Dating Down

by Stefanie Lyons

  A Dream of Sleep

  it’s cold tonight

  will I be all right?

  or freeze from fright

  no friends in sight

  it’s dark in here

  I sit and stare

  Gauguin’s art, aware

  Melanie’s teddy bear

  it’s time for bed

  what’s in my head?

  I gave up Ted

  chose lies instead

  it’s rather late

  who did I date?

  didn’t appreciate

  must clean that slate

  it’s over now

  I’ll manage, how?

  if friends allow

  my humbled bow

  sleep heavenly

  sleep fatherly

  sleep

  I want to

  sleep lovingly

  sleep peacefully

  sleep

  deep

  sleep

  weep

  sleep

  please

  keep

  me in my

  sleep

  Summer’s End

  A week goes by without talking to Dad.

  I don’t have to go to rallies

  I don’t have to listen to people chant

  For the people, not payoffs!

  He doesn’t push or lecture,

  just ignores me, too busy

  taking Jane places.

  Where are they always going?

  It’s a mysterious side of Dad.

  His new form of parenting—

  Ignore your child and she’ll change.

  Ever since the latest gossip

  with Dad’s opponent came to light

  —my scandal trumped by his—

  I should feel free to

  enjoy the waning days of summer

  roamexploreshop

  thinkcreaterelaxchillenjoy

  but I don’t.

  I’m trapped in my head

  held hostage by my anger.

  I paint redorange

  yellow

  streaks across canvas

  messy disorganized

  real

  understandable

  angry

  lonely

  paintings of my thoughts.

  I feel deserted, betrayed,

  and since I’ve got nowhere to go

  no boyfriendno rallies

  I spend most of my time in my bedroom

  pretending senior year

  will remake me

  here at summer’s end.

  News

  Melanie visits me while I paint.

  I’ve become her full-time nanny

  as Jane and Dad traipse around town.

  Melanie holds Missy.

  Says she’s not a baby, but Missy is.

  Ironically, I know how she feels,

  tell her she’s a big girl.

  She relaxes.

  Melanie:Daddy’s taking Mommy to the doctor again.

  I peer over my canvas

  pause

  rewind

  replay.

  They hadn’t said where they were going or why.

  They hadn’t said when they’d be back.

  Me:What do you mean?

  Melanie:Mommy’s sick.

  Me:No, she’s not.

  Melanie:Yes, she’s sick.

  Her words stick, thick like they’re stuck,

  puffy and infected on Melanie’s tongue.

  She stares down at Missy, missing

  my inquisitive look.

  You’re confusing your mom with mine.

  Your life is perfect. Your mom is fine.

  I think this, but seeing her

  faceclenched handssqueeze Missy

  I ache for her.

  Remembering how Mom

  consumedconfusedcompletely capsized

  me with worry.

  I stroke her hair, try to slow her little-girl tears.

  More than a dirty face that needs to be cleaned,

  or a meddling sister I want to avoid,

  she’s a little girl, little sister,

  scared and lonely.

  Is Jane really sick?

  Thinking back on the Sunday breakfast,

  pancakes and crying,

  Janie avoiding my question about driving herself,

  her doctor’s appointment,

  her constant headaches,

  Dad blowing up—

  it’s all starting to sink in.

  Maybe the pearls aren’t so perfect.

  We snuggle like sisters.

  Melanie:Is Mommy going to die?

  Die?

  People like Jane don’t die.

  People like Mom shouldn’t die.

  Then, people like me and Melanie

  have to live—stuck.

  I ask Melanie why she thinks this.

  Tells me Jane

  has headaches

  getting her head “looked at”

  a big machine

  throwing up a lot.

  I listen

  hold Melanie,

  we fall asleep like this

  paint drying on canvas

  tears drying on face

  Missy returning to curl up

  between our legs.

  Stereotyping Jane

  and the headaches

  and the pain

  and the plain way she looks

  and the way she makes me insane—

  rubbing her temples as if

  I’m so vain

  and how simply she

  replaced Mom like a

  repairman swaps out a windowpane

  and her name

  Mrs. Henderson, not just

  Jane

  and the bland way she

  walks

  talks

  speaks

  eats her chow mein

  and now I think that

  everything I thought

  and yep, I thought about it

  a lot

  and now, I think that

  everything I thought

  might not be quite

  the same.

