Vicki: (Aren’t you a little snoopy?) Oh, no, Mrs. Dann. I just took my time.
Mrs. Dann: Have you made a lot of friends in your new school?
Vicki: (Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands.) Well, uh … mmm … sort of …
Mrs. Dann: No one’s home upstairs. Your mother’s at work.
Vicki: (Thank you so much for the news flash.) Yes, I know she is. Her new job.
Mrs. Dann: Some folks would turn up their nose at answering a phone in an office, but your mother has a good attitude. No la-di-da there. Now, your quiet father has to find something. He’s out there looking today. I hear that your brother Spencer is an excellent athlete and has joined the cross-country team. And the other one, Tim—
Vicki: Thom.
Mrs. Dann: —is very smart and a top chess player. Busy boys, but shouldn’t they be spending more time looking after you, instead of leaving you alone every afternoon? What do you do upstairs all alone? Sometimes it sounds like you’re jumping.
Vicki: (Sometimes I am!) I wash the breakfast dishes, set the table for supper, do some homework. Mrs. Dann, I have to go now.
Mrs. Dann: Now, don’t run up those stairs, you hear me, an accident could happen. Wait, you didn’t take your mail. Here you are, mostly junk mail. Isn’t that lucky!
Unrequited Love Poem
He doesn’t know I exist
but I’m in love
with that too-fat
low-slung
waddly
drooly
dirty
white
dog,
Mr. Marty.
Ten Questions to the Universe
1. Why is Sara Madison, who sits next to me in home base, the girl I most want to know?
2. Why do I write poetry?
3. Will Thom and Spencer get to go to college?
4. Will I?
5. Could I tell Thom and not Spencer that I write poetry?
6. Could I tell Mom and not Dad?
7. Why do I keep thinking about us being poor?
8. Why don’t I remember there are lots of people who don’t even have homes?
9. Why do I keep remembering my pathetic phone calls to Bethani?
10. Why do I obsess over phone calls when Dad still has no job, and Mom spends every evening trying to figure out how much we still owe people, and my brothers are making friends and I’m still not, and I should be thinking of what to say to Mr. Franklin about why I’m not buying even one book through the book club, although, as he pointed out, it’s no more money than a meal at Big Burger, which, as he also pointed out, is a place where most every one of us leaves plenty of change, and why didn’t I have the guts to say to him, Not me?
at the end of the day
mom throws off her jacket, kicks off her shoes,
hisses, soft as a shiver, don’t anyone dare
talk to me for at least ten minutes.
dad leans on his elbows, chin in hands.
he’s forgotten to shave—again. that look
is cute on pretty boys in the ads.
my brothers suck up supper,
sitting on the edge of their chairs,
then streak out, shouting gotta go, good-bye!
i do homework and i do sleep
to a second street city lullaby—
sirens, horns, tires screeching, sometimes a scream,
sometimes people singing.
What I Miss
Curling up on the couch with a book I bought
Always having money in my pocket
Not ever worrying about money
Mom cooking good stuff every night
Hearing chickadees, not pigeons, in the morning
Clean sidewalks, lots of locker space
Playing hockey, swimming in the school pool
Dad saying, I’ll take care of it, no problem-o,
everything will be fine.
I Mostly Like Mr. Franklin
but I Find Myself Trying to Avoid His Eyes
which seem to see everything, so this morning in home base, after he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, last call for book-club orders,” and then beckoned me up to his desk, it made me jumpy, and I walked very slowly up the aisle, looking back, and I saw Sara Madison watching me, which made me jumpier, and then Mr. Franklin said, “Get a move on, Vicki,” which made me even jumpier, so when he said, “No books for you, Vicki? Any problem?” (and I knew he meant money), whatever it is that makes me do things impulsively, it was urging me to tell him the truth, to go ahead, spill it—you don’t have money and you can’t ask your mother and it’s not his business and he has to stop asking you questions!—and I would have said it—the words were right there on my tongue, pushing to get out—and regretted it, of course, but the bell rang, and I was saved. Saved by the bell. I am sometimes a lucky girl.
Money Tanka
In the cool morning
I am alone in the house
searching through jackets,
coats, and shirts, looking for change,
glad that no one can see me.
What I Wish
I wish that certain boys roaming the halls wouldn’t stare at me
and sometimes howl for reasons I don’t want to know.
I wish there was a good reason that some girls have beautiful chests
and mine is as flat as my belly is round.
I wish I had a friend to be jokey with
and that my mother would make a joke now and then
and give up always being so serious.
I seriously wish that boys wouldn’t hold their girls around the neck
as if they were going to choke them
and that girls wouldn’t let boys hold them around the neck
as if they’re ready to be choked.
I wish that exercise took more brains than patience,
that I didn’t hate cornflakes, which make an easy breakfast,
that I was less flakey about cooking,
and that all the skinny girls
who look like they have no appetite didn’t blue me out.
I wish that Dad would get cured of his blues
and I wish that wasn’t too much
to wish for.
