After the Kiss

by Terra Elan McVoy

that I am not there—maybe

  I smell too much

  like coffee and puke.

  A Very (Un)Valentine (with apologies to Gertrude Stein)

  Very not-fine is my valentine

  very not-fine and apparently not-mine.

  Very not-mine is my valentine very not-wanting-to-

  be-mine and very not-fine.

  Very not-fine is my valentine and not-mine,

  very not-fine very

  not-mine and not-(apparently)-mine is my valentine.

  Valentine’s Without You

  Serving swooning couples all night long—

  the wine and coffee poured

  in scarlet-and-truffle streams for them,

  their glasses glossed

  with the sugar of sizzling smiles, but

  my own chocolate center has filled up with poison,

  the roses he gave me all twisted black.

  He has decided to go out with friends

  while I have to work,

  covering for Nadia.

  Tonight her woozy eyes will close in bliss,

  her lips

  part in succulent kisses, caressed,

  while mine are clenched in all the things

  I’m trying to say to him

  but he won’t hear—

  too busy with everything he is doing without me,

  (It’s just a phase)

  too surrounded by faces that are not mine—

  those faux-friendly arms

  twining themselves around him,

  giving him something else

  to focus on for a change.

  My pillow is my only sodden comfort

  until a bleary two AM—his silly sloshing voice

  laughing,

  trying to say he loves me,

  wanting to know if he missed Valentine’s.

  My own voice chokes on anger he neither hears nor

  understands.

  Single girls weep today

  but those of us in love

  aren’t supposed to be crying too.

  Oh you stupid boy,

  you have missed everything.

  Camille

  choosy

  at the meat counter she points—not that chop but that one, not that filet but this. she is frown-lined and stern, difficult to wait on, difficult to understand. she pinches her purchases to her dragged-down bosom, clutches her keepsakes in her shawl. other people at the farmer’s market move around her, avoid her disapproving glance, roll their eyes at the time she takes with her pointing, her assessing, her careful choosing. this sunday between mom and dad, clutching your own cardigan around your chest, frowning into yourself, you see her and pause. because you recognize her reasoning; there is a fraternity between you. she is careful. she is cautious. she is choosy and a critical judge. she will not take the imperfect meat. she will not bring the wrong one home.

  empty calories

  you certainly didn’t think it was going to be edgar. sure, the boys had all been jostling themselves in your direction for the last couple of days, elbowing you unnecessarily, their laughter always too loud and too desperate—their eyes sneaking to see if you can see how clever they are, how much fun they’re having, how much fun you’d have if you were with them. but you were figuring it’d end up being maybe simon or sam: one of the taller boys who at least has a sense of style. but no it was edgar you apparently swam up to on saturday (he made you laugh, you knew he was kind) and now it is edgar again here after fourth period, suddenly outside math class, wanting to see what’s up, wanting to know what’s going on after school. we could get milkshakes, he says, his earnest face going full-collapse when you snark something about it not being 1952. or just walk around little five, he corrects quickly, hunching his three-foot-wide shoulders over his five-foot-four frame. you are all about starting your next sentence with a stern, look, but then dorie passes by with a big confusing thumbs-up and all you can hear is the swim of bees. suddenly somehow it’s after school and you are meeting him on the quad and no one is looking but everyone sees you, and it doesn’t matter how casual they act with themselves and each other, they’re all so very serious, and for a minute you picture yourself turning around, walking away, saying never mind, but you are still the new girl, you still need your friends, so you lift your chin and make yourself smile and this is so boring already but there you are, walking toward him, letting his hand find the small of your back.

  different types of alone

  he drives like your grandpa jared used to: gunning up behind the cars in front of him and hanging there so close and so tight that you can’t help but grab on to the door handle and press your foot to the floor. you are not sure what the big hurry is especially since the traffic stays at each light for twelve minutes and you are only a few blocks away. you consider jumping out at ponce and moreland, telling him you forgot something, telling him you have to be home, but then the light changes and he guns through it—tailing—and you grit your teeth and try to think whether you’ll want nachos or else just a smoothie. when you finally arrive he parks too close to the car next to you and you have to squeeze yourself out like an octopus between. he is waiting for you—but not really—by the sidewalk, eager to get there—wherever you’re going—and as he crosses the street you watch him not even looking to see if you’re there, but you follow anyway just to see what’s next. he does not offer you a soda does not offer anything just walks straight into criminal and heads for the comics. you watch him awhile: head down, fingers flipping—he doesn’t look up for you, doesn’t know where you are. and you understand that he might really like you, but is one of those guys who really only wants the kind of company that will follow him around while he does things he’d do anyway, on his own, just so he doesn’t have to look like he’s alone. and while his independence is part of what made you kiss him at the lake house in the first place, you aren’t that kind of lonely and there’s plenty you could do alone yourself, so after flipping through some cds and buying a copy of flaunt you pat edgar on the back and tell him thanks but you’re walking home. his face is a surprise-letdown swirl but you don’t give him time to recover; you just half-wave and say thanks again. you don’t walk home either—you go down to el myr instead and order a big plate of cheesy nachos and you sit there and read your magazine—glad to (really) be by yourself.

