of the city.
Greta greets us with a smile
as wide as mine.
The Perfect Dress
The three of us giggle like girlfriends
as Aunt Greta empties her attic
of every dress the Otis/O’Grady girls have ever worn:
Great-Grandmother Gigi’s black one
she wears to funerals
Grammie Iris’s baby-blue prom dress, circa 1963
Aunt Greta’s collection of bridesmaid atrocities
Mom’s ivory wedding dress.
Cautious,
because I don’t want to ruin the mood,
I skip past the funeral blacks and the bridal whites
to the blue satin one,
saying that everyone always said,
I look most like Grammie Iris, except for Dad’s dark hair.
I slip it on
zip it up
and fluff it out.
In the mirror, I look a bit like Cinderella
crossed with Snow White.
My mother says
it brings out my eyes.
Greta shows me
how a tulle petticoat
fills out the skirt.
Mom and Greta giggle
and squeeze into sassy dresses
just to be silly.
Still wearing our sneakers,
we hop the T at Harvard Square
and ride downtown
to treat ourselves to dim sum.
Careful not to drip
sweet and sour sauce
on our
evening gowns.
J.D. Picks Me Up
wearing a tuxedo and driving a Jeep.
Mom gives me a look
mixed with admiration
(because she agrees that J.D. looks like a prince)
and concern
(because she thinks that J.D. looks like a player).
I tell her not to worry
and kiss her on the cheek.
(I won’t be getting kissed anywhere else myself.)
“Hey,” he says as he turns onto the main road.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight.”
“No problem,” I reply. “It’ll be fun.”
“You haven’t been to an Oyster River dance.
They’re a drag if you don’t have someone to talk to.”
“I was wondering why you asked me.”
“Really?” J.D. glances over at me and smiles.
“I thought that much was obvious.”
“What’s obvious?” I ask.
“I want us to be friends,” he says.
“That’s why I bring you breakfast.”
Duh! I say to myself.
God, I’m so stupid—
just because J.D.’s totally hot
doesn’t mean he wants to date
every girl who stumbles
into his life.
Homecoming at OR
is more like a pep rally
with a little lame music
and dancing thrown in.
J.D. doesn’t dance so great.
He just kind of stands there
and holds me.
Which makes me think of Linus
and how he dances through life—
his fingers across his guitar strings,
his stocking feet on the Twister mat,
his bare toes on the school gym floor.
The guy even dances onstage.
I don’t mind not dancing.
I’ve been craving human contact,
touch, connection
ever since Mom and I drove away.
“You okay with us being friends?” J.D. asks,
pulling away and looking down at me.
“Yeah,” I say, closing the gap again
and resting my head on his shoulder.
I linger in his arms
after the last note has been played
soaking up all the warmth
and hoping it will last
until the next time
someone hugs me.
October 5–11:54 P.M.
EmoK8: i did it!
MarsBars: did what?
EmoK8: kissed angelo!!!!!
MarsBars: how was it?
EmoK8: like eating chocolate-covered strawberries dipped in whipped cream
MarsBars: no fair. when i kissed him, we drooled on each other.
EmoK8: some things get better with age.
MarsBars: so is he your boyfriend now?
EmoK8: sorta
MarsBars: that’s awesome!
EmoK8: speaking of boyfriends,
carolina and I were at the mall.
we ran into your dad and danny.
ur dad was so cute,
he was shopping for your b-day
and wanted my opinion
swore i wouldn’t tell.
MarsBars: u hung out w my dad at the mall????
EmoK8: he and danny r so adorable.
they got us Cokes. we talked.
MarsBars: i am so jealous.
u kiss angelo minus the drool,
then spend time w my dad!
EmoK8: i told him u missed him
(ur dad, not angelo).
MarsBars: thnx. what do u mean adorable?
EmoK8: speaking of adorable men,
have u talked 2 linus lately?
MarsBars: it’s too depressing.
EmoK8: i know. his dad lost his job.
MarsBars: not just that.
all we talk about is not being together.
makes me want to cry.
EmoK8: on ur way to being emo
MarsBars: no.
EmoK8: you like emo boys why not b emo?
MarsBars: because my butt’s too big for skinny jeans.
EmoK8: so emo. luv it.
MarsBars: miss u katie. nite.
EmoK8: luv u 2.
I Close Mom’s Computer
and creep back down the lane,
alone again in the middle of the night.
I feel more alone than ever,
because I didn’t/couldn’t
tell Katie about
how beautiful Grammie Iris’s dress fit
and how nice it felt to dance/not dance with J.D.
I thought I could.
But I couldn’t.
Because she’s friends with Linus.
And he might get the wrong idea.
I know I should have explained
to Katie
how J.D. and I had agreed
that we were just friends.
But I’m not really sure
I could explain how
it felt so good to be held,
and kissed on the cheek.
Because it did feel good.
Too good.
Middle-of-the-Night Daydreams
I pile on more blankets to keep out the cold.
Still shivering, I drag them into the front room
and build a fire in the potbellied stove.
Watching the flames,
I see Katie’s words on the screen of my mind:
speaking of boyfriends . . .
we ran into your dad and danny . . .
they got us Cokes. we talked.
So it is true.
Dad really is gay.
(I wish he wasn’t.)
Dad and Danny hang out together—
shop for my birthday present together.
(I wish they wouldn’t.)
This gay-dad-depressed-mom craziness
is not a nightmare I can wake up from.
(I wish I could.)
In this universe there are no time machines,
or keys that can turn hearts back around.
(I wish there was.)
If there was a restart button
that’d reboot my parents’ relationship
I’d press it.
Dinner
My mother glances up at me<
br />
as she twirls spaghetti.
