After the Kiss

by Terra Elan McVoy

  undeniable truth

  this you do know. this you know better than anything else: you have $7,376.42 in a shoe box hidden in your room. you have $7,376.42 saved since ninth grade from every extra trip to the mall you never went on, movie date you ever canceled and walked the streets alone instead, every gas tank you needed to fill every snack bar your friends might want you to treat them to, every allowance, every rare babysitting job you picked up from here or there—it could be more but it is $7,376.42 that you have skimmed and saved and in some ways scavenged even though you have your own savings account, even though your parents have been adding to it since you were born, but that is for real college. this, this is for you and you only: not for their expectations, not for the path that everyone else is going to tread after graduation, not for any of the bridges you’ve built or burned down. it is for you to fly free and go only exactly where you want, when you want, and in sixty-two days (give or take) you will. you are 18 already sure, but you need to finish out this high school sentence and then you know you will take your squirreled money ($7,376.42 now, but there will be more by then, there will be more) and you will buy your one-way plane ticket and your eurail pass and explain to your parents—you have your plan you will spell it out for them and there isn’t a lot they can do—not really—because you are their only child it’s not like they’re going to disown you, and you’ve had a dream and they won’t have to pay for it—see you have $7,376.42 that you have saved. this you know. you have $7,376.42 and a plan and a future, at least for a little while that will be your own. count it again this you know in sixty-two days you will be able to get out of here you will be off the never-ending gerbil wheel you’ve been forced to run for your whole life. count it again it is in your hands it is your future and this you know.

  Becca

  The Perfect Pair

  Right after

  Mrs. Fram announces

  our next project

  will be duets,

  the boys are looking

  all over the room, already

  picking partners, planning pairs. I have

  eyes for only one person and

  am amazed to see

  her pale eyes

  —silent Jenna’s—gazing

  pleadingly

  into mine.

  Jenna’s Secret

  What you wouldn’t know

  looking at her—long lengthy lady

  with pale hair

  and a paler voice—

  is that this girl of slinking silence

  —this sylph of a someone no one else knows—

  is silly.

  Out on the concrete we are in our pairs

  everyone discussing

  what to play in their duets.

  My hands are fumbling, trying

  to be as cool as hers,

  to not make her sorry

  she picked me.

  What I don’t know

  is she’s already decided our song, and it is

  so wicked perfect

  I laugh out loud.

  Our legs are stretched out

  —our guitars are touching—

  and she whispers,

  Flight of the Conchords,

  don’t you think?

  Acceptance

  A strange envelope

  in the midst of

  two bills, a Lush catalog,

  and three bits of junk mail

  for mom.

  It says St. Andrews

  on the return address

  and is addressed

  to only me.

  I applied there

  in November

  when Mom insisted on backups,

  refusing the only-FSU-with-Alec plan;

  it was chosen

  more out of spite (and Mr. Burland’s recommendation),

  not because I could get in

  or thought they’d respond.

  Now—official college letterhead—one word:

  congratulations.

  It is like a party

  I’ve suddenly been invited to:

  one I completely forgot

  was happening at all.

  Avoiding

  I imagine telling Mom,

  and then can’t. I want to

  but won’t, yet. The letter

  goes in my rainboot

  at the back of the closet,

  (the one still caked and coated

  with a little Lake House mud).

  I am not sure how I will tell her

  —how will I tell her?—

  that instead of a giant Florida football school

  (she didn’t want me to go to anyway),

  or nearby UGA (where I’ve been accepted), or even

  Agnes Scott,

  I want a tiny, private North Carolina one

  —a school she’s never heard of,

  a school that will be good for me,

  but will cost

  twice as much?

  Collaborative Contentment

  The magazine submissions are finally collected.

  The deadline is passed and

  now it is time

  to decide.

  Sara’s idea

  —to divide and conquer—

  I have to admit

  is brilliant.

  Instead of making copies ad nauseam and then

  taking the whole monster batch home,

  —to half-skim—

  we separate stacks,

  and spend all afternoon—the eight of us—

  quietly reading submissions.

  Sometimes there’s a murmur.

  Sometimes a snort.

  Mostly

  we are engrossed,

  and (I think) pleased.

  There is

  the sound of single pages turning: one

  then another. Charlie

  clears his throat, Caitlyn giggles,

  then stops.

  I read a story about an ax-murdering stalker,

  one about two dogs in a fight.

  There is a good essay

  about a family road trip

  and two more

  I can’t finish

  after the second paragraphs.

