by Sarah Tregay
MarsBars: thnx. lets talk abt you, instead.
EmoK8: does PMS get worse when ur totally attracted to a hot guy?
MarsBars: i don’t think so.
EmoK8: cause i’m all grumpy,
yet i want to throw myself @ angelo.
MarsBars: so do it!
EmoK8: can’t. got my period.
MarsBars: sucks to be you.
EmoK8: sucks to be all of us.
wait, does linus know?
MarsBars: nope. told u 1st.
EmoK8: he’s gonna be bummed.
MarsBars: yeah, i guess.
EmoK8: he will b.
MarsBars: do u think he’s gay?
EmoK8: gay???
MarsBars: he never, like, touches me and stuff.
EmoK8: kinda hard to touch u
when u live 3,000,000,000 miles away.
MarsBars: no, i mean before.
EmoK8: he kisses u.
MarsBars: but maybe that’s not enuf.
EmoK8: don’t worry about it.
MarsBars: u sure?
EmoK8: yeah, he likes you.
MarsBars: even long-distance?
EmoK8: even 3,000,000,000 miles away. g’nite.
MarsBars: nite
Student Housing
So Mom and I
move into the two-bedroom apartment
over the used-books store
next to campus.
We borrow Gigi’s furniture
from the summerhouse.
We take the skillet to make pancakes,
the cereal bowls, and the tarnished silverware.
I say a secret good-bye
to the potbellied stove
because I will miss
toasting marshmallows.
A Bath at Last
After our suitcases have been lugged up the stairs,
after I find soap, shampoo, and a towel,
and after I scrub the bathtub with dish soap,
I fill the tub,
step out of my clothes
and into the water.
Sleepy warmth envelops me
like a cup of chamomile tea.
I relax
floating up with each breath
and sinking when I exhale,
my nipples bobbing
like buoys
on Great Bay.
I’ll Be Brief
After we moved in,
Aunt Greta brought over
two bags of winter clothes.
It felt as if she hated to think
of Mom and me
having only one suitcase each
of clothes to wear.
One bag had things she didn’t wear much—
turtlenecks, jeans, and sweaters.
The other bag had new things—
socks, tights, and old-lady underwear.
“Aunt Greta,” I told her,
“No one under the age of thirty
wears briefs,
unless, of course,
they’re a guy.”
I hate to admit it
but
I like my big panties
because
they don’t give me
automatic
wedgies.
Closing Camp
On the last weekend in October,
it is a family tradition
to prepare the summerhouse
for the winter ahead.
Gigi commands operations
from her post on the porch.
My great-uncle Arthur
maneuvers the boat onto the trailer
while I sit in the cab
and pretend to drive
which I prefer to mopping and dusting,
and picking creepy-crawlies off the patio furniture
before dragging it inside.
Bedtime
The summerhouse was tucked in
among the trees
sung the lullaby of the tide
splashing on the rocks below.
The only thing
not in place
was the spare key,
dry in my pocket
instead of damp
under the potted fern.
The Leftover Lovers YouTube Performance #2
(LINUS THOMAS ON GUITAR/VOCALS,
KATIE RASKOLNIKOV ON BASS,
AND IAN WONG ON DRUMS)
Marcie, don’t believe what they sold you
Don’t listen to what they told you
Just let me knock on your door
Wrap my arms around you
Even the score
Marcie, don’t be a pawn
In the games parents play
In the hours before dawn
Marcie, don’t believe what they sold you
Don’t listen to what they told you
Just let me knock on your door
Wrap my arms around you
Even the score
Marcie, it’s your father’s fault
Don’t be a captive
To your mother’s doubt
Marcie, don’t believe what they sold you
Don’t listen to what they told you
Just let me knock on your door
Wrap my arms around you
Even the score
Marcie, I wanna open your door
Wrap my arms around you
Even the score
What I Want to Do
There were tears in my eyes
when I called Linus.
I told him I wished
he was here to hold me.
That I wished I could
wrap myself around him,
tuck myself under his chin, and
bury myself in his arms.
Linus said
he wanted the same things.
I didn’t say
that I wanted to do all of this
curled under the covers,
skin against skin
with nothing but a condom
between us.
And I wondered if
Linus wanted the same things.
A Package from Katie
Wrapped in pink Saran wrap
And topped with a yellow Post-it
That read
I know Fruits Basket
is so yesterday
but I had to get us these.
Luv, Katie
Inside was a
plaid pleated
Catholic Japanese
Saint Mary’s schoolgirl
uniform skirt.
October 27–12:02 A.M.
MarsBars: katie! i luv the skirt.
thank you!
EmoK8: does it fit?
MarsBars: yep.
EmoK8: good.
i thought it might be too tight.
MarsBars: no. i’ve lost abt 12 pounds.
EmoK8: OMG! congrats.
MarsBars: thnx. i didn’t lose it on purpose.
EmoK8: who cares? i bet you look good
i dunno tho, linus likes us chubby girls.
MarsBars: ur not chubby.
& i’m still not sure linus likes girls.
EmoK8: argh. linus likes u.
why don’t u believe me?
MarsBars: i dunno. he says it, but—
EmoK8: he doesn’t touch u . . .
yeah. u said.
but he can’t. ur in NH.
MarsBars: does angelo touch you?
EmoK8: yes.
MarsBars: i mean under ur clothes?
EmoK8: yeah.
MarsBars: and u didn’t tell me?
EmoK8: how was i supposed to bring that up?
angelo gave me a back rub, just not on my back?
MarsBars: OMG! on your front?
did it feel good?
EmoK8: oh yeah.
