by Ellen Hagan
“We got it. Cool,” I say again, knowing neither
of us cares a lick. Just want StaceyAnn to know
she’s our social misfit no matter what.
“I have a crush on Malik,” Mariella says.
“And he doesn’t even know my name.
Or that I even exist. We’re in this together.”
I don’t tell them I’ve been day & night dreaming
about Rodney Murphy & the way his hair
swoops across his forehead. I even like
his braces & green rubber bands. His comic-
book T-shirts & his eyebrows that lift up
in a question every time he looks at the board.
Figure I’ve had enough scoring today
& don’t want to find out I’m last place
in the crush department too.
One More Thing
“My mom met someone,” I say.
“Awesome,” StaceyAnn says.
“That’s sooo cool,” Mariella adds.
“Is he nice? Is he cute?
What’s his name?”
“We hate him,” I say.
They both look shocked.
“Okay, okay, we don’t hate him,
but we really, really, really
don’t like him. Like, at all.
And to top it off, she’s going
away with him.”
“She’s moving?” Mariella asks.
“No, no, like for the weekend.
And leaving us on our own.”
“I think you gotta stay open-minded.
Let her go. Besides, no one’s ever
good enough for the people you love,”
StaceyAnn says, her logic
taking center stage.
She’s right. I know she is.
“You should be happy for her.”
“I know, I know.”
Then why do I still feel like
the biggest loser on the planet
for being sad
about my mom’s happiness?
Reasons a Rating System Sucks
Mostly because if someone
gets a 10, then someone
else is definitely
gonna
get
a
1
Rodney Is More than Okay
& here are the reasons why.
He gets super psyched to talk superheroes,
& it’s true I love a good save-the-world story.
High flying, death defying, gravity rising.
& it’s not just the dudes he’s into, although
Miles Morales is his ultimate. & of course
your usuals. Spider-Man, Batman & Green Lantern,
the Flash. But most of all, we deep dive for Katana
& Poison Ivy. Unexpected dialogue, deciding
what Wonder Woman will do next. Starfire
& Bumblebee. Why there aren’t more movies
with the leads we want to see. He asks me,
“Have you ever been to the Great Escape? Comic
book nirvana?” And although the answer’s no,
I feel like sitting beside Rodney & finding out
his favorite origin story is a kind of dreamland
not unlike a store covered wall-to-wall
with caped crusaders at the ready for rescue.
After School
Mariella, StaceyAnn & I cruise downtown.
Cut across backyards, skip through town,
head straight to Hurst for piling ice-cream cones.
It’s October but still warm enough for sweetness,
so we order up our usual. Butter pecan for Mariella.
Strawberry shortcake for StaceyAnn & double
chocolate chunk for me. Two scoops. I’m not scared
of brain freeze or getting full too fast. This is late-fall
tradition. “Let’s go to the park to swing,” Mariella says,
leading the way. Sometimes I feel all grown-up,
& sometimes I feel like I could be a kid forever.
That’s how I feel today as we run ahead, slurping
& shouting. Free & wild.
Then We See Them & Everything Changes
We get almost to the corner when they show up.
Lucas, Liam & Rodney. Crew of boys I wish didn’t exist.
Except Rodney, who smiles with his whole mouth
& laughs at most of my jokes.
I don’t know what happens,
but when I see them, I freeze, my whole body
an ice cube, but not the cool kind. Evaporating.
“Hey,” StaceyAnn calls out.
“Nooo,” I say, shove her arm & throw my favorite flavor
in the alley behind us.
“What are you doing?” Mariella asks,
her face a question mark.
When the boys arrive,
I’m the only one empty-handed.
“Hey,” Lucas says.
“Hey,” Liam says.
“Cool,” Rodney says, pointing to their cones.
“None for you?” he says, tilts his head.
I scrunch my face. “Nah. I don’t really like ice cream.”
I lie …
something I’ve started to get good at doing.
Shame finds its way down the back of my neck
& to my cheeks.
“Too bad,” Rodney says. “I love it.”
“Bye,” Lucas says.
“Bye,” Liam says.
“Bye,” I call
but realize no sound comes out at all.
Melting
That’s how I feel when they walk away. “What was that?”
Mariella & StaceyAnn look at me, their eyes wide open.
“Chocolate chunk is your favorite,” they say.
“Two whole scoops gone,” they say.
I look behind me, my cone dripping into concrete.
Sweetness seeping silently away. I slump. Slouch.
