by Ellen Hagan
them to myself. “Get to slicing,” she says. “And table set.”
So I wash & cut thick slices of tomatoes. Their juice
staining the counter. Load them on a plate & pepper
& olive oil them up. Waiting for the water to boil,
we grab chairs to shuck the corn. “Speed never wins,”
Mamaw says, so I slow it way down. Smooth away
each sliver of silk sticking to the white & yellow corn.
When the cooking is done & everything
is tender & set out, we slather butter, more salt,
& Mamaw’s special cayenne & garlic on top. We
feast until we both feel full from our own backyard.
III.
For dessert, Mamaw pulls the vanilla ice cream
from the fridge. Slices the last of the peaches
& slides them inside our bowls. “Porch swing,”
we say at the same time. & sway medium high,
both our legs kicking the same rhythm. Devour
& tell stories until the sun gets low, low in the sky.
Some Nights
Mariella & StaceyAnn
show up & out. Bring
loads of cheese puffs
& soda. Stash them quiet
in my bedroom, late-
night craving fixes.
Mamaw makes dinner
out of fried okra, rice
so full of salt & butter
that our mouths celebrate,
vegan hot dogs sizzling
on the grill. “It’s all about
balance,” she says. Grins
before turning in for TV
& her crossword puzzles.
The backyard is ours;
we collect mason jars
with tops, go exploring
to catch fireflies, fast
in our palms, swatting
high fives as they glow
& shine, their wings wide
in our hands. “Look, look!”
we all holler. Name them,
see who can catch the most.
StaceyAnn wins this time,
counting their light; they
glitter through our grip.
Our faces full of sweat,
we laugh while letting go.
Their small bodies
look like fireworks
flying from our fingers.
How I Feel vs. How I’m Supposed to Feel
Inside:
Let’s play dolls
Let’s play house
Let’s play chef
Let’s catch crawdads
Let’s catch fireflies
Let’s pretend
Let’s fight crime & fly
through the sky.
Let’s write our own stories
& comic-book adventures.
Let’s save the day
our own way.
Devour junk food
Sleep all day
TV all night
Play make believe
Ride bikes forever
Ride scooters forever
Roller-skate forever
Walk downtown forever.
Not one care.
Clothes? Don’t care
Hairstyle? Don’t care
Makeup? Don’t care
Fitness? Don’t care
Fun? Yes please.
Just be ourselves
Just be us
Just be free
Just be twelve
Not one worry
Not one care.
Outside:
Let’s be cool
Let’s be smooth
Let’s be attitude
Let’s be different
Let’s be unique.
Obsess about hair
Care about makeup
Running in place
Running around downtown
Obsess over clothes
Be stylish forever
Just be better
Pretend you’re perfect
Pretend you’re relaxed.
Don’t play dolls
Don’t play house
Stop playing games
Babies play games
Be almost thirteen.
Mariella Says
Her older sister, Mira,
swears push-ups work
for building pectoral
muscles (her words).
& we believe her
’cause she’s going
to med school
when she graduates.
& we all know
what bigger pecs
will mean. So
that’s how Mamaw
finds me. Plank
position. & grins.
’Cause she knows
too. “Sweet Beatrice,”
she says, seeing me
already breaking a sweat.
I sigh. Know the truth
when I look at Mamaw,
her small frame. See
my shape in hers.
“It’s hard to love
a thing you can’t have.
But maybe the truth
is you don’t really want
that after all.
Maybe deep down,
you’re happy just the way
you’re s’posed to be.”
Wrong Again
Is what I write in my diary. The truth is:
a bigger bra size is definitely what I want.
No jokes about it. A figure. You know.
One that people talk about. Write notes about.
Put on the cover of magazines.
Wanting What You Can’t Have
is the title of my whole middle school life.
& for seventh grade, I want a whole new me.
Let’s call it Jackpot: the Beatrice Miller story.
Or: Gold Medal Life.
She got all she was asking for.
& her mamaw was (for once) wrong.
She loved every glorious & awesome minute of it.