  The story titled Kalends I circle in red;

  It is the best one

  —the brightest one—

  and I will insist it gets in.

  Two hours later

  —we didn’t know it’d gone by—

  Mr. Burland tells us

  next week we’ll vote.

  Rama looks

  like a preschooler just up

  from his nap

  and Sara has a smile

  I’ve never seen before.

  That was awesome, Charlie says,

  all breathy,

  speaking for all of us,

  and we all nod.

  For some reason next we

  put our hands in a big pile, raise them up, shout

  go team.

  It is the happiest I’ve felt

  in quite a long time.

  Working for the Man

  The shipment arrived

  at the coffeehouse this morning,

  but apparently no one has had time

  to unpack all the chocolate.

  When I arrive Nadia

  is on the floor counting,

  Paige is three customers deep,

  and Stan has called in sick.

  I take the packing slip from Nadia,

  and the red pencil, begin

  marking off organic lavender, green tea, 85% cacao.

  My grateful friend jumps up and stretches,

  takes off for the patio

  to snatch some sunshine,

  a few dirty plates,

  and a needed smoke.

  Emmett (Mr. Siegel) comes in then

  —a rare Big Boss appearance—

  the king of coffee strolling

  his royal grounds.

  Where’s Margot? he asks, seeing me on th
e floor.

  When I tell him Nadia’s managing

  he heads out

  to see.

  She comes in too quickly, jerks the slip

  from my hand

  Get out there and clean, girlie,

  she growls from under dark eyebrows—

  master’s here and he don’t like

  field slaves

  doing house slave work.

  Clearing My Name

  Crazy Friday night

  full of cake-and-wine orders,

  bags of coffee,

  herds of high schoolers,

  dozens of doughnuts,

  and everyone paying cash.

  What is it suddenly

  with the twenties infusion?

  As though the president has dropped them

  from a blimp overhead.

  It’s midnight

  and only me left

  with angry Margot

  outside the door.

  My hands are red

  my eyes are bleary

  my knees are aching

  and I’m sticky with sweat.

  But still I sit here

  on a hard stool in the back room

  counting the cash drawer,

  again and again.

  Sixteen dollars under

  —the worst count ever—

  and unless I find it

  she’s writing me up—an official warning—

  and on top of that,

  charging me twice.

  Strange Thought

  Waking up so-leisurely-late

  on Saturday

  with no work

  until tomorrow

  it occurs to me—a lightning bolt—

  Alec has a game somewhere

  and I have no idea

  whether they’re winning.

  A Different Kind of Distraction

  Since this week has been

  the triumph of new ideas, I try

  something even more radical

  for a Saturday night; I call

  Freya

  ask her

  to sleep over.

  No Lake House party, no

  skulking in the Majestic, but

  two girls,

  a bag of Doritos,

  and whatever else

  we can muster.

  She says yes

  right away and

  I am then left

  to figure out what we’ll do.

  At seven she’s here

  and we start making lasagna.

  When Mom finally gets in (at half past eight),

  we are ready

  though the kitchen is disastrous

  and the salad is lean.

  We tear chunks of bread,

  pass the water pitcher

  and for an hour straight

  Freya grills my mom.

  I forget

  hers has disappeared somewhere. She

  never talks about it and since

  I’m never at her house it is sometimes

  hard to remember.

  Just her and her little sister,

  her dad, making do.

  And tonight

  seeing her

  aglow at the elbow

  of my own mother I

  understand her in a different way,

  see her with a different face.

  My friend with her stories, her crazy plots:

  she is

  working to fill something

  that will never be filled.

  She clings to everybody’s stories

  —her glossy magazines—

  because to her, and everyone she knows,

  her own is

  too sad.

  We clean up the kitchen.

  I take her upstairs.

  I offer

  to paint her toenails

  and I am careful with her,

  gentle and delicate.

  I take my time,

  make sure it’s pretty

  —just like mine are—

  just like Mom does

  for me.

  Don’t Believe Your Eyes

  Sunday afternoon coffeehouse rush is over and it’s

  time to clear the patio of its cups and plates,

  clean up for the next round

  of happy nowhere-to-go patrons

  and loitering bored-faced teens.

  The clouds have cleared and

  a breeze lifts

  the pages of someone’s discarded newspaper

  half onto the sidewalk.

  Chasing, I catch it,

  straightening up while down the block I see

  a familiar face—

  not my love but Nadia’s:

  the man I met

  last week at her house.

