by Sarah Tregay
In the Aftermath of Operation Girlfriend Defreak
J.D. brings me
two jelly doughnuts
and a large cuppa Dunkin’
on Saturday morning.
“Maybe I should have told you
I had a sorta girlfriend.”
“No biggie.
I have a boyfriend.”
“Huh?”
3.1 Miles of Conversation
J.D. and I have so much to explain
to each other,
to ourselves,
that our jog takes us
all the way
to the summerhouse
before
we begin to understand
each other,
ourselves.
Megan
“She lives in the North Country,”
he tells me,
as if northern New Hampshire
is a territory yet to be accepted
into the union.
“We met over the summer,
where we worked as junior counselors
at a soccer summer camp.
It should have been a summer fling,
but because we had sex,
I couldn’t bring myself to
break it off.
No official end.
No official ‘let’s be friends.’
So, technically,
she’s still my girlfriend.”
Telling Truths
“Linus and I,” I explain,
“have been friends since junior high
and more-than-friends since April.
I’ve been meaning to ask him
if we can go back to being just friends.
But, he’s kinda emo-sensitive,
and I know it’d really crush him.”
J.D. and I sit on the rocks
and watch the tide recede.
I admit into the silence
that I don’t really know
what to do about
my relationship with Linus,
because it isn’t all chocolate-covered strawberries dipped
in whipped cream
and there certainly weren’t any misplaced back rubs.
Nickname
“Linus?” J.D. asks.
I tell J.D. about
Linus’s three older brothers
and how they picked on him
without mercy,
christening him
with the name
of the Peanuts character
he most resembled
when he was four.
Opportunity Knocks
J.D. and I share more secrets
as we warm our aching muscles
in front of the potbellied stove.
He had sex with Megan three times.
Me and Linus none at all.
“Never?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“You wanted to?”
“Yeah.”
Upon hearing this, J.D. takes his shirt off
and tells me that I can do whatever I want.
Except all I can think of
is his poor, unglued girlfriend
who had sex
three times.
Overactive Imagination
But that night, alone in bed
I let my dream fingers
trace every muscle—
each rise and valley—
on J.D.’s beautiful torso.
I let my dream eyes
connect the dots between the freckles
that spill over his shoulders
as if he stood in pink lemonade rain.
I can almost taste
his hard-earned sweat
salty and masculine
on my dream tongue.
Kissing as a Recreational Sport
After J.D. and I
firmly establish
that we are otherwise engaged,
we find ourselves
sequestered in the summerhouse
every afternoon after school,
building little fires,
and kissing until our lips are chapped
and my face has rug burns
from the stubble on his chin.
Answering Machine Message from Dad
Charlene, I got your message.
Sorry my phone was off. I was at work.
Yes, we can talk about Marcie.
Mom calls Dad back
late at night.
And since we only have one phone
I can’t listen in on the other line.
Her voice is quiet.
And I can’t quite hear
what she is telling him
about me.
Because I Love Her
Ignoring my mother
isn’t helping.
Even when I’m not there,
where I can’t see
her sad tired eyes
her thin petite frame
her messy curly hair
where I can’t smell
her toast
her coffee
her unwashed blankets
where I can’t hear
her snores
her fingers tapping the keyboard
her silence
where I can’t feel
her cool hand in mine
her warm embrace
her pain
I still remember.
Memory
Thinking back,
I remember a time or two,
(maybe three)
when Mommy shut herself
into the bedroom.
Daddy would tell me to play quietly.
“Sh,” he’d say. “Mommy’s sleeping.”
But he’d let me help make her toast
and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
We’d make up a tray
(just like for breakfast in bed)
even though it was
the middle of the afternoon.
And Daddy would always put
two pills in a little bowl
next to the glass of orange juice.
We’d sit on the bed
in the darkened room,
quiet while Mommy
tried to smile.
Illness
It helps if I imagine
that depression is like the flu,
or if I pretend that she has cramps
and can’t possibly get out of bed.
I bring her orange juice,
chicken noodle soup,
One A Day vitamins.
I tell her about my day,
my grades in biology,
that Gigi had called.
I give her every opportunity
to tell me what she is telling Dad,
but she remains silent.
I bundle her up in G’pa’s bomber jacket
and take her to the deli for pitas,
to Wildcat’s for pizza,
and to the sit-down place for salad.
I wait for her to sip her coffee,
to finish her food,
to thank me and smile.
At the Bagel Shop
I drag Mom out for breakfast
at one in the afternoon
while our clothes spin dry.
J.D. comes in with two guys from school
and wearing a mint-green T-shirt,
looking as edible as ice cream.
They must have ordered soup
because their table is piled deep
with packages of crackers.
I steal glances his way,
watching him make a saltine and cream cheese sandwich
and put the whole thing in his mouth.
I flush pink when he smiles at me
even though he has gooey white stuff
stuck in his teeth.
At the Laundromat
Mom pulls warm, fluffy clothes from the dryer,
trailing socks and unmentionables across the tiles.
I play sweeper picking
them up.
“You missed one,”
J.D. says from behind me.
Dangling from his index finger
is a pair of very tiny
black lace
panties.
