The Lost Marble Notebook of Forgotten Girl & Random Boy
Page 6
you were ready,
why’d you do it?”
I don’t answer her.
I don’t even know why I told her.
I had to tell somebody.
I answer her question in my own head:
He had this
expression
I recognized.
Would be easiest
to call it hunger,
but it also had touches
of lunacy
and confusion
and one heartbreaking
question
only I could answer.
I felt so powerful.
For the first time,
sex
didn’t
seem like
the first prize
in a beauty pageant
or
—a teenage cliché—
it didn’t feel like the ball
in a game of keep-away.
It felt like a pretty, wrapped-up
gift only I could give
to take
all the insecurity
away.
And it did
for him
for a while.
Valentine, Incognito
When I go to the printer
to wait for my
chem-lab notes,
I have to pass Peter X.
I know it’s probably ridiculous,
but I wonder
if I walk differently
now that I’ve . . .
I keep wondering
if people can tell,
if I can notice
a difference.
He smiles as if
he has a secret,
too.
At the printer,
where the paper
emerges, I find
on top of the pile
a freshly printed
photo mosaic
heart
made up
of tiny close-up
pictures of my
hair/cheeks/lips/hands/etc.,
every part of me, but my eyes.
On my way back,
I thank him
bashfully.
I beam.
I’m so happy he
still
cares
for some reason.
He moves his phone
in circles
and
says,
“I didn’t include
any pictures of
your eyes
’cause they’re
too hard to catch.”
Mirror
I don’t look
like your typical
dude-magnet.
I’ve got uncontrollable
hair and pale skin
that some people
(okay—one person)
call luminescent. I’ve
got a problem
making choices
that might last
forever,
a.k.a.
all of them.
My feelings sometimes
(okay—MOST times)
are like friends who won’t shut up
and let good enough be.
What am I trying to say?
Just that . . .
. . . sometimes, I find myself
daydreaming . . .
of other lives
I’m destined for,
lives so much different than
mine.
Sometimes I catch my brain
knowing, just knowing
(waiting for the rest of me to admit)
that even though I love him,
15
might be
too young
to say
forever
but I keep saying it.
Abruptly
I am aware
of how little
he knows
about my
in-school
life—how
Ms. Jackson
thinks I could be
a writer one day,
how Peter X
helped me pass
my chem test,
how I am failing
phys ed
because
I keep forgetting
to retrieve the gym uniform
Random Boy peeled off me
weeks ago and
never returned. He
sent me home in a
Ween shirt instead.
School has become my secret, safe room
away from it all,
where I am different,
where I can open up my body/soul windows
and let the difference out.
Skipping
Girl, why
don’t you
not leave me
tomorrow?
Why don’t you
stay home and make
love to me all day?
I hate when you
go,
and I know
you
hate it, too.
So why don’t you
skip? I’ll
take you places
you dream
about. I’ll make
you want to
drop out
altogether.
Boy, hello?
Welcome to the
21st century.
You can’t get a
library card
without a
diploma.
You got time
to write a thousand poems.
How ’bout you make
time for me?
Undecided
It’s like I’m his favorite
color and he never wants
to let me out of his sight. Only
I’m not sure he’s the best shade for me.
I kind of want to try chartreuse (which he says is out there)
or aqua (which he says is gay).
Maybe I’m gay;
guess
I’ll never know.
Worlds Collide
He takes me on a date
date—the kind where
he borrows his dad’s
truck, cleans it, and
opens its doors for me
when he picks me up.
At the restaurant, he
asks me for advice on
what to order.
I can’t help but smile
at the buttons
buttoned on his shirt.
We pick at each other’s
dishes and fill up before
everything we ordered’s
been served.
We balance too many
Styrofoam boxes as we exit.
Someone holds the door
open for us. “Surprise!”
It’s, uh . . .
“Hey, how you
doing? Fancy meeting you
here!” (big innocent smile)
“Hey.” I rush rush rush to the
car, hoping he won’t ask.
“Who was that?”
“Uh, no one,”
I say, just as Peter X runs
up behind me and places a
tiny white box on top of the
others.
“You dropped this,” he says,
making deep eye contact.
“Oh, are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I took a picture
of it falling.
Want to see?”
He turns.
“This must be—”
“Who was that?”
“Just a boy from school—”
I say his Real Name
out loud and Random
Boy makes fun of it.
I wish I could erase
Peter X from my
notebook, but
not from my life.
“What did he mean?
Why did he say
he took a picture?”
“He
always takes pictures
of everyone,”
I lie. “He’s a total freak.”
I feel bad
piling up untruths,
but this dishonesty pyramid
is the sturdiest protection
I can build
for Peter X.
The Peter X Thing
hangs
in the truck
like a noose.
I wait
for him
to speak,
to sentence
me to payback
for knowing a person
he knows nothing
about
so I can get it over with.
Instead, he gives me
radio silence
for a good ten minutes,
the turn signal so loud
and long
and insistent,
it makes me nauseous.
“That dude
is a douchebag,”
he says matter-of-factly.
“You know him from school?”
“From chem.”
“I hope he’s not your school boyfriend.”
“My what?”
“The X-man you write about.”
I throw my hair back
against the headrest
and sigh.
We were having a
good night.
“Just tell me.”
“What?”
“You love me.”
“More than myself,”
I say.
