Reckless, Glorious, Girl
Page 12
the ones I so wanted to fit in with just days ago.
What We Do
We sail through the crowds.
Order up fries & hot dogs,
grilled burgers with cheese.
Baked is open
& Mamaw is outside in an apron
covered with chocolate sauce
& hot-pink flamingos.
Sunglasses in the shape of martini glasses
perched on her head,
she waves us over,
hands out cherry brownie bars,
introduces herself to everyone
by singing their names.
I roll my eyes fully this time.
Make sure she can see me.
Chloe & Brianna claim space.
Dance through the streets.
I pretend to be that free.
“Let’s play truth or dare,” they say
& dare me first.
Say how easy it is to take whatever you want
from the stalls. Declare they stole
all they wanted last year.
After being at Chloe’s house, I can’t imagine
she would ever want anything
she doesn’t already have.
Beatrice, We Dare You
My face is flushed when they point to the jewelry stand.
Bluegrass Baubles is what it’s called, layered with ruby
rings & necklaces full of rhinestones & colorful beads.
I think about Mamaw & Mom & how they’d see me now,
making conversation, fake laughing & running my
fingers slowly over the glass & gold.
Gems I couldn’t afford even if I wanted to.
When the owner helps someone else,
I quickly pull two chunky bands into my palm.
Hold tight
& slide my hand into the tight pocket of my jeans.
“Thanks so much,” I call over my shoulder,
speed walking to the group,
who is doubled over at my boldness.
I did it, I mouth to them, hot with excitement & shame.
They smile, tell me they knew I could do it.
“You’re one of us now,” they say
as I slide both rings onto my fingers.
Slumber Party Drama
Later that night, everyone arrives.
& by everyone, I mean Chloe, Brianna,
Olivia, Eliza, Ebony, Jessica
& of course—me. We hang out upstairs.
Chloe’s room (floor) is as big as my whole
house. Her bathroom is a palace unto itself.
Bathtub, separate shower, double sinks.
I am lost in a trance.
It’s as if her parents don’t exist. They stay
silent. Nod hello & then disappear.
Her older sister is in charge tonight.
She’s in the eleventh grade & has pink hair.
I love Chloe’s life so much, I can’t stand it.
They order us pizza & we turn the TV on,
play YouTube videos on her iPad,
start texting & Snapchatting all at the same
exact time. I pretend I left my devices at home.
I’m dizzy with excitement.
When the doorbell rings two hours later
& Rodney, Noah, Liam & Malik show up,
I am dying. For real. Wish I had a phone
so I could text Mariella & StaceyAnn an SOS!
Send
Help
Fast
Spin the Bottle
Eliza says, closing the door to the basement.
We’ve moved floors & are now downstairs,
giant movie-screen TV, pool & Ping-Pong table
& no adult anywhere to be found. I want to be
here but want to be home at the same exact time.
I didn’t even realize Spin the Bottle was real
or that anyone really played it anymore.
Check my breath in my hand & straighten my hair.
“Scared?” Eliza wants to know, looking us all over.
She’s not, that is for sure.
The boys laugh. We make a circle, all of us giddy.
Brianna brings an empty Coke bottle.
“Here are the rules,” Eliza says. “The girls spin first.
First boy it lands on goes to the bedroom with them.”
“Five minutes in heaven,” Ebony says & laughs. I wonder
how she would feel if StaceyAnn were here. I wish
StaceyAnn & Mariella were here.
I’ve never even been close up enough to smell a boy.
Yuck, my whole existence so far is immature. That
is about to change. I raise my hand (what am I doing?).
“I’ll go first,” I say, proving how brave I am.
Grab the bottle & give it a turn. It weaves & dances,
lands on Liam.
Liam Hawkins looks up, clearly excited to be first.
The same height as Mariella, he’s teased almost as much
as she is. He smiles in my direction, says “let’s go”
& walks with me to the bedroom. They all
ooohhhhh & aaahhhhh & awwwww& whoaaaaa.
Questions
How does kissing work?
Who leans in first?
Is it all breath & no breathing?
Or all breathing & no air?
How do I oxygenate?
What is oxygen anyway?
If I don’t breathe, how long until I pass out?
Is it possible to look cool while passing out?
What if my breath is a disaster?
Did I eat garlic last night?
Did I eat onions last night?
Who makes the first move?