  The one with the sideburns

  —the one with his tattooed arm

  looped twice around her

  and his face

  in her neck all night.

  Except now he is

  strolling

  into the Marta station,

  his arm around another her

  —a her that isn’t her, not Nadia,

  but someone different—someone else.

  They pause and kiss—more than a peck—

  disappear.

  The newspaper flutters from my hand,

  floats, unwanted,

  across the street.

  Camille

  not just a dream, but a plan

  the coffeecounter girl is not here today. thursday is her day you know that but you can’t figure out the weekends, don’t know if it’s sunday-friday-saturday, because you have seen her sometimes on each of those days and sometimes not. but today she is not here—instead it is the tight-faced girl with the cornrows, along with one of the wan little wispy girls—and they will not be glad to see you, will not tell you which cakes just came in this morning, will not sneak you a refill, and so you don’t even pretend—you just turn on your heel and go back out the door. only now you are here in decatur—now you are somewhere you can really walk—so you do: first down to the end of the block and left, though all that’s there is the library (good to note) before things take on that highly residential look that you know by now only means pretty lawns and magnolia trees. so you turn back and then cross the street and go up into the square, around the gazebo where someone is practicing tai chi, back over and up along a row of shops and restaurants you hadn’t noticed before, capped off by a starbucks (ugh), but also containing the cutest little bookstore you have ever seen. you go in—three people say hello to you right away—and at first you are not sure this was a good idea because you are surrounded by children’s books and the sight of lily’s purple plastic purse right there facing out on the shelf makes you suddenly feel five again, back when you thought you were invincible. but then a chipper, pretty, short woman wearing over-the-knee socks and boots with her jean skirt (she’s not a lot younger than your own mom) is by your side asking if you need help finding anything and you smile and tell her no thanks but now you feel you have to stay a little longer, at least look around. so you go deeper in the store and you feel like you are in another city altogether, surrounded by buttery yellow and cupcake-rose blue and books and books and all these cheerful things to look at everywhere. to your surprise things open up to your right and there is a little corner full of books for grown-ups. you move—a shark—directly toward it. you hadn’t known this was what you needed to do today but of course because there it is: the green-and-white fodor’s italy guide facing you. next to it is london, paris—you grab all three of them and go over to a celery green couch. you take out your moleskine and a pen, begin taking notes.

  doing the math

  a weird prickly feeling starts along your forearms and works its way up to your throat as you read. in these full-color, photo-filled glossy travel books there are sights and train maps and places to eat and museums and guided tours and suggested scenic trips, but it’s the numbers that swim up at yo
u, the admission prices and the double and triple dollar signs by the restaurant names and the hotel fees. the price of the rail pass alone almost makes you cough, because it’s quite a bit more than when you first made this plan. you realize you don’t know how much it takes to travel—dad’s company always handles it, always pays for your move—and the kids on the ultimate frisbee team back in sf never focused on that part as they were telling you about backpacking across europe and having a blast. they were patchouli-smelling kids all living together in the same apartment—six of them in there at once—and they had dreadlocks and tevas and t-shirts with holes. they probably hitchhiked, now that you think of it, slept together in parks. but you’d looked into the plane ticket and knew $1000 was a lot but that you could easily save more. since then you didn’t think about it and still haven’t till now, haven’t taken into consideration the drop of the dollar and the rise in gas—only focused always focused on getting out of here as fast as possible and as unconnected from your parents and their coddling and their money and their need to take care of you so long as you’re doing what they want. this was going to be yours—only yours—not anything they could touch, not even anywhere they could reach you if you didn’t want, but now as you drive back home to get to some wireless and to find out for sure your heart is racing and your brain is spinning and all you can think of is that hideous school in houston and that engineer school—purdue—where you applied just to keep mom quiet, to throw her off your scent. you’re accepted to both of course but have put off any answer, pleading about berkeley and making mom and dad wait. you won’t go to any of them—what if you can’t go to europe what if you—but you will go abroad, you have to. you are calculating the money again in your head, wondering where there could be more, where you might get a job, if mom and dad would let you since school’s almost over, how many pairs of shoes you could sell. you will also stop eating, stop going out, stop going to the coffeehouse if you have to, stop spending one cent. you will save enough you will somehow get enough it has to be enough you have to get out of here now now now—and you are really starting to panic for real as you click on one-way tickets from atlanta-to-paris. you think you might throw up on that two thousand number—you think that you might just pass out and die.