The Lost Marble Notebook of Forgotten Girl & Random Boy
Page 5
her classmates
who say
she’s a loner,
drifting through cliques,
undefinable.
She hardly realizes
she’s a
piece
of ass.
It’s hard not to bash
in the cranium
of the asshole
who says those words,
but I remind myself
I’m under
cover.
I can’t show
my fury. I don’t want to
scare away
the facts
because I can’t
hack the gossip,
so I listen
to truths and lies—
and try to decipher which is which.
The tension
builds in my brain,
down my arms
and hands,
until my fingers
begin to vibrate.
Alone
My Boy’s got
a lot
of friends—
acquaintances,
people he knows
from parties
and deals,
from
living so much life
before I
busted out
onto his scene.
Even in school—
I notice eyes on me,
all the time appraising,
analyzing,
asking,
but not actually voicing
any questions aloud.
They don’t accept
me, I think. I’m
just some girl who
appeared when
that guy
everybody
knows
noticed her.
They don’t talk
to me.
Sure, I didn’t
have any friends
before,
but now
it feels like
fewer.
Only eyes floating
up and down
the corridors,
slamming lockers,
walking,
looking away.
When I See His Name
in our notebook,
she might as well
be sleeping with him.
The deeper thrust
of the blade
is the shroud of protection
she’s thrown over him
in the form of
a fake name—
Who the hell is Peter X?
He’s every
one
and every
thing.
Every person
I see
enrages me.
Conjugation
We are supposed to be working
in groups, but let’s face it:
group work is a Don’t Ask
Don’t Tell policy
between teachers and students.
Peter X
uses the time
to ask about my
family,
my “friends,”
my je ne sais quoi,
my favorite bands, the
writers I like,
movies I want to
see. And, oh,
what a coincidence,
he wants to see that one, too.
I doodle and Google and ogle
him all through my next class.
I open my notebook
and
write the story
of my mental
indiscretion,
empty my confusion
onto the page.
I read
I wait
and I
let her
crawl
deeper
into her lie.
I watch her
daydream,
and I wonder
who stars
in the mind-
movie she
watches
while she pretends
to watch movies
with me.
The fire intensifies
as I wait,
until . . .
Drawing Lines
At purple, hazy twilight,
he wakes groggy me
from a lingering nap.
He demands
to know
about Peter X.
I realize immediately
he’s been
stalking
via marble notebook.
“Just a friend
from school.”
He leans close
and whispers,
“I’ll kill him,”
which makes me
simultaneously
cold
and
hot.
“He’s my friend.”
“But you didn’t tell him about me, did you?”
(I don’t know
what to say
or why
I didn’t.)
“Honey”
(the name she calls me as the
ice clinks together
in her glass)
“I know
I’m not always
the best mother.”
(Uh huh.)
“But this is me
trying—
no wait—”
She takes
a drink
to whet
the thinking
process.
I hope it works
’cause I could use someone
to talk to.
“I’m going to try harder.
I’m going to—
The thing is . . .”
(Sips)
Thanks, Mom.
I Love You So Much I’m Not Myself Anymore.
You know what I’ll do
if you cheat?
I’ll sharpen my knife
until the blade’s
shaved so slender
it could slash
skin.
Then I’ll find you—
You’ll be
with him, of course
and I’ll—
Peter X and I Have the Talk
“I have a boyfriend.
He’s—”
“Wow. I didn’t know.
You always look so—”
“Alone?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I am,
even with the boyfriend.”
(OMG, Shut! up!)
“Would he mind
if you talked
to me
about him?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Then we won’t tell him.”
I stare at him,
confused,
and wonder if I can have my man
and enjoy this one, too.
What I mean is
I don’t want to say good-bye
to the guy
who makes me forget the pain, but
I’d like to open
this door to a friend,
(who just happens to be a guy).
Got to find a way.
The Building
Since birth, really,
all I ever see
is sex
and sex
and sex.
It’s on TV,
the subject of every joke.
It’s on my friends’ lips
and minds
all the time.
It’s the reason
for every season,
the meaning of life.
It’s in the air
as he & I kiss.
It’s every
where
I go.
He sweats sex
and I dream
of orgasms
taking all our
troubles
away.
Sex is the
elephant
in the room
of our
<
br /> togetherness.
It is the main idea
of my teenage paragraph:
make love, hook up, do it, bang, etc., etc., etc.
To be honest,
I’m sick of it
and I haven’t even done it
yet.
I tend to get obsessed
with songs and movies and
people. Right now,
I’m possessed
by sex
and not knowing
what it will do
to me & you.
Questions I Don’t Ask
Seems like I should
consult a manual
or tell someone
before
I go through with it.
I fixate:
Should I?
Will it hurt?
Is he
the right
one?
I make a decision,
and an appointment
at the place
where they give out
free condoms
and advice.
What I notice most
about that place
is how no one makes
eye contact—
I don’t feel judged
like I thought I would.
I don’t even feel
seen.
Inside the tiny cubicle,
as I’m answering
form questions,
I can hear the
girl-next-door
telling her secret
love stories:
“How many partners?”
“Eleven.”
I have a list of doubts
etched on my mind:
What is it like . . . exactly?
How does it feel before . . . during . . . and . . . after?
Will he change?
Will I?
