till he sees you
try to play.
Speechless
I’m losing my mind,
I’m sure of it.
Yesterday, that cute boy
Santiago said hello
and I completely lost
my power of speech.
I mean, I opened my mouth
and out came …
nothing at all.
What’s wrong with me?
Boy Watch
I can’t help it.
I start watching Santiago
watching girls in the hall.
How dumb is that?
I try to talk myself
out of my stupidity,
but then I notice
every one of them
wears makeup
and tight shirts
and short skirts.
My naked lips
form the words:
“Guess that leaves me out.”
The Closet
I search my closet for
a single outfit that would qualify
as pretty.
Of course, I come up empty.
“Pretty” has never been
part of my vocabulary.
But that was pre-Santiago.
Is that my phone?
I let the call go
to voicemail.
I’m not leaving this closet
till I find something
semi-pretty
to wear.
Message
Oh, no!
It was Jake’s call
I missed
on purpose.
We were supposed to meet.
How could I forget?
Apology
“Sorry I didn’t show up,”
I tell Jake
when I call that evening.
“Where were you?” he asks.
“I waited for almost an hour!”
“Sorry,” I repeat,
stalling until I can figure out
what to say.
I’m usually honest with Jake,
but this truth is just too lame.
“I was studying for a test,” I tell him.
“I guess I lost track of time.”
I’m holding my breath
but don’t even know it
until I hear him say,
“Yeah, well, don’t do it again.”
Unspoken
Back from another practice,
Caden and I find Mom
in the living room
thumbing through one of his
old drawing pads,
her crescent moon smile
lighting up her eyes.
“Hey! Where’d you find that?”
asks Caden,
snatching the pad
from Mom’s fingers.
“I thought it was lost.”
“I found it under the coffee table,”
she says.
“Bottom shelf.
Must’ve moved it there one day
when I was cleaning.
Which reminds me,” says Mom,
“I haven’t seen you
drawing in a while.
Why is that?”
Caden shrugs,
all the answer
he plans on giving.
To Be Honest
Secretly,
I’m with Mom on this.
I miss Caden’s drawings.
I hate to see him give up
something he’s so good at
just to try to be
like me.
Lipstick
I stand in front of
Mom’s vanity
like most girls do at three,
splashing on perfume
and smearing blush
from cheek to ear.
And here I am,
snagging lipstick.
“Crimson Touch”
is a nice name.
I wipe it across my lips,
then dash out the door
before Mom can catch me.
Minutes later, I meet up with KeeLee
and we strut through the school hall,
me waiting for my chance
to impress Him.
I’m all smiles when I see Santiago,
which is when KeeLee starts
poking me. But I ignore her
’cause all I can think about
is Santiago, who
takes one look at me
and laughs out loud.
Not the reaction
I was hoping for.
KeeLee pokes me again.
“You’ve got lipstick
on your teeth, silly.
I tried to tell you.”
My hand flies to my mouth
I sprint to the girl’s room,
leave “Crimson Touch”
on wads of toilet paper,
suddenly realizing the color
looks just like blood.
Disgusting.
Can this day
get any worse?
Busted
Of course
the first person
I run into on my block
is Jake. “Dude! Your lip is bleeding.
No, wait.
It’s your whole mouth!”
The lipstick must have left
a stain on my lips.
I sigh and roll my eyes,
in no mood to explain.
“Hey, Jake.
What’s up?”
“You tell me,” he says
studying my lips.
“It’s lipstick,” I mumble.
Jake laughs.
“You gotta be kidding!”
I burn him with a stare.
“Sorry,” he says.
“I didn’t know
you were into that
sort of thing.”
I shrug.
“Just thought I’d give it a try.”
“O-kay,” says Jake.
“But why?”
“None of your business!” I say,
wanting to get off of the subject.
“Dang! Somebody’s in
a rotten mood today.
Later,” he says,
and jogs off
before I tell him
to leave me alone.
Help
I need help with this makeup stuff.
KeeLee doesn’t know
much more than me.
Too bad I’m not
Cinderella.
A fairy godmother
would come in handy
right about now.
