by Monroe, Anya
“No, it’s cool. I’m just you know, going through stuff.”
I point to the journals scattered
around the bed
wondering where this conversation is headed.
She sits down next to me
breathing out gently.
“Louisa, I don’t know if you had a chance to see that list of intentions on the fridge?”
I nod my head up and down, slow enough
to let her know
in no uncertain terms that I had.
“You have? Well do you have any questions about them?”
I shake my head no
instinctively.
Like, before I think I automatically
choose
No.
“You don’t?”
She sounds surprised
or like
she knows
I’m full of bullshit.
“Nope. It seems like you have a plan. That’s cool Ms. F.”
My heart says, Just ask her what it means.
But my head says, Shut it down.
My head wins.
I’m a scaredy-cat
afraid of my own shadow
because shadows don’t lie.
“Okay. Look, Louisa, I can’t force you to have a conversation with me. I can’t make you want to open up and ask questions. But this is your life. Your life. Nobody else’s. So, if you want to know what’s happening with your life you need to use your words. You need to ask the questions. The hard ones. I’m not going to be the one to bring it up again.”
She’s mad.
It’s like she wants to stay calm
and she is trying so hard
and I know me not talking is
driving her crazy.
I don’t want to do that to her
the going crazy part
but it’s impossible to do what she wants.
ASK.
Because I’m so scared of
what the answers
might be.
149.
School’s so much better with Jess
around. She helps me feel
grounded.
I’d been in a time
warp, on auto-repeat
everyday.
But with her,
I can laugh and roll my eyes and put on
lip-gloss in the bathroom
without feeling like a
robotical machine.
She must have told Markus something about the
Lou-Intervention
because he is being nicer to me.
I catch him looking at me…
softer?
I don’t know all that she knows
so I don’t know all that she told
but somehow him knowing about me…my past…
makes him less like a
dickhead-douche-bag-ass
and more like a person who’s looking out for me
wanting to protect me.
When a guy walked by me
in the cafeteria and looked at me
like that
Markus stood up and said, “Stop looking at her tits, man.”
Causing the guy to put his hands up
and walk away, fast.
Jess and I just looked at each other and got red
in the face
and started to laugh.
Because I didn’t know how to say thank you.
Because I knew laughing would stop me from crying.
Because that was the first time
in a forever time
that a guy
has protected me from being an
Object
for someone else.
And Markus will never know
how him doing that made me feel.
It made me feel more than
I did
before.
And that doesn’t happen everyday.
150.
The 6-Spot is closing up
for the night. I like this part of my job
when things are quiet
and still
counter wiped clean and
floors swept.
Till closed and merchandise put where
it’s kept.
I want my insides
to feel like the 6-Spot
at the end of the day.
Washed clean.
Margot’s with me. She has the keys and locks the
door, alarm system set and we leave.
My backpack slung over my shoulder
her bag hitting her hips when she moves.
We have been working well together
in our own little groove.
We get in her car since
she’s driving me home.
Ms. Francine is working late.
Margot doing her duty to get me back safe.
She looks over at me as we drive down the
perpetual slush filled street.
“So.” She says this single word in a way that tells
me there is a lot more coming.
“What?” I say. It’s been a long day.
“Look, Louisa. I haven’t had a chance to talk with you since last week and the…the….”
She’s looking for the word.
“The Lou-intervention?” I offer up. “That’s what Jess named it.”
“So you and Jess are cool again?”
“Yeah. We’re cool.”
“What does she know. Like, about your story?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. She knows whatever you guys told her.”
“Don’t you want to talk to her about it? That’s some pretty big stuff to find out about your best friend.”
“I don’t really want to talk to anyone about it.”
“That’s a bummer.”
I take her bait.
“Why’s it a bummer?” I ask.
“Well, I just heard about a poetry competition and thought you might be interested. But I guess not.”
“What is it?”
Not that I care.
But I do care.
Poetry is the only thing
anyone has ever pointed out
definitively
and said
YOU ARE GOOD AT THIS.
And that was Margot.
And now she’s holding out
on me.
“It’s a Young Poet’s Slam. Being held at the same place you saw me at on New Years. It’s a yearly competition. But you wouldn’t care because slam poetry is all about honesty. About vulnerability. If you won’t talk to your best friend about this big stuff, you probably aren’t going to be able to do that with strangers.”
Let me take a second and say
on the record
that I like Margot
she’s cool and all
got me a job, is helping me land
on my own two feet.
But I
reallyreallyreally
hate it
when adults
do this reverse psychology bullshit on
teenagers.
Like, COME ON.
“You’re probably right,” I say.
I blow her off.
She was so thinking she had
reeled me
in.
We pull up to the house.
I open the door.
“Wait. Louisa, if you change your mind, here’s the flyer.”
“Thanks,” I say.
And I mean it.
151.
The house is as quiet as the record store was at closing.
I turn the lights on
sit at the kitchen table
and wonder if
Margot might
be right.
About being vulnerable and honest and that I should
talk to Jess.
God.
I go to the cupboard and get out a mug.
Put in a packet of hot cocoa mix and warm it
in t
he microwave.
Thirty-five seconds is all it takes for it to turn
from a cold cup of powder
to something warm and
sweet.
Nothing like me.
Apparently
I take a lot longer to warm up.
I’ve known Jess for a year now
and in that time we’ve colored one another’s hair
countless times.
We’ve decided to be guitar players (we sucked at that).
Decided we were gonna tour Europe with packs on our
backs
when we graduate.
She told me about the time she tried to run away
after her mom found her stash of pot.
She told me about her older brother
how he almost died
when he accidentally shot
his uncle’s gun.
She confided in me about Markus and the boys before him.
About the first time she had sex
when she was fourteen-years-old in the
back of a mini-van.