Is this right?
How do you know?
Should I?
When should I?
How should I?
What if I cry?
But there’s
no time
for stupid questions,
no box on the form
to check for uncertainty,
no truth about love
in stirrups.
Seriously, it’s like backstage:
where you can see all the magic
is made up
of holograms
and mirrors.
It’s
wham,
bam,
here you go, ma’am.
I open the pill pack—
tiny pink circles of responsibility—
and unfold the directions,
and as I studiously read
the million crinkly words
about percentages,
I find
not one honest answer
to a real question.
Honestly
I don’t know if I should,
but I will,
’cause maybe, just maybe,
this
can make it all right.
It’s worth a try.
“All I Want to Know Is
do you love me?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“It would seem.”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
“Girl, I would lay my leather jacket across acid-rain puddles for you,
rescue you from atomic-bombed buildings,
and ride into your high school
on a white motorcycle
if I could.”
“Yeah, but that’s all make-believe.
I mean really, truly, absolutely—
am I special?
Or am I the
same
as
everybody
else?”
“Girl, when I first
saw you,
I tried to wake the
hell up.
I rubbed my eyes.
I thought you were a dream.”
“But I’m not.”
“You’re better.”
“But how do you know?”
“Know what?”
“That you won’t . . .
whatever this is”
(I move my hand in a little circle
close to his heart)
“won’t die
like everything else.”
Promise
Girl, I’m not your daddy.
I’m not going to leave
no matter how hard
you push me away.
But See
Why’s he got to go
bringing my dad into this?
It’s like he means to say
I love you—
but it comes out
a sharp-edged
sword
instead.
I know
he means well,
I think.
Up ’til Now
she’s always turned bone
dry when it came up.
Word on the street
is
she’s not
a virgin,
but
her raw
shivers underneath
my hands tell
a different story.
I want to
take her,
and if she leads
the way, I will.
But I’m terrified
I’ll screw
her up.
So every time
we get too close,
I turn
off
and
away.
Let’s Talk About Fear
“What scares you?”
“Everything.”
“For real.”
“Regret. That I’m doing something now I’ll regret later.”
“You mean me.”
“I’m not doing you.”
(nervous laughs)
“No, I mean—”
(but he’s partly right)
“What scares you?”
“That for you this is a game.”
“What?”
“Me.
I know you’re going
to straighten up
and leave
me one day,
so I can’t relax.
My biggest fear
is you, or rather
the absence of you.”
Mapping the Course
Like a hundred thousand pins
barely pushing in
every city on my skin:
He says no when I tell him
yes.
He says
he’s not ready,
“but,” he says, relenting, “since you’re ready—”
and he shivers.
He strips me slowly
and travels me with eyes wide
open. He explores
and marks me—
biting and pressing
like a hundred thousand pins.
That’s how it feels
when his fingers
and his tongue
run marathons
up and down
my back, my belly,
then farther
down
to
curves
I didn’t know
I had
before he
kissed
them.
In a Tree House
The plywood boards
nailed together by previous
generations
show their years
of rain and pain
and kids
who should’ve known better.
Yet, I climb
the ladder
behind him.
He’s brought blankets
that smell like him,
TastyKakes,
and a six-pack of ice-cold
generic soda.
He even lit a candle
so I can
see
the clean-wood rectangles
on the walls
where the centerfolds
once hung.
We kiss,
hug, play
a game of hide-
and-seek,
so to speak,
and then
I take control:
I blow out
the candle
and roll my back
onto the sleeping bag
he’s brought.
“It’s time,” I tell him, pulling him
(so strong yet so easily moved)
on top of me.
“Are you sure?”
“I want to.”
Then so slowly,
so carefully,
he—
. . .
It isn’t the heavy breathing
scream-fest
they make it out to be,
and the pain
wasn’t half as bad as
watching my father leave.
For me,
anyway,
it was warm and very quietly
intense,
like being between the pages of
a book
I’ve been dying to read—
one that makes me close
my eyes sometimes, to stop
and just to wonder
whether it
lives up
to the hype.
It Was Like
for the longest time
I didn’t want to sleep
with her
because sex
is something
too ordinary
for us.
But the main thing
holding me back
is how,
afterward,
girls change.
It’s more than great,
but sometimes,
it’s not
even worth the hassle.
But tell me that
in the midst
of some chick
saying yes.
Only when she said yes
was I so scared
I had
to resist.
Anyway,
that’s not the point.
The point is that
when I was naked and kissing her
under the stars last night,
she took me in
her hands, and
pulled me
in—
impossible
to
argue—
and it was
different.
Most amazing:
She didn’t change.
She didn’t do
any of the things
I expected
like cry, or pout,
or regret it.
Afterward,
she lit two of my
cigarettes with
a single flame, and
passed me one.
Her naked skin glowed
in the orange light,
a million times more
beautiful than
the picture I’d dreamed.
I mean,
there are times
when it’s over
and the
colorful girl
you came in with
turns black and white
like The Wizard of Oz in reverse,
but that didn’t happen with her.
Don’t get me wrong;
I’ve had a lot of sex,
but now I know
what it’s like
to lose
my virginity.
In Vino Veritas
Mary passes me the
truth serum
she stole from
her parents’
secret stash.
“If you weren’t sure