Dear Diary,
The other truth is … I just want to be noticed,
liked, flirted with even. Want people to think
about me when I’m not around, to miss me,
to want to know more about me. It’s true,
I want the girls in my grade to think I’m cooler
than I really am and want some of the boys,
but mostly just Rodney, to think I’m funny & pretty
& want to know more about me. The same way
I want to know everything about him.
I feel different than I did two months ago,
& I want everyone else to see how much I’ve changed.
Want them to ask questions & be interested
in the answers.
Hopeful,
Beatrice
Questions for Mamaw & Mom
“School starts soon. You know this.
So here are some things I need to know,”
I say, sitting them both down.
“Can I get a cell phone? You should realize
I am almost thirteen, or will be in November.
I need a cell phone. My own digits. Ways
to reach & find me. Desperate. You call,
I answer. Simple. Everyone else has one.
Please?”
“Can I get a new computer? One that works,
one that isn’t built for giants. A laptop even?
I’ll get better grades; I’ll teach you both
how the Internet works. Lead you straight
to the technological future. You can trust me.”
“Can I get all new clothes? Seriously?
All my outfits are from Goodwill,
someone else’s good time. Me,
I’m stuck in vintage, secondhand.
Can we go to the mall?
A real store?
Anything?”
“And last but not least. Can I wear makeup?
Mascara? Lip balm? Eyeliner? I watched
a tutorial.
YouTube showed me the techniques.
They promise I will look fresh
and hip and young. How about
a highlighting stick?
Anything to give me just a little
cover-up. Before I’m completely
exposed in the seventh grade? Help me?
Please?”
Neither of Them Listens
This is what they have in common.
A shared interest in ignoring my wants & needs.
My heart’s every desire (I read that in a book).
My heart wants to be connected to the world.
My heart wants to prove I’m getting older.
My heart wants my face to look thirteen.
My heart wants a freakin’ personal computer
where I can google to my heart’s delight.
My heart wants a cell phone so I can text
Mariella & StaceyAnn heart emojis
when I really, really, really love something.
My heart understands that I will die
if I can’t get some privacy & space.
Mamaw Says
“No seventh grader needs a mobile device.”
Old-fashioned.
Doesn’t even call it a cell phone, God forbid.
“What you need is some strong letter-writing skills,
penmanship, a solid cursive curl to your letter ‘B.’
Sharp pencils, smooth pens, sturdy stationary.”
Too bad my eyes can’t roll into my head,
’cause I roll them so hard, they almost disappear.
Mamaw snaps back. Says, “Don’t act so smart;
you young people think you know it all. But you
are just getting started. Brand new in the world.”
I sigh. Know I’ll never win when she gets going.
She might be old, but she’s fast. Quick skilled
& always has an answer to all my arguments.
Most times, I know she’s right.
But Lately, I Want
everything I can’t have. A crush to crush back;
shiny, smooth hair; no pimples preparing to pop;
the cool girls to invite me to their parties; parties
in general; to have a first kiss that’s not awkward
or sloppy or gross. To have a first kiss at all. To start
my period already so I don’t have to wait for disaster
or have it be a disaster. But most of all, I want a phone.
Ways to communicate with the outside world. More so,
though, a way to distract myself from all the things
I want but somehow can’t seem to have.
What My Mom Can’t Afford
The pair of fancy jeans I saw at the mall.
They’re so cool, they don’t even have a brand name.
Mariella says that’s luxury & I agree.
A new computer.
Instead, I’m busy click-clacking
on an old desktop that’s as big as Mars
& sits in the hallway for the whole block to see
what I’m looking up.
A new phone. Oh! Any ol’ phone at all for that matter.
A new car. It’d be super awesome to not show on up
everywhere in a beat-up ol’ brown station wagon.
She can’t afford avocados every week.
You know in some places they grow on trees,
but in landlocked Kentucky, they’re three dollars a pop.
Yawn is what I think but don’t say out loud.
Soda, since she says,
“I’m not paying hard-earned money for your teeth to rot
right out of your sweet little mouth.”
She can’t afford big family vacations to far-flung
destinations (I read the term “far-flung destination”
in a travel magazine at school & I like the sound of it).
I’ve never been anywhere.
Never even been on an airplane before.
“Saving for the future,” is what she says.
“College or bust,” is what she says.