I snatch them away,
but at the same time
I realize
they aren’t mine.
In fact, there is a Victoria’s Secret
price tag
dangling
from the
dark lace.
Change of Season
J.D. drags me out
on a run, promising me
pine trees and snowflakes.
“Underpants?
You gave me underpants?”
I curse J.D.
He laughs.
He runs faster.
“That’s, like, so not appropriate!”
I chase him down.
He stops.
Hands on his knees, he gasps between laughs,
telling me they were my Christmas present.
“Not funny. My mom was there!”
“Come on, Mahcie, I can see your granny panties,
every time you touch your toes.”
I whack him one on the shoulder.
“So I just thought . . .” he trails off.
“You didn’t think
I’d show them to you . . . on.
Did you?”
He just grins
big.
Friends with Benefits
Long after the cool sunlight has sunk below the trees,
after the darkness has seeped in through the cracks in
the summerhouse walls,
after our fire has dimmed to highlighter-orange coals,
J.D. slides behind me,
making a chair out of his knees,
a headrest out of his chest.
He wriggles from his sweatshirt,
then lifts mine off over my head,
kissing the back of my neck,
the muscles of my shoulders,
until tingles make me giggle.
I turn and kiss him,
his warm soft lips,
his pressing mouth,
pretending not to notice
the freeing spring
of my bra
coming
undone.
Thank God
Finally!
My second bases
have been rounded.
I was beginning to think
that there was something wrong
with them/with me.
Because, no boy
(not one single horny-assed teenage boy)
paid my breasts any attention
until now.
My Mother Is Wrong
about so many things.
Lingerie makes a great gift not an inappropriate one.
I should know. I own two pieces.
A camisole from Katie.
A pair of little black lace panties from J.D.
And when I put them on under my clothes I feel
soft and silky like I just took a shower
mysterious like I know a secret no one else does
sexy like I want to kiss J.D. passionately
for the next forty-five minutes.
Standing up for myself would be so boring.
I should know. I let J.D. touch me. A lot.
Above my knee under the cafeteria table.
Under my shirt in front of the potbellied stove.
And when he puts his hands under my clothes I feel
beautiful like a girl on the cover of a glossy magazine
desired like a tall glass of lemonade on a hot July
afternoon
sexy like I want to kiss him passionately
for the next forty-five minutes.
Hating men isn’t better than loving them.
I should know. I have been almost in love more than once.
With Linus Thomas.
With Jeremiah Delaney Gallagher.
And when I am with a guy I like I feel
special like a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day
valued like a string of pearls
sexy like I want to kiss him passionately
for the next forty-five minutes.
Hiding in bed all day isn’t better than living my life.
I should know. I tried it.
I had my covers up to my chin.
And my pillow over my head.
But when J.D. knocked on the door this morning I felt
my heart jump like I just heard a crack of lightning
my pulse pound like I just ran from here to the
summerhouse
my breath quicken like I had been kissing J.D.
for the last forty-five minutes.
Overheard
When I came in all sweaty and needing a shower,
I heard my mother say,
“I’ve got to go. Marcie’s home from her run,”
and she hurried to hang up the phone.
All I could think about while I washed my hair
was that she didn’t sound pleased.
I have a feeling that my mother doesn’t like J.D.
(Because she can’t possibly not like my jogging.)
J.D. Knows to Avoid the Potholes
and how to ease his Jeep
down the dark gravel lane
without making a sound.
He flashes me a grin in the dashboard light
that means he’d love to warm his hands
on the skin under my shirt.
He slams on the brakes.
My seat belt tugs me back to present tense.
“A deer?”
“No, look!”
I follow the high beams,
expecting a bear, or maybe a moose
or even a loose buffalo from the farm down the street.
Just about anything
but a Mustang
and my father.
“Hi, Daddy!”
I say as if I’m happy to see him
as if he isn’t interrupting anything
by parking his car,
and himself,
in the middle of the lane.
“Marcie,
how come your mother knew
that I’d find you here?”
“’Cause one of the neighbors called and said
that the kitchen window had come open
so J.D. and I thought we’d check on it?” I lie.
“So you have a key?”
“Huh?”
Dad takes my hand,
emptying it of its key-ring contents.
He inspects the keys by the headlights.
And I can tell that he recognizes the worn brass gem
that has been opening the door to the summerhouse
since 1954.
“I’m sorry, J.D.,
but Marcie and I have a little catching up to do.
Would you mind giving us a moment?”
“No prob, Mistah Fostah.
It was nice to meet you.
’Night, Mahcie.”
“’Night,” I say.
But scream in my head,
Don’t leave me!
Dad will start in on one of his
heart-to-heart conversations
about good friends, sex, and prophylactics.
My Father Wraps Me in His Long Arms
His fine wool sweater is
soft and warm on my cheek.
He smells like leather and cedar
and reminds me of home.
“I’ve missed you, Sugar Cookie.”
I try to tell him that I missed him too,
but sobs choke in my throat.
It feels so good to hug him,
I don’t want to let go.
I hug him tighter.
He pulls me closer
and wonders in a half whisper,
“Maybe I should have come
to get you sooner.”
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