Can’t think of a good enough excuse. Can’t say: “Rodney
makes me warm all over.” Sweating in fall.
& me wanting to be cool makes me break out in hives.
Cool girls don’t eat ice cream & play at the stupid park.
They lean & hang. Like laundry. Fresh & clean.
They’re smooth. They don’t act like babies.
They know all the right things to say & do.
& chocolate chunk ice cream is most definitely
not on the list.
“It slipped,” I say, and even though I know
they don’t believe me,
they don’t ask me any more questions.
Sometimes I Pretend I’m Dying
Deathbed Beatrice, last leg of hope,
descending this world cloaked & solemn
in a hospital bed. & the whole seventh grade
takes a big yellow school bus
zooming all the way down I-65
to see me—their eyes swollen with tears.
Weeping & wailing.
My condition is so bad,
they keep me quarantined from others
in a fancy room on the top floor.
I don’t call it a penthouse …
but that’s what it is.
& all the doctors scurry around with worry,
racking their brains to discover what ails me.
& the sickness has made my skin totally clear up
& made my hair shine-tastic
so that even though I’m headed to the grave,
I look AMAZING.
& Lucas cries harder than anyone.
So sorry he crushed my feelings.
So do the Top-10 Girls.
Distraught, they tell me how much they’ve always
loved me.
So does Rodney, who professes his undying crush
on ME—in front of everyone.
& the teachers!
They give speeches about my leadership skills,
my brilliant
mind & mostly my heart,
& if I wasn’t so weak,
I’d hold them all,
but alas … I’m dying.
And then—as if a miracle.
I somehow—against all the odds,
& in direct contrast to my desperate diagnosis,
survive.
Beatrice as Everything She’s Not & Everything She Wants to Be
Today our poetry teacher, Ms. Berry,
does self-portrait poems.
She is all the time telling us:
“You young people love the look of yourselves.
You love to ooohhh and aaahhhh
for the camera’s spotlight.
So now it’s time to turn those selfies
into perfectly prized poems. Word?”
She’s all the time talking in the nineties—
the generation when she grew up.
“Aka the greatest generation,” Ms. Berry says.
“Reverse the camera. Show me who you are.
Selfie poem yourselves.”
It’s easy for her, with her glowing brown skin,
perfectly arched eyebrows & short twists.
She’s always saying it’s her vegan lifestyle
& exercise that keeps her outside shining.
She sounds just exactly like Mamaw.
So I give it my best shot.
Beatrice swimming freestyle, so fast you can’t see her
Beatrice with her hands piled into dirt in her backyard.
Beatrice rocking back & forth on her porch swing,
her mamaw’s fingers running through her hair.
Beatrice curled close to her mother in bed,
no nightmares, just dreams, just breathing.
Beatrice on her cool orange cruiser.
Not athletic enough for a ten-speed,
not cool enough for a BMX trick bike.
Beatrice in lotus pose with her mamaw,
who is yoga-ing it out.
Beatrice sometimes crying so hard, she can’t even
catch her breath & heaving & heaving
& the Oh My God of it all. Thinking of her mom
& the life she might lead without her mamaw.
Wishing everything could all stay the same,
no change, nothing new. Just stand perfectly still.
Beatrice smiling so hard, her teeth hurt
& eating loads of cheese puffs & downing coffee
with milk & extra sugar.
Beatrice swimming laps at the city pool,
chlorine haze with StaceyAnn & Mariella.
Beatrice laughing until Sprite spills from her nose.
Beatrice hiding under her sheets.
A ghost.
Beatrice sometimes wishing
she could disappear
into thin air.
Beatrice as Superstar
All day I’m trying to be vibrant
& grounded. Planted & growing.
Trying to manage Mom & Mamaw,
my old friends & my new friends
all at the same time. & I feel like
I’m tripping, stumbling into things,
can’t get my footing just right.
Chest feeling like a firecracker.
Trying to pretend one moment
& trying to be real the next.
Sometimes it feels like I’m playing
the part of good daughter
& thoughtful granddaughter
& solid friend
but lately my performance
feels like it’s unraveling.
Ode to Afternoons Alone
If I can get straight home before Mamaw
ends her shift & comes in aching to talk,
& before Mom gets home from errands
& wants to know my whole life story.
If I can enter the house in silence.
Heaven. & my whole afternoon gets lifted.
