It happens a lot!”
“Wow!” says Rachel. “You’re so honest!”
Even if I wanted to stop,
the words just keep bursting out.
“And when I see myself naked,
I imagine someone else
seeing me that way.
Touching me, looking into my eyes,
murmuring all kinds of sexy things.
I kiss myself in the mirror
and end up having to take a shower.”
I look at this girl I just met,
thinking what an idiot I am
to spill out these secrets.
“Maisie, you’re one hot tamale!”
She laughs.
“What instrument would your musician play?”
I ask, trying to return to
a safe conversation.
“Me?” asks Rachel.
“I can hardly think after what you just said.”
“Don’t you feel lust, Rachel?”
She’s quiet.
“Well, I wouldn’t want a tuba player,”
she says finally.
“That wouldn’t do it for me.”
“Okay. No tuba players,”
I say, relieved.
“Accordion?”
She squeals, “No!”
I make a motion of crossing them off
an imaginary list.
She laughs.
So I’m thinking, this might not be
the worst year in human history.
High school might be my big break,
when I find a real girlfriend,
someone in this universe who gets me.
TEETH
Rachel and I have Language Arts
and Social Studies together!
I scribble notes during class,
but I also covertly sketch her
when she’s not looking.
At lunch I open my notebook
to show her my drawings, blurt out:
“You have the best teeth!”
“Like teeth are a big beauty item?”
she asks.
“Large teeth are a beauty item!
Look in the magazines.
The best-looking people
have giant, oversize teeth.”
“You’re weird, Maisie.
What about my knees, huh?”
She tugs on her skirt.
“Did I ever show you these perfect knees?”
“Your knees are bony,” I say.
“Shut up, Maisie.”
“But, Rachel, you more than
make up for it with your great teeth.”
“I’m a good chewer,”
she says drolly. “But you can really draw, Maisie.
I’m impressed!”
Good! I want her to be impressed.
THE WORLD SORT OF YAWNS
After school, Rachel and I walk home.
Richie appears and saunters behind us,
squishing dead leaves with his sad, old
but newly polished loafers.
A breeze wafts our hair,
birds flutter onto a branch together
and squawk about important matters.
In that moment, time stretches out
and the world sort of yawns,
and the dark cloud
that I take with me everywhere
drifts off.
PACK A DAY
Rachel tells me about her brothers,
Jake and Jonathan.
And she says casually,
“My mom is an oil painter.”
“She must be amazing,” I say,
wanting to jump up and down
on the street like a toddler getting a toy.
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
Rachel shrugs, says her mom, Kiki,
smokes a pack a day.
Acts too girlish, is kind of a hippy.
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
“Pas fantastique, Maisie.”
“You speak French?” I gasp.
Rachel explains that one summer,
when she was nine,
she lived in Toulouse.
Her father worked there as a journalist
after the war and likes to visit.
“Je parle Français un petit peu, aussi,”
I squeak.
“Fantastique, cherie!
Nous parleronsen Français ensemble,
n’est-ce pas?”
She sounds fluent
and has a convincing French accent.
Now I’m impressed.
PARCE QUE
Catching up, Richie O’Neill groans,
“Ooh la la!” Says, “That’s all I learned
in French from Mrs. Moreau.
Elle m’embête. Elle est une monstre.”
“She’s a monster?” Rachel asks.
“But you pronounce French
so well, Richie!” I tease.
Richie turns crimson,
which makes him look handsome,
not even older-brother handsome.
Then he cuts out in front of us.
“He’s cute!”
Rachel whispers.
“Boyfriend material?”
“Friends!” I say. “Friends only!”
I don’t mention the reason
that Richie and I are bound together.
For a moment, I wish he and I
came from a crisp, normal family like Rachel’s.
“Do you think maybe you could go for him?”
I ask.
“Me? No, no! I already have a crush,”
Rachel murmurs.
“I’m all ears.”
“I am all not saying more.”
She laughs, then invites me over.
In this nano-moment
comes an understanding:
Rachel and I are going to be
lifelong friends.
I can taste something sweet,
as if it were dessert.
I close my eyes and release Leslie Loeb.
I see her fly away into her new life.
WOUNDED
Rachel points to her building,
says “Au revoir,” waves.
“À bientôt.”
Richie waits for me.
We walk the rest of the way together,
discussing school, curricula,
the new kids, the best teachers.
Then Richie says, “You know our principal,
Mrs. Heffernan, is famous for running a tight ship.
When she defected from Erasmus Hall
in the means streets of Brooklyn
twenty-three years ago,
she brought the mean part with her to the Bronx.
So we can’t be jerks, Maisie!”
“I don’t do well
with female authority, Richie.”
“You can’t afford to cross Heffernan’s
heavy-footed path,” he warns.
“You mean I shouldn’t say stuff like
‘here comes the heifer’?”
“Troublemaker!” he says
with mock disgust.
I like amusing him.
BEAUTIFUL TENOR
Then, out of the blue, he stops walking
and blurts an entire paragraph:
“It’s the war that did this to him.
In 1957, my dad was sent to Vietnam
working for MAAG
and the US Information Agency.
He and twelve guys were wounded
in bombings in Saigon.
Before he left, he used to tousle my hair
and toss the ball with me.
He sang Irish drinking songs.
Mostly he loved Tommy Makem.”
“I never heard of him,” I admit.