Do I lean in and smile?
Does he?
Tongue or no tongue?
How is that decided?
& then if our tongues meet,
what do you do with them then?
Movement or no movement?
Breath or breathless?
Breathe or breathing?
Liam + Beatrice = K-I-S-S-I-N-G
We get to the bedroom,
close the door,
stand opposite each other
& stare.
Awwwkkkwardddd.
Liam wears his hair in a ponytail
that rivals Mariella’s.
Puts it up, takes it down.
He smiles at me again.
“I’ve never kissed anyone,” he says.
“Me neither.”
Silence.
“Spin the Bottle is so stupid,” he says.
I know. This whole night
is not the way
I thought it would be.
“Should we kiss anyway?” he asks,
all of a sudden braver than me.
Silence.
Awkward.
Staring.
“I have a crush on Rodney,”
I say,
surprising both myself & Liam.
“Sorry.
But don’t tell,” I add.
“It’s cool,” Liam says.
“I have a crush on Amy.”
“Chloe’s sister?!”
“Yeah, she’s only four years older.
Most women like younger men,”
he says, smiling wider.
“Actually, I don’t really like
anyone like that.
Not yet at least.
Kissing can wait,” he says.
And then: “Rodney is awesome.”
“Yeah, I think so too.”
Five Minutes Later
We walk out to cheering.
High fives & whoops & hollers.
Did you kiss?
Did you like it?
Tell us everything?
They’ve already moved on,
ready to play flashlight tag
or jump on the trampoline.
Down soda, play board games,
watch movies
.
This game is a joke anyway.
“We didn’t,” I say.
“Nah,” Liam says.
“Scared,” Eliza says,
giggling now.
“Beatrice Miller, I like you.
You’re just as crazy as your granny.”
She’s joking too.
But this time,
I know it’s not funny.
Mamaw Is a Character
I know it. Mom sure knows it,
since we’ve been living with her for twelve years now,
& Dad definitely knew it, being her only kid.
& I’ll bet he got so many Mamaw-isms,
he could hardly handle it.
’Course, Papaw knew it too,
having been her only love for so long.
So we know. We all know.
Been knowing it our whole lives,
so it’s all good to say Mamaw has gone 100 percent
bonkers riding her hot-pink scooter
from the house to Baked,
her portable radio blaring beside her.
Or, oh, there goes Mamaw again in gold pants,
her hair rising like a steeple
from the tip-top of her head.
Carrying on with what she calls her gal pals.
Hooting & hollering to town.
We know she’s kooky & wily. Her words & sayings.
& that she dances when she’s s’posed to be sitting,
cuts up when it’s serious. Cool. We get it.
It’s when other people say so that I start to get angry.
So when Eliza says,
“Yeah, your grandmother is CRAZY,”
I don’t know, but something snaps loose inside me.
Because the word “crazy” is not a cool word,
or a kind one,
or a funny one.
It’s just plain old mean.
& all of a sudden, I get it.
I’m so tired of being surrounded by so much stuck up—
& think maybe they are too.
I resist the urge to sock Eliza in her perfectly
contact-lensed blue eye & pull my arm all the way back.
But even after knowing I should walk away, I stay.
Instead of speaking up for Mamaw, I laugh right along.
Say, “Yeah, she’s totally out of it. So weird and kooky,”
hating myself for not sticking up for her.
Inside, I am aching, wish I could say how I really feel.
I want to say—“She’s not my grandmother;
she’s my mamaw, and the only one I’ve ever known.
I love all of her. & I’d never call her crazy.
I’d never use that word on anyone—or use it to put
anyone down. And I’ve got way more stories
from living my life with her than you’ll probably
ever have. I’m really lucky she’s mine.”
Instead I just stay silent—laughing the loudest
right along with them.
Tag
The tears are hot & exhausted
when they wash down my face.
“Feel like I’ve been crying forever,”
I say to no one & the hills. Let out
a sigh. My stomach feels full
of salty pepperoni pizza & doubt.
The way a night can change
from perfect to disaster
in a second’s time. One blink,
a breath let out. My skin is cold
against the dew. Is flashlight tag
really a game if you don’t get caught?
If no one ever even finds you?
My legs feel gummy, achy even,
as if I’ve been running, been chased,
& let’s be clear. I have not been.
I come to the neighborhood’s end.