She trusted me with her dreams and her fears.
About the fact she’s scared she’ll
wind up here
in this town
forever.
About the fact that she thought she was pregnant
once and how she knew what she would do
if it was true.
It makes me wonder why she has stayed around with me
so long.
Why she never left when I wasn’t willing to
sing her my half of the song.
My story’s always been kept locked away.
I wonder if she’s just able to see through me
in ways I thought no one could.
Maybe I wasn’t ever hiding as well
as I thought
I stir my drink
till the marshmallows
melt and
the cocoa is cold.
I pour it down the sink.
152.
I forget about the flyer
from Margot for three days.
I’m digging through my backpack
trying to find enough change
to buy a Coke from the school vending machine
when I find it.
I smooth it out
I always seem to be smoothing
crinkled papers out.
But this isn’t about Benji right now
this is about me.
The flyer reads:
8th ANNUAL
YOUNG POETS’ SLAM COMPETITION
HELD AT DENACOURT STAGE
MARCH 5th, 7PM
CONTEST OPEN TO TEENS 13-18
TRADITIONAL SLAM COMPETITION RULES APPLY
PRIZES FOR 1st, 2nd and 3rd PLACE: GIFT CARDS TO
6-SPOT RECORDS
GRAND PRIZE WINNER RECEIVES:
-POEM PUBLISHED IN MAGAZINE
-SPRING BREAK WRITING COURSE WITH LOCAL POETS
SIGN UP TODAY!
I don’t want to be judged at all.
I put the paper back in my bag
and take the quarters I found in the bottom
stuffing them in the machine.
I get my Coke,
take a sip
and find myself pacing in the hall
wondering if being judged isn’t
the worst thing.
A part of me knows
I’ve already seenfeltlived
the worst thing.
Maybe this contest isn’t about being
judged at all.
Maybe it’s about stepping on stage
and breaking
free.
I toss the can
in the trash,
then reach in and pull it out,
depositing it
in the
recycling.
Ms. F’s habits have started to stick.
Maybe it’s time for me to
stop being
so stuck
in mine.
153.
Terry’s looking at me.
Expecting something from me.
I’m so ready to be free
from the same old routine.
“Louisa, we need to talk about how you want to move forward. This has been a big year for you, and I’d really like to see how I can help you get to where you would like to go.”
I stare at her, blankly.
“I know last week was overwhelming. So many people who wanted to share how much we value you. I want to hear how you’re doing, since that meeting at Ms. Francine’s.”
I breathe out, rub my eyes
with the palms of my hands
wanting her to understand
there was nothing to say.
“Louisa, in a lot of ways you’re a much stronger person than two years ago when we met. But in other ways you’re in a holding pattern, a stand still. Stuck. Do you know why?”
Rubbing my hand against my chin, I debate
and decide.
I have to say something to get
her off my
back.
“After that night, it’s like, impossible to just become a perfect person and not do the things everyone hates. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Louisa. I just want you to be happy, to be whole. Look, can we start over?”
I nod my head yes.
Anything to stop this weird conversation
where I don’t know
whichwaywhatthing
I’m supposed to
be.
“Louisa, tell me something about your day.”
My day.
How about that Jess told me her and Markus had sex
in the Home-Ec room during lunch.
Or that I forgot to bring PE clothes so I got a
red mark for not dressing down.
Maybe the fact that I fell asleep
when I was supposed to be learning about conjugating nouns.
No.
None of those will work.
“Um, Margot gave me this flyer…about a poetry thing.”
I hand her the paper from my bag.
She takes it
reads it
looks up.
“What do you think? Would you ever want to do something like this?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. Why, do you think I could?”
I know my insecurities are
shouting visible when I speak
that is why I prefer to maintain silence
inner peace
and quiet.
“I know you love to write,” Terry says. “You’ve told me that. And I know you spent years keeping journals. Do you write poetry in your journals?”
“Didn’t you look in my journals? Before you gave them back to me?”
“No.”
Terry half laughs and tilts her
head at me
squints her eyes
in surprise.
“Louisa, those are yours. You didn’t offer them to me to read.”
“Oh, I just thought. You know, like, I don’t know what I thought. Never mind.”
And once again I feel behind the times
because everyone seems to have
my back
these days
and it’s hard to understand
when your whole life has been about
being dealt a raw hand.
“I do write poetry. Or at least I did. I haven’t for a long time.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have anything to say anymore. It’s all, like, empty. My insides, I mean.”
“You know, Louisa, some people use writing as a way to process their emotions, to set them free. Everyone expressed their feelings differently. Some of it’s healthy, some not. That’s why some people eat if they’re unhappy, or drink if they’re angry. Or some people exercise to blow off steam, or play with their dog.”
&nbs
p; “Or like Benji, he tries to kill himself?” I say, quietly.
“In some ways, yes. Benji felt out of control and he felt like ending his life might be the way to get it back.”
“What do you do, Terry? To “process”?” I ask, using air quotes.
“I garden. It relaxes me. After a long day at work I love to go home and get my hands in the dirt, it soothes me.”
So Terry is a gardener.
That seems so normal
so…so…her.
I suppose Jess uses boys to let out her angst.
Ms. F uses baking and books.
Margot, well, she performs spoken word.
ME…
I usually wallow in victimized pity
as a way to avoid, simply…
Living.
154.
I spend my break at
6-Spot with my spiral notebook
propped on my knee
as I think about the way I see
things now
and how I saw them before
and if there is any way I could even
record
what’s behind me.
Terry told me at the end of our session
yesterday that I should try.
Just try to write some words and
see how it makes me feel.
If it makes me feel more real.
I write three sentences and scratch them out
believing that some things are
better kept
under wraps.
When I found my old journals all it did