If I Was a Perfect Person
I wouldn’t write was, I’d write were and the spirit of Ms. Ainsworth would rejoice, but more than that, I’d be rejoicing today and my spirit would be happy today because Dad has a job, at last, and I am happy and I do rejoice, but not totally because Dad’s eyes are still half closed, and because he said, as if it was a joke, “A night watchman is a job that a barking dog can do even better than a man,” and I laughed too hard, so glad to hear him make even a lame joke, but it’s true that being a night watchman is way, hugely different from being an executive with his own office and his own assistant and his own big desk and raspberry rug and pictures of us on the big desk, and in fact you might say it’s not just different, but an enormous, colossal, gigantic comedown, and isn’t this what we’re all secretly thinking, and aren’t we all pretending, playing the game of the-Marnets-are-just-an-ordinary-little-family-unit-getting-over-a-few-ordinary-little-bumps-in-the-road-of-life, which you could say is just being kind to Dad or you could say we’re a bunch of hypocrites, acting one way, thinking another, or you could say I am a sarcastic, spiteful, snotty person to even think such a thing about my family, and if that’s true it explains why I still haven’t made any real friends at school, which I surely would have, if I was even half of a half of a perfect person.
Report Carding Myself
Social skills. D minus
Class participation. D minus
Making friends. F
Keeping promises to self. D
Close to failing on all fronts.
Recommend
intervention
suspension
detention.
My Brothers Give Me Advice
Spencer: First thing, stop even thinking about Bethani Ollum. She may be cool in your old school, bu
t she’s a loser in life. The kids at MLK are cliquey, you say? Suck it up. No use having a fit. You’re tougher than that! What’s that old thing Dad used to say—go with the flow? Yeah, that’s it.
Thom: Spencer’s right—the present is what counts—the now, the moment, real time. Read any of the great spiritual teachers and that’s what they tell you. The time is now, not the past, not the future. Now is where you are. Now is real. Now is what you have to focus on. Look around, find someone else alone, or maybe just someone looking your way. Reach out to that individual, okay? You do that sincerely, and guaranteed, you can’t miss.
Memo to Myself
after Listening to My Brothers
Call Bethani one more time—to kiss her off.
Don’t be thinking all the time if only … what if … when …
Focus on the present, the now moment.
Smile at people you recognize—even if you have to paste it on.
Pretend you don’t mind that you’re mostly still eating alone.
Remember, no one else knows you’re scared and sad.
Blue Bic Pen Pantoum
I did it, at last—reached out and took a different path.
Sara Madison was shaking her blue Bic pen, wrist flying.
We sit next to each other in history, home base, and math.
“Violent, girlie,” I said. “Is that thing dead—or dying?”
Sara was shaking her blue Bic pen, wrist flying.
I dug out my courage and tapped her on the arm.
“Whew, violent. Is that thing dead or dying?”
Sara snickered. “Dead, sister. Can’t do it any more harm.”
I found my courage, leaned over and tapped her arm.
We’d talked, but joking around was definitely new.
Sara was cute! “Dead, sister. Can’t do it any more harm.”
I tossed her my pen. “This one’s alive. Sorry it’s not blue.”
We’d talked before, but this joking was definitely new.
I had Sara down pat in my mind for a white-girl snot.
I tossed her my pen. “This one’s alive. Sorry it’s not blue.”
Reaching out, like Thom said, but not expecting a lot.
I had Sara down in my mind as a white-girl snot—
the way she held her head, her chin tipped in the air!
But I reached out, only not expecting a lot,
unsure about her, plus stupidly worried about—my hair?
The way Sara held herself, chin tipped in the air,
threw me off. I joked about a “pen funeral,” but
being unsure about her and all worried about my hair,
I stumbled around, then wished I could just cut
out my tongue. Actually, I was sort of funny, but
Sara just looked at me deadpan, almost cross-eyed.
Great! I goof up my joke, wish I could cut
out my tongue, then blurt, “Jeez, I’m totally fried.”
And she looks at me deadpan, nearly cross-eyed,
sending the message that she thinks I’m strange.
Terrific! I’m humble, saying I’m totally fried,
making excuses for being me—as if I could change,
if I only tried! Not. Yeah right, girlie, I am strange.
Then I heard her say, “Wanna eat lunch with me?”
I zoned back in, dug in my pocket, rattled change—
two dimes! “Is this a date?” I shot back. “I might be free.”
Oh, yes, I heard her say, “Eat lunch with me?”
Today I reached out and took a different path,
played it funny and droned, “I might be free.”
I sit next to Sara in history, home base, and math.
Walking to Lunch with Sara Madison
she turns her big green searchlight eyes on me.
“Vicki, what things do you like to do best?”
I am not about to confess to her,
I write poetry, make up funny rhymes,
noodle around, try new stuff all the time.
I hold my hands a span apart, then close
with a clap and bridge her searching silence
with, “How ’bout you? What do you like to do?”