It seems
truer
every day.
The Drive Home
is quiet and uncomfortable
until we both try
to turn on the radio
and our fingers
greet each other
at the scan button.
A song we love
happens to begin
and we settle in—
my off-key voice reaching over
the armrest to remind him
I’m here.
His secretly beautiful
voice
doesn’t
sing back.
He pulls over,
puts us in park,
but leaves the engine going,
the music flowing through
the cab
as he rolls down the windows,
sending the food smells out
and the cool air in.
He leans over and
kisses me deeply—
breathes me.
His hand cups the nape
of my neck
as the other
slides
between T-shirt
and skin.
Right there,
next to frenetic weeknight traffic,
an electronic DJ
spins a song
with a bass line
straight
from hell
and we dance
sort of.
We use it as the backbone
of our movements, our
quick, desperate
grasps
for that thing
we both know
exists
when we’re together
but that we can’t seem
to locate lately.
Random Boy yanks
the shirt over my head,
exposing me
to the headlights going nowhere,
striking my skin
—radiant whips—
as they pass.
We
get naked fast, and
as the singer
croons the bridge,
he and I
dissolve our differences
and
become
one—
a resounding song echoing
on a dark night.
Next Day
I spend
study period
in the library.
Maybe I’m avoiding Peter X.
I breathe fresh
old-book air
until
a cloud rolls
between the windows
and me.
“Hi, Brian,”
I say, hoping
he’ll keep rolling by,
but he sits
and eyes
my marble notebook
and me
with a sick smile.
“Hi, yourself.
So guess whose tits
I saw on the side of the
highway
last night?”
He laughs,
and I envision
wild animals shriveling
prey
with dirty teeth.
“Never knew
you
were such a
slut is all.
Well, when that
Prince Charming of yours—”
(snorts)
“dumps you,
hit me up,
kay?”
I don’t know what to say—
so get this:
I say
nothing.
I get up
and walk
away.
And that night,
when Random Boy
asks about my day,
I keep quiet.
I don’t know why.
Mindf*cking
We have sex so much it hurts,
but whatever. When we go
a whole day without, he worries
I don’t love him anymore.
It’s as if the closer we get, the
more he needs to be reassured.
I sigh ’cause I don’t know
what else to do, which
just makes him madder.
Then, one late, smoky night,
while our laughter still lingers
from a private joke,
he asks, “Would you rather
be with someone else?”
Like I’d say so if I did.
“Yeah right,” I say.
“Like who?”
“Like Brian Kipley.”
“Like what? Why him?”
I am shivering I’m so cold.
“ ’Cause he told me
he screwed you some night
in a tent
at a keg party
in the woods.”
“My dad had just left.”
“So it’s true?”
I don’t tell him it’s not,
even though it’s not—
true.
Let him deal with knowing
what it’s like
to love a slut
for a while.
Boom Shaka Lak
She’s being a bitch
and I don’t know why.
I try
to kiss it out of her,
to tempt the truth
from between her legs.
Anger turns to
desperation,
which seems like
it could turn to
death
at any time.
Mine. Hers. Ours.
I black out sometimes,
but that’s not the surprising part.
I’m shocked
when I come back
to find
I’m still alive,
and she’s still here, too.
Ever After
Since we did it,
all he wants to do
is do it
again
and again, when all
I want is him
to beg me
again, not
expect me to
open up, sesame
every time; it’s
like all the what if
is gone. He’s
reached the end
of the story, but I
keep flipping pages,
thinking
he might
write me
something new,
some words less
blue
than I’m used to.
But no, he picks me
up and drives me
to the nearest
bed, where he
beds me before
he says a
word.
Peek
Usually,
I slam the door
shut
to the outside.
You see,
I don’t allow
spectators
at the peep show
of my life’s lousy
moments, but
I want to show
you
the worst parts.
I want you to know
where I go
when I won’t
let you
follow.
I know I said it’s about
eating, sleeping, and sex—
but not with you.
Sex used to be my
biological requirement,
but now
it’s a spiritual quest—
at the end is
the most powerful
peace.
So here’s what I’d tell you
if I had any guts:
Usually,
my dad relents
before I get
involved.
He knows
I have a boiling point
he can push me
to. It’s not written
in stone. It’s
an understanding
between men.
Usually,
he respects
my anger
because
usually,
I stick up for
my mother.
Not usually—
every goddamn time.
And sometimes I think it’s
some kind of training
for life.
Today, though
when my old man
turned on me,
when he
surprised me
from behind
with an old metal pipe
destined for
the junkyard,
she
didn’t
open her mouth, she
didn’t even pretend
to pull him off.
She just
watched
from the
floor beside
the coffee table
while he
beat
the living shit
out of me
with a metal
goddamn
pipe.
I guess I’m not surprised.
She’s beat down
inside and out.
Defending me
would just be an invitation for
him to target her
instead.
I didn’t fight
back. I
let the strikes
blast
against
my skin, detonate
the suspicions
I’ve held
all my life.
From the outside,
it must have seemed
like I didn’t even
hurt.
But all the while
—this is what I want
you to remember—
I fought
to keep
alive—
that’s what I was doing.
I was holding your innocent image in
a glass ball in the center of my skull.
That was all I thought about.
You see,
I want you
to remember what I REALLY am
even as I feel myself changing.
Then