We share a soft-lipped smile.
I look down
and realize
I twirl noodles
just like she does.
And
in my very next thought
I wonder
if my boyfriend is gay.
That would explain
why he never once
took off
my
clothes.
When I Was Little
my mother used to tell me
how wonderful my father was
how smart, how funny.
She used to explain
how perfect it was to share
books, art, and music.
What she meant was
don’t fall for a hard body
without a soft heart
like Aunt Greta did.
I ask her, “Do you take it back?”
She doesn’t understand
so I explain about soft hearts.
“Your father had a little more than a midlife crisis.
I liked his sports car fetish better.”
“But do you take it back?”
“No. I still believe in kind men.”
“But what if all the nice guys are gay?”
I ask.
“What if Linus is gay?”
I panic.
“If he is,” Mom says, “you’ll have two best friends.”
Crap.
So I waited fifteen years
for some guy to call me his girlfriend.
And he probably has a crush on the quarterback.
When Dad Calls and I Answer
I take the cordless down the steps to the dock
and hide from my mother.
He asks me when I’ll be coming home.
I tell him Mom needs me,
that she’s coming unraveled.
“What about you? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I made a friend. We went to homecoming.”
“A guy friend or a girl friend?”
“A guy friend, Dad.”
He sighs.
“It’s the guy friends of yours I worry about.”
I laugh.
“You and Mom.”
“At least we still agree on some things.”
He sighs again, louder this time
and more tired.
“Did I tell you that I cut my hair?”
I say to change the subject.
“You Cut Your Hair?”
So I had to tell him
the whole haircut story:
It started with a bad hair day.
Because three months of
swimming in Great Bay
and attempting to wash my hair
in the trickle of well water
that resembled a shower,
left my once-straight, long hair
tangled and sticking out like a wilted Afro
and feeling like it was well on its way
to dreadlocking itself.
Hairapy
My great-grandmother, Gigi, told me that
I should wash it with apple cider vinegar
(because I am a brunette),
and condition it with mayonnaise
(not Miracle Whip),
in order to get
clean,
straight,
shampoo-commercial hair.
Needless to say,
I smelled like
potato salad
for three days.
Until
I marched into town,
plunked my butt in the salon chair,
and told the lady
to cut it off.
I didn’t expect
her to put the scissors
between my ponytail holder
and the back of my head.
I didn’t expect
my hair to fall to the floor
in just one
soft tha-wump.
My head felt instantly lighter,
the back of my neck cooler,
and the smell of salad dressing
had faded just a little bit.
I didn’t expect
a simple haircut
to change my appearance
so much.
I looked cute,
almost pretty—
but vanity embarrasses me.
So I didn’t take a picture
to send to my boyfriend
back in Boise.
Family Hairstory
Aunt Greta informed me
that every single Otis/O’Grady girl
had fallen for the vinegar-and-mayonnaise trick
since Gigi was young.
In 1927.
And even though I had smartened up,
Gigi kept trying to get me to do
things she did when she was my age.
“When I was a young lady,
I sent this young man a lock of my hair,
so he’d remember me.”
“That’s very Sense and Sensibility of you, Gigi.”
“You should send a lock to your sweetie.”
(I kept my old ponytail to remind myself
not to wash my hair with items from the fridge.)
I knew her mind was getting old-lady foggy,
because I have proof
that she and G’pa traded
sexy pictures of themselves in bathing suits
when he was off at war.
My Relatives Are Like Grapes on a Vine
Aunt Greta,
Great-uncle Arthur,
Grammie Iris,
and Great-grandmother Gigi
run the world’s most efficient grapevine.
Aunt Greta
considers gossip
an evening on the town
over a glass of wine the size of Lake Winnipesaukee
in one of Boston’s finest restaurants.
Uncle Arthur
loves to play hooky from work,
stopping at the deli on his way through Durham
and borrowing a beer from the summerhouse fridge.
He shares his sandwiches with whomever he finds
lounging on the porch and watching the tide.
Gigi has a sweet tooth
that she lies about every time
she presses a quarter into my palm
and tells me to be a dear
and buy her an ice cream downstairs in the parlor.
Together we lick Blue Bunny,
whispering so her roommate won’t hear.
Grammie Iris moved to Bennington
eons ago
(to escape the Grapes).
But because she is away from the vineyard
everyone calls her and keeps her up-to-date.
Mom used to be like Iris
(when we lived in Boise)
overhearing every word about
Aunt Greta’s divorce,
Uncle Arthur’s fake knee,
Gigi’s moving into a nursing home,
and Grammie Iris’s promotion to professor emerita.
Now the Grapes
are talking about us.
Money
“Don’t turn on the furnace,”
my mother warns
when she and Aunt Greta
head out for the evening.
“Or Gigi will get the bill.”
Since my great-grandmother
lives in a nursing home
she gets lots of bills
so she doesn’t need
another one for propane.
So I pull on my great-grandfather’s
World War II bomber jacket,
and go out in the cold
to fetch firewood.
So that Gigi
won’t be reminded
that her great-granddaughter
is living in her summerhouse
in October.
The Conversation
It takes Aunt Greta
<
br /> to talk
my mother
into renting an apartment.
Greta said
that the pipes freeze
by Veterans Day
and then you have to
haul a bucket of water
up from the bay
to flush
the toilet.
October 11–11:30 P.M.
MarsBars: i’ve got sorta good news
EmoK8: ur coming home?
MarsBars: no. we’re gonna move out of the summerhouse into an apt.
EmoK8: marcie, that’s not good news.
it means ur staying in NH.
MarsBars: can u at least try & b happy 4 me?
EmoK8: i’m sorry. i’ll try.