“Oh, me!” Sara says, as we stand in line,
“I’m easy. I’m totally in love with
acting. Big, big, love! I watch videos
almost every night. Like my dad told me,
I’m studying how the great ones do it.
Acting genes must run in my family.
My mom was a model when she was young.
My little sister sings Beyoncé songs
every other minute—so annoying!
My dad—he’s an oldies radio buff,
he does sound effects, does them all—honks, barks,
quacks, footfalls—you’ve gotta hear him sometime,
Vicki, it’s a riot! He has a show
of his own here, too. It’s on every day—
Mike Madison’s Mic, ninety-one point five
on the AM dial, at five A.M.”
“Five A.M.?” I say, taking my tray. “Whew!
But I will listen for sure some morning.
Wow, your father is on the radio.
That’s awesome, Sara. It’s so impressive.”
Sara’s smile signals satisfaction, and
she squeezes my arm hard. “‘V., I’m so glad
that we’re friends now. Are you, too?” I nod, smile,
wondering what stories I’ll tell, what words
I’ll find to say when Sara wants to know
what work, what job, what talent
my dad has.
Shopping with Mom in the
Supermarket on Saturday
No, we can’t afford it.
Put back two of those.
We can get along without that.
Well, I’m sorry, maybe next week.
Get the economy size.
We’ll buy that when it’s on sale.
Uh-uh, we’re not buying steak.
No, no lamb chops,
blood oranges,
lychee nuts,
chocolate,
candy,
cake,
soda.
Sorry.
Sara Stuns Me with Three Questions
starting when we’re walking out of school together and all of a sudden, she comes out with, “So what made you stop being such a snob?” and before I can even squawk, Me, a snob? she surges on, “Before the other day, you never once looked my way,” lobbing that ball into my court so coolly, I can almost see her bouncing on her toes and twirling a tennis racquet, which instantly sends me the picture of Dad at the country club before we had to sell our membership, twirling his racquet and talking tough tennis tactics to me—Baby girl, go for every shot, never let down, it’s preparation for the rest of your life—and me nodding solemnly to please him, but secretly, sublimely sure that I didn’t ever have to think about the rest of my life or preparation or any of that stuff Dad was always talking about, but now I see that I am in the rest of my life, and at this moment in my life I want to lob that snob ball back into Sara’s court and make her run to answer it, but I’ve been taken by surprise, my brain is stopped, stripped of answers, so the Snob Question hurtles past, and I only manage a feeble return, “Hey, I’m new here, seems like you should have been the one to—” but Sara’s voice jumps right over mine, like jumping over the net, with “Whoa, sister! It never occurred to you that I’m new this year, too?” and that’s stunner question number two, and no, it never did occur to me and now, how do I change the air between us, filter it back to laughing about dead pens and such, but even as these thoughts thud through my mind, my mouth is saying, “So if you’re new, then you know it’s hard work being a newbie, everyone here sticks so tight with their own posse, like the black girls ignore us totally, ’cause we’re white, but the white girls aren’t any better—” but Sara’s jumping the net again with, “What makes you
think I’m white? I’m biracial. My dad is African American,” and she crosses her arms and turns her searchlight eyes full blast on me, as if asking, So now what excuse do you have? and for this one, a fourth, but unuttered question, I have an answer at last—No excuse. None!—but I don’t say it, because Sara is still giving me the long, deep, challenging look, which I feel obliged to give back, which I know is stupid, but I’m reasoning that I can’t lie down and play deadgirl, gotta give as good as I get, which is even more stupid, because that’s how wars start, and I’m not a warrior, in fact I’m probably a pacifist, so while we stand there, semiglaring at each other, I dig a stick of gum out of my pocket and hold it out as a peace offering to Sara, who says in a prissy voice, “I never chew a whole stick of gum. My mother says it looks gross, and I agree,” so I snap the gum in half give her half and we pop the gum into our mouths at the same moment and begin chewing, and right then, with Sara’s smoldery gaze simmering down, I have an almost irresistible impulse to make a pun about almost gumming up our sticky friendship, but I decide not to push my luck and just chew harder.
At the North Light Mall with Sara
There’s stuff everywhere, and I want all of it. I want everything I see—socks, scarves, earrings, purses, T-shirts, even fake flowers, which I’ve never liked, but right then, cruising with Sara from one shop to the next, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t buy. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything new, and I’m as dizzy as the time I sneaked a glass of wine when I was not quite nine.
Passing the bike shop, I want a mountain bike, even though there are no mountains here, and in the record shop, I want the new Spike Sunders CD, even though I don’t like his music. If I had money, I’d buy shoes with those skinny little heels, even though I couldn’t get my feet into them, and I’d buy a silk scarf which feels like cool water when I touch it, even though I’d never ever wear it.
Sara buys a bar of lavender soap for her mother and a book for her little sister, then she tries on three pairs of jeans and six shirts, and she keeps saying, “What do you think?” and I keep telling her she looks great, because she does.
What I Believe Page 3