The streetlight centers a spotlight
until I realize it’s the glow of a flashlight.
& standing behind the shine is Rodney.
You’re It
His face is lit up & glowing. “Oh,”
I say, internally kicking myself.
Why can’t I ever say the right things?
“You’re it,”
he says, and just when I think:
Game
Over
he stops. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Why is he always asking that?
Why am I always not okay?
Getting closer, his flashlight warm
on my skin. “No,” I say, wiping my eyes
& trying to keep my head low.
“Yeah, this game sucks,” he says,
walking my way & sitting beside me,
sharing space on the edge of the driveway.
The air is too cold for this game.
“I can’t go back there,” I say suddenly,
surprising myself & Rodney, who looks up
fully, nothing else to distract him.
No computer or phone—nothing lighting
his face besides his flashlight. Just me,
& maybe he can see right through.
What Rodney Says
“I feel that way sometimes too.
Like I don’t belong. None of us
really does. Least. That’s how I feel.”
& even though I still feel alone,
it’s like there’s someone with me,
right beside me. Because there is.
Scared & unknown. Outside
of the inside circle. Sometimes.
But tonight. That feels all right.
We Stay Talking
For what feels like forever.
I’m wishing we could go back,
spin the bottle one more time.
I’d like another chance.
I say:
“Seventh grade is harder than I thought.
Being twelve is harder than I thought.
My birthday is next weekend.
My mamaw is taking me to a hotel for the night,
so at least there’s that to look forward to.
Do you think thirteen will be better?”
He says:
“Seventh grade is not as bad as sixth grade.
My birthday was over the summer.
I’m already thirteen.
It’s pretty much the same.”
We both start to laugh,
& just like that, we’re in the same boat
together—both of us just drifting along.
The Next Day
Keep my secrets
close beside me
Spin the Bottle
Stealing the rings
Crying the tears
Laughing at Mamaw
Laughing at me
In the past
Hug Mamaw hard
Hide the truth
Almost thirteen now
Horizon is clear
Don’t tell anyone
Your true self
Rearview mirror
Fancy Hotel Birthday Weekend
It’s a tradition since I was ten
& asked Mom & Mamaw
if we could go to the Bluegrass Inn
to sleep in silky sheets in big ol’
king-size beds, order room service
& play tag in the heated indoor pool.
We usually stay only one night
& savor as much as we possibly can,
treat ourselves to snacks & games
& endless cable TV. But this time,
Mamaw said she splurged
& we could stay the whole weekend.
Just the two of us on Friday night
& then Mom arriving on Saturday
after her shift. At least one night
where we can all kick back & relax
together.
I try to make all the plans. Excited
for the hour-long drive, radio on,
hot-tub jets & jumping from cold
to hot over & over again. Loads
of soda, salty snacks & every treat
you can imagine. This weekend
is supposed to be the best one ever.
Turning thirteen—almost a woman.
But my stomach turns, thinking
& spinning about the Beatrice
I showed off to my new friends.
It didn’t seem like me at all.
Ashamed of what I did to prove myself.
Try to stop my mind from racing,
push it away. Keep pretending,
keep it all tucked safe inside,
keep making believe
I know exactly what I’m doing.
Hotel Pools
“Underwater is not just weightless, it’s divine.”
That’s a Mamaw word if I ever heard one.
She uses it to describe her corn bread with honey,
her maple-bacon cupcakes, or the sweet time
she gets alone at home when Mom & I leave
her peace & quiet. That’s how I feel now.
Fall break, birthday weekend. Vacation swim
is my favorite kind. The smell of chlorine.
Hazy & thick with steam.
Mamaw calls directions.
Dive, handstand, backstroke, freestyle, splits, cannonball.
She sits in the hot tub with me. Leans way back
& sighs. “This is the life,” she sings. & she’s right.
Without my goggles, I can’t see the world
around me is a drifting mystery. No shapes
or hard angles. Just floating, just free.
Order Up
Mamaw says after the microwave beeps. Hot
Kraft macaroni & cheese bubbles to the top.
She stays slicing bologna into squares for me,
laying on top of saltine crackers doused in Louisiana
hot sauce. Cracks open the plastic of American
cheese. Salty goodness. So much savory sodium,
she says, she’ll wake up with swollen hands.
“Not a care,” Mamaw says, buttering her bread.