MarsBars: i am so jealous.
i want linus to like me like that.
if he’s not gay, i mean.
EmoK8: he does. he will.
& im not gonna say it
again
HE IS NOT GAY!!!
MarsBars: ok ok
anyway, i got a “history of new england ports” paper to write.
EmoK8: i guess i can let you go. nite.
MarsBars: thnx for playing the marcie song. Nite.
No One to Clink Glasses With
Now that we live in town
I take myself out for dinner
when Mom doesn’t feel like eating.
Pizza at Wildcat’s,
pitas at the deli,
salads at the sit-down place.
You don’t know what lonely is
until you’ve asked
for a table for one.
The waitress comes over
to fill your glass and
ask you how your salad tastes
a few times too many.
And you wish
she’d just sit down
and talk.
Katie Rants on the Phone
“Okay, okay,
all you do is go on and on
about Linus being gay.
So what if he is?
Goody for him.
Really, Marcie,
why should you care?
You like gay people—
you love your dad,
and Danny’s a sweet guy.”
“But what if I love Linus?” I ask her.
“You love him?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I might . . . I want to.
But I’m worried that
if Linus is gay like my father,
I’ll become depressed like my mother.”
Regret
My decision not to sit with Sam
(that tall girl with tie-dyed hair)
comes back to haunt me
as I eat pizza alone
on Halloween night
with zero girlfriends to
watch scary movies with
in all of New England.
Someone changes the channel
and a list of upcoming programs
fills the screen.
Instead of feeling sorry for myself,
I order another slice.
(To go.)
“Hey,” I say to Mom when I get home.
“I brought you dinner.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“Would you watch TV with me?
It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
is coming on at seven.”
(Not scary, I know,
but horror films aren’t Mom’s thing.)
“I’d love to,” she says,
and closes her computer.
Frat Boys
fill every seat,
scarfing down pizza
and yelling at the flat screen
when some poor sucker
fumbles the ball.
The only subject
that tugs at their attention spans
is a gaggle of coeds
in tight jeans
and tank tops (in November)
who flirt without mercy
flashing Crest Whitestrips smiles
and cleavage.
One girl takes a seat
on the cutest guy’s lap.
She steals a slice,
tips her head back,
and laughs.
And I wonder
what it would take
to become one of those girls.
I could
buy my shirts a size too small,
and bleach my teeth until they glow in the dark.
I could laugh at the frat boys’ jokes
as I park my butt
on some cute guy’s knee.
I wouldn’t be me.
But maybe I’d like
taking a break
from myself.
Clothes
My mother always warned me
that certain combinations
will attract the wrong
kind of attention
like black bras and white T-shirts,
or mascara and miniskirts,
bathing suits with zippers,
or lipstick with high heels.
She’s talking about attracting:
college boys in tight undershirts
with ponytails and goatees
lifeguards in red board shorts
with blue eyes and suntans
jocks in black Adidas
with big hands and firm biceps.
It doesn’t take me long
to put two and two together,
mix the wrong combinations
like push-up bras and tank tops,
lip gloss and eyeliner,
perfume and a bomber jacket.
Just like the girl
who didn’t get in trouble
for stealing a slice of pizza.
I Love Pizza
The next Friday,
not a seat in the house
is without an ass.
J.D. waves me over to an already full table,
puts his arm around my waist,
and pulls me down to sit on his lap.
We drink Cokes, eat slices, and watch the Patriots
run-dodge their way down the field,
ready to leap up and cheer at a moment’s notice.
During commercials
J.D.’s fingers tickle my thighs
as he toys with the hem of my skirt.
Motherly Advice for the Teenage Soul
Mom always told me
to stand up for myself
to not put up with rude boys,
roaming fingers, and wandering hands.
And I always thought I would
stand up for myself
and refuse their advances,
stray strokes, and wayward gropes.
Yet, I am sitting, sipping my soda
and enjoying every delicious minute of it.
A thought bubbles up
through my carbonated brain:
Linus.
I brush J.D.’s fingers away from my legs,
whispering, “Not now,”
so he won’t think that I don’t like him
(I do)
or how he touched me
(I like that too).
I’d tell him that I have a boyfriend, just
not now.
Treats
The next day at school,
J.D. dangles a paper bag over my head:
“I got something for you.”
I consider reaching for the Dunkin’ Donuts,
but his T-shirt rides up,
and the
trail
of
blond
hairs
trickling
down
his
six-
pack
abs
makes me hungry
for other things.
Insight
If my friends and family
were foods,
J.D. would
be dessert,
you know,
like bananas Foster
dripping
with caramel
and
on fire.
My Birthday
You’d think that my mother would have remembered
that she gave birth to a baby girl sixteen years ago
and wake up to make her pancakes
before school.
You’d think that my mother would have remembered
watching Molly Ringwald blow out her sixteen candles
all those years ago.
But she is tucked in a fog
under a blue comforter
of Ambien and depression.
I even let the phone ring four times,
thinking it sounds like an alarm clock.
“Sugar Cookie, happy birthday!” Dad says.
“I wanted to be the first one to wish you well.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy,
you were.”
Birthday Pr
esents
J.D. brings me a jelly doughnut
and coffee with cream.
“You wanted a sour cream?” he asks
when I
start to cry.
At 3:20 That Afternoon Everyone Remembers
On his way to soccer practice,
J.D. promises to take me out for a celebration,
to be ready at eight.
Uncle Arthur picks me up at school
and we swing by the deli
to buy sandwiches.
At our apartment,
Aunt Greta says she left work at noon
to avoid the traffic.
Mom smiles
and wraps a hug around me
to make me forget this morning.
Arthur, Greta, Mom, and I