& for an hour, or even two,
I am no longer
Beatrice Miller: Zit Queen
Beatrice Miller: Pariah of the Seventh Grade
Beatrice Miller: Big Head
Beatrice Miller: No Boobs.
I am
Beatrice Miller: Unstoppable
Beatrice Miller: Voted Most Popular + Most Beautiful
+ Most Likely to End Climate Change + Save the World
Beatrice Miller: Perfect-Size Head
Beatrice Miller: Bra wearer.
Sometimes I throw off all my school clothes
& dress up or down. Tank tops
or frilly dresses & I turn up the stereo (yes,
we still have a stereo, since Mamaw thinks
those electronic devices you talk to
try to read your brain—I think she’s kidding
but I’m not 100 percent sure). So I turn
it all the way up & dance wild around
our house, make miserable amounts
of Kraft mac & cheese. The kind Mamaw
refuses to let me have but Mom stashes
in the garage for when we need it most.
Junk food & sugar highs are necessary
some of the time. & I throw on the TV,
kick my feet up on the couch & pretend
the whole wide world is mine.
When No One Else Is Watching
I transform. Not caterpillar
to butterfly. Or kid to adult.
No metamorphosis for me.
Just me—but way better.
Perfect all my dance moves.
The mirror shows me back
to myself & I look gooooooood.
Get all the steps exactly right.
Sway & dip & rock to the side.
Master the slow groove, slide
& jump back & in again. All
the moves I need, I got ’em.
The freshest, the flyest, most
coolest on the block, in town,
on the planet. I’m magnetic;
people are drawn to me. Pop-
ular is what I am when I reflect
back to me. Real & known
& talked about (in a good way).
People see me & flock right
to me. & I know exactly
what to say & how to act
when they arrive.
Searching for Me
Or what it means to be myself, to land.
Today I miss my dad & the way it could have been.
I miss a past I never even knew existed.
Wondering when my life will feel normal.
Oh time. Oh moon that keeps stretching.
Oh sky & pain. Oh mood & disaster.
Oh wishing you alive. Oh breath & time.
Oh ache of muscle. Oh the way you love.
Oh goodbye. Oh sunlight & plants & oxygen.
Oh swing set on a night of sunsets & planets.
Oh planet of my lungs & heart.
Oh blanket of blessings & maple trees
& magnolia & black oak
& all the ways to say I’m needy
& I’m needing. & I need you.
& I’m lost. & there’s more world
than you can even imagine.
& it’s all there waiting
for me to figure it out.
Voices That Carry Me
Maybe it’s because it’s just Mamaw, Mom & me.
& their voices feel like song most times. Comforting
& warm. Have always held me close by. Maybe
because their voices are birds & wings & take flight
& fly me home. & most of all. Sound like home.
Could be that’s the reason Lucas & Mr. Brady
sound plain old wrong. Disrupt & clunky & cluttered.
I’ll speak for … What Beatrice was trying to say … Oh!
What Beatrice meant by that was … She didn’t mean …
Sometimes their voices feel like stoplights & stop
signs. Blaring red. They sound like sirens some-
times. Slick s
urrounding me. Silencing me. Too
much & too loud & swamp-like. Overwhelm
& exhaust. Tumbling over me & what I mean.
Mamaw says my dad sounded like wind chimes
& felt like soft breezes on your face swinging in
from the porch. All soothing-like & calm. Says,
“He woulda adored your voice. Held it up high & proud,
shone his love fast & strong on it. Showed it off.
That I can promise you.”
Too bad I never heard it in real time.
While he was still alive & mine.
What They Want
Mom wants me dressed up,
skirts & tops, feminine or frilly.
She wants me to look like her
but smaller.
TV shows want me to know it all,
but not say too much. They want
me bossy & aggressive,
but not too much or too loud.
They like to see me from far away.
Sometimes they want me on mute.
The volume all the way down.
Magazines want my imperfections
trimmed up. Legs & armpits shaved
but all the hair in the world on my head.
They use words like “proportional,”
“healthy,” “energetic,” “the right size for me.”
The mall wants me crop topped
& flowery. Flowing & dressed.
They want my belly to show
but only if it’s firm & smooth.
100 percent they think they are right.
Want me to work for it.
Promise foundation will disappear
my actual face.
The acne all over it.
Disappear pimples & the way I turn red
when Rodney appears.
The makeup counter
has me thinking lip gloss
will guarantee my smile,
be brighter, better, more
welcoming, that I’ll get