  Mistakes and Identities

  I tuck Melanie into her bed

  kiss her forehead.

  She mistakes me for Jane,

  calls me Mommy

  knocking the breath out of me.

  Amazed at what it feels like

  from the other side

  I pretend to be

  a mom,

  her mom.

  I play along so she’ll sleep,

  but I’m far from

  picture perfect

  poised

  larger than life

  in a portrait on Dad’s wall.

  I’m far from Jane

  controlledcontained

  I’m far from Jane

  primplain.

  I’m so unlike her, but

  do I hate her?

  I wish I could take it back,

  I hate you

  knowing now how it feels

  to be kissed by Melanie and

  loved like a mom.

  Maybe my heart isn’t quite so hard.

  I pad back to my room

  and paint two girls

  holding hands

  hopping happily along

  carrying two stones

  together.

  The Next Morning

  I wake up early

  practici
ng for senior year starting next week

  and make brewberry pancakes.

  Things feel hopeful

  better

  not sick or somber

  like a summer filled

  with drugs and parties

  shaking hands

  alienating friends

  hoping to win an election,

  losing X.

  Melanie bounces into the kitchen.

  Dad finds his way in with the paper.

  Jane …

  I smile at Dad for the first time

  in what feels like all summer.

  Me:More syrup?

  I offer, meaning

  I’m sorry for … everything.

  Dad:Sure.

  Dad says, meaning

  I know. I am too.

  Melanie cleans her plate

  Dad finishes his paper

  Jane …

  I can be the bigger person,

  head upstairs with some juice

  my truce.

  The wooden stairs creak

  under my feet

  my heart pounding,

  should I knock

  or apologize

  or turn around

  and toss the juice

  leaving things how they are?

  Cracking her bedroom door,

  She’s on the phone.

  Jane:I’ll be fine …

  don’t want to be a burden

  like his first wife.

  I remember

  Mom’s face, sick, sad, and swollen

  I remember

  her headscarf crooked, stained with puke

  I remember

  Jane’s perfect smile pasted on the campaign trail,

  and I wonder

  if I bring her this juice do I want this truce?

  She’s not my mom.

  She can take over the house, but she can’t

  take over my heart

  take Mom’s place.

  I take the juice

  and toss it

  down

  the

  drain.

  Girls in Malls, Boys in Malls

  This is a day of sorries—

  Dad

  April

  Gavin

  Miguel

  myself

  minus Jane.

  I clear away the formal apologies

  with my two best friends, then

  I clear my head at the mall.

  Finally getting out of the house.

  I learn April’s new style for senior year is

  no longer Goth or gray

  blonde or blood red

  but bookish

  stepping out of the dressing room in a pink Oxford,

  collar up.

  I would laugh, but I can’t piss off my friends

  so quickly after making amends.

  After fifteen texts

  ten tardy minutes,

  I learn Gavin’s new style for senior year is

  study-chic

  sporting boat shoes

  and argyle sweaters.

  Guess I didn’t get the fashion memo.

  I learn April

  dumped Ralph for good

  Deserved to be treated better.

  I learn Gavin

  stopped leaving messages

  even more messages

  for George.

  They’re just friends now.

  Both my friends

  strong

  standing tall

  say they canfind betterdo betterbe better.

  Senior year.

  One week away!

  They’re

  excited, jazzed, thrilled, electric!

  I’m still

  crummy, blah, broken, amiss.

  They go into advice mode

  April and Gavin: Go see Lady Elba.

  Girl, you got to snap out of it.

  What about Ted?

  Nothing says, I’m over it like a hot

  new outfit.

  This is our year, our time.

  This is your last shot.

  Shot at what?

  Becoming the senator’s daughter?

  Finding love?

  Not dying alone?

  I try not to be a buzz kill,

  pretend the old Sam’s back in action,

  buy a few cute shirts, a new pair of jeans,

  some argyle socks, even though I don’t feel it.

