by Sarah Tregay
drive to the summerhouse and build a fire,
to celebrate with birthday sandwiches on the patio
furniture.
More Birthday Presents
Greta gives me a big, flat box wrapped in glossy paper.
Inside is a pale ivory parka with a faux fur collar.
I pull it on, zip it up, and tell her she shouldn’t have.
“To make up for the panties.”
Arthur gives me a yellow envelope,
a gift card to the mall in Manchester.
I thank him, give him a hug, and kiss his scratchy cheek.
“To get there, you’ll have to give me a call.”
Mom produces a teddy bear from inside a grocery bag.
It’s soft and squishy, with caramel fur and chocolate eyes.
I hold it close, feeling like a child as tears threaten.
“To talk to, when I’m not the best listener.”
Three Gifts Are in Blue-and-White Priority Mail Boxes
A blushing pink camisole from Katie.
“To wear to bed. Every girl deserves to feel sexy.”
A black Moleskine journal from Linus.
“To replace that blue notebook. Which is probably full.”
A pearl necklace from Dad and Danny.
“No need to explain real pearls to real women.”
My lawn chair is stacked with gifts,
and I am swirling on an emotional carnival ride,
holding a teddy bear
and wearing a too-fancy necklace with a parka,
wishing Linus had sent me the camisole,
yet glad he didn’t
because Mom doesn’t think
lingerie is an appropriate gift
for a guy to give a girl.
After Greta and Arthur Kiss Me Good Night
J.D. picks me up,
and promises my mother
I’ll be back by midnight.
He takes me to an oversized house
on Faculty Row
with warm light spilling from windows.
We are greeted with a big “Surprise!”
from J.D.’s friends from school,
his mom and dad,
and a pair of redheaded little girls
who must be his sisters.
“Mahcie!” they shout over the commotion.
“We made you a cake,
shaped like a heart
with pink frosting
and sixteen candles.”
And happy sad tears
almost spill
when they show me
the gooey, lopsided cake
topped with pastel candles
ready to be lit.
My Wish
is to fall
cranium over Converse
in dizzy daydream-worthy
love.
After the Guests Have Gone
J.D. drives me home,
parks the Jeep on the street,
and walks me to the door
long before midnight.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Don’t worry, Mahcie,” he whispers.
“I wanted to.”
Like the earth pulling on the moon,
and the moon pulling on the tide,
his lips gravitate
toward mine.
Kissing J.D.
I feel
like I’m standing
in a rocking canoe.
Tomorrow, Tomorrow
The only way
I am able to fall asleep
is to promise myself that
I’ll straighten everything out
in the morning.
I Inherited It
I wonder what Dad would say
if I told him that
I liked two boys.
Would he ask me
if they were cute?
Yes, I’d tell him.
One in a brown-eyed, emo,
Dan Humphrey
kind of way.
The other in a David Beckham
meets Prince Harry
sorta way.
Then I’d ask him how he managed
the ping-ponging feelings
that accompany liking
two people at one time.
Because kissing J.D.
felt amazing one minute
and terrible the next.
Would He Tell Me?
Would he tell me
that liking two people
wasn’t a problem,
but acting on those feelings
was one helluva bad idea?
Would he tell me
that falling out of love
isn’t nearly as painful
as admitting it?
Would he tell me
that it would’ve broken his heart
to tell Mom the truth—
so he chickened out
and didn’t tell her?
Would he tell me
that taking a sledgehammer
to the house he built
was the last thing
he wanted to do?
Would he tell me
he loved me almost
more than anything,
but not enough
to keep pretending?
Procrastination
I have done my history assignment,
my geometry proofs,
and an essay for English.
I have cleaned the kitchen,
my bedroom,
and even the toilet.
I have taken out the trash,
the recycling,
and taken a walk.
I haven’t called J.D.
or Linus
or even Katie.
I haven’t solved my problem.
I haven’t told J.D., “It was only a kiss—
I have a boyfriend.
I made a mistake.”
I haven’t told Linus, “I kissed another boy.
It didn’t mean anything,
but I thought you should know
I made a mistake.”
I haven’t IM’d Katie
because she’s friends with Linus
and my mistake
would put her smack
in the middle
of an awkward situation.
Maybe
Maybe my attraction to J.D.
is just physical.
Or maybe there is too much distance
between Linus and me.
Or maybe all this loneliness
and no security blanket
has messed with my head.
The End
I know
I need to call Linus
and tell him about J.D.
or at least let him know
that maybe we should see other people,
since
I’m far away
and probably not
coming back.
I Told My Mother
I told my mother she was
self-centered
stubborn
bitchy
and
stuck in a rut.
I told my mother she should
put on a bra
see the colors on the trees
eat lobster at Newick’s
and
take Dad’s Mustang for a drive up the coast.
I told my mother she couldn’t
go on moping about Dad’s boyfriend
sleep all day and all night
eat only sourdough toast
and
pretend that the rest of the world does not exist.
I told my mother that I
didn’t mind chipping in and doing my chores
but doing all the housework was another story,
especially
when my social life was picking up
and my morals were falling down.
I asked her (in a near-hysterical shriek),
“Since when am I the parent and you the teenager?”
Now
I feel guilty
for being the big, bad, mean grown-up
when all she needs
is a
friend.
The Next Best Thing to a Security Blanket
The box springs creak
as I climb into bed with my mother.
My tears dampen her pillow.
She pushes my hair back
and pulls me close.