  keep moving

  you’re all geared up for it to be maybe weird with edgar in the morning, but when you get to school you find his arm draped around some girl named holly. some girl from volleyball. some girl even ellen hardly knows; some girl you’ve never seen. and there’s willow shooting her eyes at you and you trying to ignore them and edgar smiling like he just won musical chairs and you really just glad for that to be the end of it, but having to act a little miffed—having to give them something—just so they can leave you alone and let you go on with things, let you march with your drum in your own little private parade, because remember all you’re doing is twirling your baton until you get to the end of the line. maybe it stings that he wasted no time, but he is a bee just like the rest of them and if he’s found someplace to suck nectar you’re glad it’s not you who has to give him the buzz. you can already hear luli laughing about it anyway, wondering why you agreed to hang out with him in the first place. the goal is to keep yourself moving, remember? don’t linger. don’t hover. you are not going to stay.

  things to miss about chicago #5

  the el on a rainy day. stark skies. lakebeachwalking when it’s way too cold. palmer house lobby. descartes coffee. needing a scarf. english class. that crazy kid in AP history with the weird slanting hair. sidewalk hot dogs. pigeons lifting up together. walking everywhere and anywhere. candace’s small shoes next to your clodhoppers. sidewalks full of tulips. waving to boat-tour tourists from the bridge. feeling enclosed. feeling safe. art institute lions. the whorl of dark hair on the back of his neck. those hands that—

  bridges

  the trick about bridges is that—
while they do span great distances: connecting two points that would ordinarily remain disconnected—if there’s too wide a gap between their supports, the middle will sag and eventually break. even just a weak link will make the whole thing collapse. so bridges between things take time. you have to work from both sides. they require whole teams to design and construct. they take attention to detail, take great effort. and too many people are used to being islands, moored (isolated) in their own blue coconut seas of bliss, so it is harder and harder to find those who will build (who will believe in) bridges to anywhere else. you cannot make a bridge by yourself. there has to be someone working from the other end. and it is such a great distance. there is always, after all, so much (so much) water.

  the coffeehouse

  in charlotte it was starbucks, but that’s only because it was two blocks from school and everyone went there and you were only thirteen, anyway. in sf you migrated to peet’s which wasn’t much better but you weren’t allowed to go all the way over to vesuvio’s, where you wanted to hang (even though they’d never let you in). chicago was intelligentsia, where you really developed your taste. special roast coffees, nonautomated espressos, counter people who wore their own clothes, music that wasn’t chosen by some corporate office three states away, but it was ruby’s that taught you about cake—real cake inches high and made by someone who likes it almost as much as you do. since the atlanta arrival you’ve been looking for it—your place, your hangout, your relaxing room, your coffee haven, your kingdom of confection . . . and today you find it. today, after school, tagging along into decatur behind ellen-jessica-flip-simon-willow, you catch a glimpse and take note of the friendly outdoor patio and the beckoning chalkboard with the dancing monkey and the grinning goat. the aroma wafting out the opened front door makes your toes curl with anticipation, but you make yourself wait until later. later, when you’re alone, you’ll slip into it like a much-needed bath.

  by the bonfire

  since it isn’t raining this saturday there’s a bonfire at the lake house, and of course that means there’s some asshole who steps in it and melts half his shoe. there are girls with beers in red cups standing stupidly close to the flames, coughing and shifting away from the smoke, too dumb to step back, or maybe afraid they’ll squash the couples sitting cross-legged together in the dark hem just outside the firelight’s circle—sounds of their make-outs audible even over everyone else talking and the sharp crackle of spark. there’s the helpful guy in the life is good t-shirt who knows just when to put the next log on—always ready with a big stick to poke things in place when they collapse. you are enjoying the orange on your face, the warm laughing banter around you, and tomorrow you will bury your nose in your sweater, relish the way everything still smells like camping.

  more than meets the eye

  and then suddenly you’ve got company. you knew when you saw him last time—everyone in the whole pot-fogged, beer-goggled house knew—that he was pretty much the hottest boy there—and now here he is, hesitating a little, his shoulders unsure, but very clearly standing next to you, watching the fire too. you remind yourself girls will be like baseballs to him: catch, caress, throw back out to the field. but when his eyes catch yours—catch your eyes sneaking over to him—somehow the scales tip and the fire brightens. or perhaps it dims. something in those eyes surprises you for a second time, gives you a little pause. the most popular boy by the lake and he looks genuinely lonely. you are blushing—or too warm—and give him a small smile, but start to step away (you have to keep moving). when he speaks at first you don’t quite understand. you think he is kidding. you think he is making fun of you. you think you had him right in the first place, but when you challenge his eyes with yours there’s no smirk, no asshole a-ha, and he says it again: you seem you could use / a little kind of surprise / maybe some haiku? then just stands there, open and waiting, while you count imperceptibly on your fingers. he waits for you to do the math, for your eyes to widen, for you to say, in fact i do.