  Then leaving the mall,

  we pass by a coffee shop.

  The beans remind me of better times.

  A sticker in the window says one single word—

  LOVE.

  Love

  One word

  with a picture of a goddess.

  Maybe it will work if I buy it?

  I comply, pretend the goddess is really

  the High Priestess.

  Me.

  Gavin and April look at each other when

  I’m paying, eyes judging,

  saying nothing.

  It will be my power mark.

  My strength.My freedom.

  My something big.

  LOVE.

  I am the High Priestess, reminded that

  it’s not perfect

  LOVE.

  But it’s all around, waiting for me to take it

  back.

  Sam I Am

  I am greater than a shoe size.

  I am more interesting than a label.

  I am deeper than an opinion.

  I am more than a politician’s daughter.

  I am smarter than a test score.

  I am more valuable than diamond earrings.

  I am larger than a fashion trend.

  I am stronger than a drug.

  I am a cut above

  priority mail

  my own masterpiece

  executive platinum

  finer than bone china

  blue ribbon worthy

  senior level

  VIP

  leading lady material

  I am all that and a sister-daughter-friend bag of chips …

  … and

  I am ready to love.

  First Day of Senior Year

  I make breakfast for Melanie

  while Dad tends to Jane,

  walking and rubbing

  pacing and squinting.

  I wonder

  Does Melanie see her pain?

  At school, my locker’s next to Gavin,

  so I get to witness

  The Drama of George.

  It replaces

  The Problem with Ralph.

  I wonder

  Will Gavin take him back?

  I’m back in school,

  preparing for college

  preparing Melanie’s breakfast

  preparing to move on

  and X is … ?

  It’s just one more thing that separates us.

  I wonder

  Will I ever heal?

  Even though I should focus on my

  futurefriendsfamily

  All I can focus on is

  What is he doing?

  Is he still with Jessica?

  Does he sing Chesterfield Kings in her ear?

  Are they eating brunch at Leo’s?

  Is she scrunched up next to him in the booth?

  Does he remember eating there with me?

  Does he even remember me?

  I’m left here

  in the hall

>   trying to shake memories,

  haunted.

  In Transit

  Like my academic angel,

  Ted floats by,

  grabs my arm and escorts me to

  Senior English in Room 107.

  He pulls out a box of Milk Duds, informs me that

  nothing cures depression better than chocolate.

  How’d he know I was down?

  He pops a Milk Dud,

  chatters on about things not sports-related.

  Things I might actually care to know:

  what bands are playing this weekend

  how he’s learning guitar, even wrote a song

  who knew chords were so difficult?

  And,

  did I hear about the Gauguin show

  at the Art Institute next month?

  The Yellow Christ.

  My favorite.

  Together, we walk arm in arm as

  friends

  students

  fellow music lovers

  art lovers

  chocolate lovers.

  But,

  somewhere in the hollow of my heart

  maybe it still might be

  something more.

  At Lunch

  Gavin:So you and Ted …

  Me: … are nothing.

  Gavin:I don’t know, Sam, he seems …

  Me: … innamorato.

  April pulls out a pocket thesaurus.

  How far is she going to take this brainy thing?

  Gavin:In a whatto?

  April:Smitten. In lurve!

  Gavin:I believe our little girl’s got a new boy.

  He sniffs like it’s touching,

  our love story.

  Me:Spare me.

  I know what they’re trying to do,

  help me move on,

  but is falling for the guy

  you dumped junior year

  moving on or moving backwards?

  Gavin:I always liked Ted.

  April:Least he doesn’t dabble in drugs …

  Ralph walks by, smiles,

  then passes to sit with his new group

  next to the

  new cuteperky girl

  unaware of The Problem with Ralph.

  Gavin:Well, whatever’s going on with Ted …

  Me:You mean nothing?

  Gavin:Just go with it.

  He gets up,

  leaves.

  And as usual, he

  takes the last word.

  Week after Week after School

  April, Gavin, and me,

  we start a new routine.

  We’ve crossed out our summer habit

  of hanging at that café—haunted.

  Instead, we study in the food court through fall

  at the mall by April’s house.

  New school year, new start.