I sob that
I am sorry
I must be a bad person
if I can’t love my own mother
(or even my boyfriend)
if I can’t understand another person’s loss
and only think of myself.
She shushes me with quiet disagreements, telling me that
it is wrong
for an adult to burden a child
with personal problems
that are best discussed among adults.
On the other hand, she explains,
it is okay
for a child to turn to an adult
when things get complicated.
And it would be better for both of us
if she were the mother and
I were the teenager,
and if I wanted to talk about things
she’d be happy to listen.
I decline.
She doesn’t need my problems
on top of her own.
Morning
I awake
to the smell of
my mother
making pancakes
with little
round slices
of bananas
fried into them.
Peeking from Behind My Locker Door
I watch J.D. come down the hall,
saying hello to cheerleaders,
to guys on the soccer team,
and nodding politely to teachers
as if he is the eighth wonder of the world.
His hair is wet, darker than usual,
he’s wearing an OR school sweatshirt
over loose, worn jeans, and Adidas
and he looks as appetizing as he did in a tux.
“Mahcie?” he asks, pulling the locker open
so he can see my face. “Doughnut?”
“No thanks.”
“You’re mad at me,” he says.
“Nah. I ate breakfast.”
“So you’re ignoring me?”
“Yeah, kinda,” I admit,
because I had purposely
not run into him yesterday
by skipping lunch.
“Look, I’m sorry about the kiss,” he says.
“Don’t be. It was nice—more than nice.”
“You just looked so beautiful. . . .
All I’m sayin’ is that if you don’t wanna—
you know—it’s okay with me.”
“Yeah, all right. Thanks.”
“But you can’t say no to coffee.”
“Of course not, you’ve got me addicted.”
I Take the Cup of Coffee
brushing J.D.’s fingers
before he turns to go.
Anger flashes over me
and I tilt the cup back,
gripping it like a football.
I stop myself
before I throw it at him.
Dammit, I want to shout
why the hell do you
have to be so nice?
You just apologized for kissing me?
Guys don’t apologize for things like that.
You’re too goddamned perfect.
Stop it.
Before I hate you.
Before I like you
too much.
Stomping into homeroom,
I toss the coffee into the trash can
and swear not to think
about kissing J.D.
ever again.
My Sweaters Arrive Parcel Post
Snuggled among soft sweaters,
fleece-lined hoodies,
jeans,
and leather boots
are three little boxes.
Not good little boxes,
like that hold jewelry,
but logo-emblazoned,
drugstore boxes—
slick and shiny,
and glued shut.
I don’t even want
to look at them.
I don’t want
to think about them.
I can’t believe
my dad sent me them!
Because inside the boxes are
individually wrapped condoms:
1. In a rainbow of neon colors
2. In latex-free for sensitive skin
3. In fruity flavors
There’s also an envelope
with a letter from Dad.
I Open the Envelope Dad Sent
Dear Marcie,
I miss you. I hope school is going okay. Everything’s all right here, a bit quiet.
I know that we’ve had this conversation before, but I was thinking about you and your friendship with J.D. Sometimes good friends become more than friends, which is normal because our friends understand us best and we are comfortable around them. That’s why I’m sending the condoms. I want you to be prepared if the special moment comes along.
Your mother has encouraged you to wait until marriage, and if that is right for you it is a great decision and I will support it. Then again, I don’t want you rushing off to get married the minute you turn eighteen. That isn’t a good decision. Instead, think carefully about sex and what is right for you. Always, always protect yourself.
Sex, like alcohol and drugs, can have life-altering consequences. Unlike beer and meth, it can be wonderful and special.
I know you understand that you can get pregnant and if you do, there are options like abortion, adoption, and keeping the baby. Your friend Emily gave her baby up, while Linus’s brother and his girlfriend kept theirs. I’m sure you have witnessed the hardships brought on by these decisions.
STDs are the other risks you take. Some are curable, others will change (and maybe shorten) your life. As a father, I don’t want any of these things to happen to the daughter I love very much.
Please be careful, very careful. I love you.
Dad
I Crumple It Up
My father thinks
I’m falling for J.D.?
I’m not.
He’s too
perfect.
Back to the Boxes
To cheer myself up,
I take a neon-green condom from its candy wrapper,
feeling the slippery softness with my fingers.
I tuck it under my pillow,
and sneak to the kitchen for a banana.
Reading the instructions
(and gawking at the pictures)
I roll my lime-green condom
over the perky yellow banana,
which cracks me up
beyond reason.
I howl with laughter
as I dial Katie’s number.
Tears squirting from my eyes,
I try to explain how funny it looks.
But all she says is,
“Marcie, why’d your dad
send you condoms?”
I Explain
about how J.D. looks
like David Beckham in his soccer uniform
but smiles like Prince Harry
with boy-band dimples—
that he’s just too goddamned perfect.
“I can’t believe you dumped Linus and didn’t tell me!”
“I didn’t not tell you, Katie! I swear!”
She is, after all, my best friend.
And I’d never keep a secret like that from her.
“I haven’t dumped Linus.
It was just a birthday kiss,
nothing more.
I don’t even like J.D.
I swear.”
Lambasted
Katie
gets
righteous
on my
ass.
Threatening
to tell the sweetest
brown-eyed Leftover
boy
on planet Earth
that
his
long-distance girlfriend
isn’t watching
his YouTube videos,
but rather
kissing
another
boy
good night.