  Becca

  Some Advice

  When you are

  wrung out like the dish towel

  you had stuck in your shorts all day

  instead of an apron,

  and your hair is still wet

  from the shower you needed

  in order to rinse off all that coffeegrime and sweat

  —when you still have to read

  three chapters for English

  one chapter for history

  and have not studied for that chemistry test—

  do not be surprised if,

  when you go to the party (late) anyway

  to try to lean on your boyfriend

  and laugh at Paul’s jokes,

  you find yourself rolling your eyes at everyone and

  more than once squeezing your temples from noise.

  Try to feel no shock either when

  Alec scowls because you won’t

  do chickenfights by the bonfire,

  or when he says, What’s the matter with you?

  in that cold way you hate

  and you find yourself leaving

  —too early—

  in tears.

  Showing, Not Telling: To Alec

  Your surprise

  is a surprise.

  How could you think

  —What are you thinking?—

  I could possibly act

  —I don’t understand

  why you’re acting this way—

  like a girl going through normal

  —I need you to be normal—

  when there’s no more routine,

  and this distance

  —It’s not such a big deal—

  is a dance that divides us,

  a daily departure

  —We still talk every day—

  from all I know how to do.

  Did you really think

  —How can you think that?—

  after this morning’s phone call

  —I have to go, Becca. You have to be cool.—

  I could be anything but uncool:

  wouldn’t show up on your doorstep,

  —What are you doing here?—

  shout surprise

  in your face

  until you stop blinking—

  until you listen to me

  —Listen, Becca—

  till you finally see?

  Failed Advice

  Mom doesn’t like it when I slam the door,

  shut her out,

  say I’m not hungry enough for dinner.

  She comes in anyway,

  sits

  on the edge of my bed, says,

  Just try to project yourself into tomorrow

  when you’ve calmed down and everything’s fine.

  She doesn’t understand

  —it never got fine with her and Dad—

  that time without him is the opposite of fine,

  and every tomorrow he’s not in

  isn’t one I want

  to be projected into.

  Gross Dividends

  The highest commodity in econ class is laughter

  and indifference

  dressed in khaki pants and cocky guffaws.

  No one cares about anything

  but proving how little they care

  as Mrs. Marchpane vaults herself somehow

  —who got her here?—

  into a discussion of Victoria’s Secret underwear.

  It’s like a science, a social experiment, seeing who

  can derail her faster

  onto a wilder track of conversation,

  the popular boys—

  one-two-three in a row: so handsome

  and so cruel—all lobbing

  softballs of distraction at her which she

  catches in both hands, showing off for them.

  We’re supposed to be learning

  about the mechanics of the world:

  bonds, dividends, supply and demand.

  I d
on’t want to be learning these things—

  I don’t need them—

  and this waste-of-time class

  sucks out my already-aching soul.

  Do-Over

  I should be

  writing strings of apologies, composing

  pages of forgive me sonnets that would shame

  both Neruda and Keats.

  I should be

  knocking on his door again,

  taking back the things I said,

  wrapping

  my arms, my brain, my heart, my life

  around him and promising

  to never let him go, but

  Tuesday afternoon and

  this second chance in writer’s forum

  won’t come our way again.

  I have to be strong. I have to be a leader.

  Indecision

  has wracked us for a week,

  but Mr. Burland

  has pitied,

  giving us more time.

  Time to lick our wounded egos

  time to put our heads together

  time to correct

  the mistakes (of our editorial) past.

  Like me and Alec,

  none of us can agree

  but we all agree

  last year was a disaster

  and we don’t want to duplicate

  the sorry magazine

  no one bought last year.

  In this we are united.

  In this we have some hope.

  In this we have the strength

  to work together

  make a mash-up masterpiece

  that makes us proud.

  Let my colleagues inspire me

  into reunification, connection, restoration.

  Collaboration, smile upon us;

  humility crown our heads.

  Creativity bring your blessing;

  pride you have no place here

  until we are finished, and victorious.

  Until we are over this and done,

  until I can call him, proud.

  How to Make the World a Better Place, One Poster at a Time

  Stretch the hour along your arm.

  Track its progress

  —its slow-then-speeding bend

  across the afternoon:

  twisting itself from

  a crowd of cumulonimbus to

  a rainbow of success beaming

  across everyone’s faces.

  Bring together