“You wanna travel the world so badly, then you better
get a part-time job or start reading all them books
like Mamaw does.”
“New, new, new, new, all you ever want is new,”
my mom says, & it’s not that I always want new.
It’s just that I’m tired of always trying to pretend
I’m satisfied with old.
Questions for Dad
What were you like when you were twelve
on the way to thirteen? Mamaw says “rowdy,”
“raucous,” “renegade” would describe you.
Tells it you were accelerated, raced
your motorbike on country roads, dust
in your tracks. Loved dancing & singing.
Tried anything, tried it twice.
Your voice is an echo
I can sometimes hear in my dreams.
Do you miss me? Do you wish
you could see me? Almost a teenager?
Sometimes I wake after seeing you in my sleep.
Heavy with missing you.
Someone I didn’t even know.
Why did you have to leave so soon?
Mamaw says she sees you in me. My drawl,
the wave of my hair. Says I have your smile
& eyes. “Spitting image” is what she says,
holding me to her. If there’s a heaven,
& you’re up in it, does it ache to watch me
grow up without you? & if there’s not one,
then I think of you in Mamaw’s garden,
blooming each summer. A peony folding
out over & over—peeling awake beside us
in our own backyard.
Ways to Disappear
Call StaceyAnn.
Call Mariella
from your LANDLINE!
Tell them you are worried
your mom & mamaw
are trying to keep you
a kid forever. Whine
as quietly as possible
in the kitchen, since you
are on a LANDLINE.
Old, clunky phone
connected to the wall
& available for everyone
to witness.
Whisper: Save me!
Someone, anyone,
pick me up. Seriously.
Need an exit plan.
A getaway. Drive
in the country? Elizabethtown?
Louisville? Lexington?
Ask one of your reasonable
family members to help me!
Pick me up
& take me
away!
Bluegrass Diner
is the absolute best. & here are the reasons why.
1. It’s StaceyAnn’s dad’s favorite spot. He loves
the coffee with extra cream & three sugars,
& if we beg enough, he’ll take us on his day off.
Paradise.
2. Waffles are delicious, especially when they’re full
of pecans & covered in butter & syrup.
& best of all, Mariella always splits hers with me.
Perfection.
3. Salty pickles on my egg & cheese sandwich.
My favorite waitress gives me an extra plateful
for free.
4. Hash browns loaded with sweet onions
& drenched in American cheese. Glorious.
5. StaceyAnn puts three pieces of bacon in her grits,
but the order comes with four.
Who do you think gets the extra bacon?
Me. Yes!
6. Everything else. The talking. Laughing.
Sharing soda & hot chocolate. Sweet & salty.
Both at once. Sometimes life is so delicious,
it feels like I can eat & eat & eat & never get full.
Singing Sisters
Sometimes StaceyAnn’s dad let
s us roll the windows
all the way down & turn the radio all the way up.
His regular job is in construction, but his side jobs
include: musician, carpenter, mechanic & car DJ.
I always imagine him & my dad woulda been the best
of friends. He raises the volume, & we let the sweet-
smelling Kentucky air wrap & curl around us. Our voices
thundering & strong. We throw our arms up, shake
& dance in our seats. We let loose. In the back seat,
Mariella throws her arm around my shoulders, pulls
me in close. StaceyAnn looks behind from the front
& we all laugh, sing so loud that we shake the trees
& hillsides with the sound of our song. Let the whole
dang town & county & state know we’re here,
know we exist. & we’re ready for the seventh grade.
Period
Not the punctuation.
The real deal.
The menstruation station.
Worst word ever.
My body cramps.
My back aches.
Not ready yet.
Thought I was.
But still scared.
Even more so.
Everything’s always changing.
Moving too fast.
School starts soon.
Tampons & pads arrive.
Too much talking.
My brain hurts.
I’m constantly embarrassed.
Too much attention.
My body exists.
And it’s awkward.
And also uncomfortable.
I wanted this.
I really did.
I was ready.
Now I’m not.
Can’t go back now.
Full speed ahead.
That’s what Mamaw says.
Mom starts crying.
Mamaw starts celebrating.
Makes me tea.
Extra honey everything.
Heating pad placed.
