sort of like a Cheshire Cat.
It magnetizes boys.
My little secret.
GENIUS
We’re waiting
to go to homeroom.
This year I’m in the AP.
Advanced Placement.
We’re the brilliant ones.
Richie O’Neill, wearing a cobalt shirt
that sets off his smoky blue eyes,
finally wanders in
and folds into the seat next to me,
staring down at his scuffed shoes.
I guess he could be handsome
if he didn’t look as if an alien
was siphoning off his energy
like in a sci-fi story by Isaac Asimov.
Just because Richie is Irish
and his family doesn’t have much money,
doesn’t mean he isn’t whip smart,
because he is.
I’ve known that since elementary school
at PS 106 on St. Raymond’s Avenue.
He was the most famous third-grader;
we even heard about him in kindergarten.
He had a teacher, Mrs. Sanbloom,
who famously didn’t wear a bra,
who drew a grid on the blackboard,
said, “Connect all the dots.”
Not one person could do it.
Richie was the only one
who realized that you could connect those dots
only by going outside the grid.
Until then, nobody expected
Richie to be the genius in the bunch.
OLD BEACH HOUSE
I still have the letter Richie gave me.
Does he expect me to say something?
Here in Parkchester,
the Irish have an attitude about Jews.
Richie’s not like that.
“Oops, didn’t open your envelope yet,”
I whisper to him.
His cellophane skin blushes.
“No problem.”
Richie rolls up his sleeve
to just above the elbow.
Twin purple bruises blaze on his arm.
I hike up my sleeve.
Our bruises have a silent,
eerie conversation.
Then with perfect timing,
we pull our sleeves down.
He opens his notebook,
briefly looks up, shrugs, then ignores me.
He gets this way sometimes,
shuttered up like an old beach house
that hasn’t been used for years.
WISE GUY
The bell rings.
We’re off to our homerooms.
Inevitably my big ears, small breasts
will slink inside,
find a seat in the second row.
As we shuffle through the hallways,
the principal welcomes us
over the intercom.
I warn myself: Do not be a wise guy
on the first day of school, Maisie!
Because if you’re going to be a wise guy,
you shouldn’t look all knock-kneed and weird.
You have to be like Nancy O’Malley:
cheerleader-cute; straight, white,
slightly buck teeth; oozing confidence
like she’s leader of the free world.
Or Florence de La Cruz: breasts;
heavy-lidded movie-star eyes;
a sexy mole near her upper lip;
and so much shiny hair,
like a Clairol model
whose life will be a dream
even though she comes from the Bronx.
Merilee Stabiner and Jessica Levin
huddle together, naturally.
Both have ponytails,
perfect profiles, new clothes.
I bet their apartments are like a TV sitcom.
No slamming doors … or hot rage …
FOCUS!
Focus, Maisie!
Find an actual friend!
You need one since your bestie
moved to Long Island.
Lucky Leslie Loeb,
two-story house,
lush green lawn, motorboat, fast car,
climbing up the social ladder
in her brand-new patent leather flats.
I miss her.
I call her Leslie of Long Island now.
I write her, but lately she hardly writes back.
Maisie, I remind myself,
come back to this moment.
Do not get kicked out of class
or called into the principal’s office
like last year.
Do not get how you get when you hurt inside.
So out comes that phony
jack-in-the-box personality
that blurts out things you imagine are hilarious
(and generally aren’t).
I LOVE LUCY–FUNNY
My teacher, Miss Morgan—
Matisse-blue eyes,
Renoir-pink cheeks, pretty,
and not just Bronx pretty, either—
takes attendance.
When she calls his name,
Nathan Trialas whistles,
says “Kiss my ass”
under his breath.
I say “Kiss my tonsils”
with my mouth clamped shut,
so it comes out a Jimmy Durante whisper.
I’m out of control and it’s only 9:30!
The girl next to me
slaps her hand on the desk, cracking up.
It wasn’t that funny.
I sure hope Miss Morgan didn’t hear.
Mercifully, she keeps taking roll.
The girl, kind face with sly,
witty eyes, and curly, dark hair
springing off her head in all directions,
is giving me the thumbs-up
and still giggling,
like I’m I Love Lucy–funny.
ROMANTIC
Over lunch—institutional lasagna,
cardboard noodles, gray meat—
I find out her name is Rachel.
She says Mrs. Noble,
who was supposed to be
our homeroom teacher,
was already married when she fell in love
with Mr. Zeitler and ran off with him.
Isn’t that romantic?
And terrible, of course, awful!
We sit there dreamily,
imagining the drama in our midst.
I love that two chunky,
middle-aged teachers,
who wore wrinkled clothes
and scuffed shoes,
were having amorous interludes
that disrupted so many lives
because of their passionate love.
“I’m thinking,” says Rachel,
“that they went to Bali.”
“From Bronx to Bali,” I say
in a radio announcer’s voice.
I suddenly realize:
“Before summer break,
Mrs. Noble had been getting dolled up.”
“I noticed that, too!
But can you imagine feeling lust
for Mr. Zeitler?” asks Rachel.
“I remember him,” I say.
“He was shy, had light-brownish fuzz
on his upper lip.
He often hummed show tunes in class.
His big curious eyes rested on us
as if we had the answer to something.
I loved him for that.”
“Me too!”
Her toothy smile is like
the bright headlights of a car.
NOT THE TUBA
“I hope when I feel lust,”
says Rachel,
“it’s with someone cute and sexy.
Maybe a musician.”
I admit: “I already feel lust.
Sometimes it happens
in the middle of doing homework.
Very uncomfortable!
Or sometimes when I’m doing nothing,
a fire rises inside of my solar plexus.