Advice
I slip out of my
sweaty gym clothes
and hit the showers.
Toweled off and half dressed,
I find my voice
before Glory has a chance
to leave.
“I like your makeup,” I say,
feeling silly.
“I mean, the colors are nice.”
“Thanks,” she says.
“I wish—”
My tongue stumbles.
“There’s this boy—
I mean—”
Why is my mouth
suddenly useless?
“I try to get him
to look at me, but—”
Thank God,
Glory steps in.
“You want a makeup tip?”
I nod. That seems safer
than speech.
“Keep it simple.
A little blush,
a little lip gloss.
That’s it. Okay?”
I nod again,
smiling, relieved.
Still feeling ridiculous, though,
but at least
Glory didn’t laugh.
Practice Does Not Make Perfect
Today
it’s layup shots
for Caden.
Of course,
he sti
nks at this.
One of these days,
I’m going to have to tell him so.
I just don’t know how.
Useful Noise
Back home,
I sprint ahead,
take two stairs
at a time,
duck into the bathroom
and lock the door.
Just before I switch on
the shower,
Caden yells,
“Hey! How did I do today?”
I turn the water on
full blast.
“Sorry!” I yell back.
“I can’t hear you!”
Hair
I step from the shower,
catch sight of my wild mane
in the mirror.
Something makes me pause,
capture a damp curl in my fingers,
and pull.
Wonder what I’d look like
if I gave up my usual ponytail
for braids?
Scar
Some monstrous thing
crawled under my skin last night
while I was sleeping,
something hideous that left
a bulging bump on the middle
of my cheek.
This thing’s the size
of Kilimanjaro,
so it’s not like
I can hide it.
With my luck,
Santiago will notice me today,
and how exactly
am I supposed to
explain this thing away?
Enough
Today,
I push Caden into a game
with the neighborhood boys
so he can see
just how bad he is.
A half hour in
he’s swimming in sweat
from chasing up and down the court,
bruised from one too many
body blows
from playing guard,
mad from losing his grip
on the ball
each time he manages
to get his hand on it
for a second.
I shake my head
and yell, “Time!”
then pull him aside.
Give it up
is what I’m thinking.
Instead, I say,
“Go home, Caden.
Just—go home.”
He clenches his fist,
glares at me,
and stomps off the court.
The Plan
The next day,
Caden shows up at my door,
stares silently for the longest.
“What?” I finally ask.
“I thought you got it, Joy.
I thought you understood
why I need to learn that game.”
I sigh, set aside
Bridge to Terabithia,
and tell my little brother
what he doesn’t want to hear.
“You’re okay at sports, Caden,
but your heart’s just not in it
and that shows.”
Now it’s Caden’s turn to sigh.
“I know. I just thought—
since Dad—
you know.”
We both sit silent
till an idea comes to me.
“Hey! Dad’s birthday
is coming up soon.
Why not do a drawing for him?
You’re so good at that,” I say.
Caden rolls his eyes.
“No, seriously.
Do a portrait of him.
He’ll really look at it this time.
Trust me. He doesn’t want
to make Mom mad.”
“Maybe,” says Caden.
“I bet he’ll love it.
You could even do it from
one of his favorite photos.
Like that old one
when he was captain
of his basketball team.”
I can see Caden’s wheels
start to turn.
“You think so?”
I don’t answer.
I just smile.
Seven Kinds of Sorry
The next game
of one on one with Jake
is not what it used to be,
not half as rough
or wordless.
It’s got a new vocabulary
with seven kinds of sorry.
Jake says it every time
he knocks into me on the court
or grazes my leg
or if our chests bump
when we both jump
for the hoop,
him trying to score,
me trying to steal the ball,
or vice versa.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry!
I wish he’d come up
with some other way to say
I didn’t mean
to touch you that way.
I wish he’d quit
saying it
at all.
Looking Back
I sit in my room
at my desk
flipping the wings
of one of the model airplanes
Jake and I
used to build together.
So what if I was a girl,
he was a boy?
Life was simple then.
There was no weirdness.
We were just—friends.
I’m Texting as Fast as I Can
“I’m missing U, KeeLee.”
“Me 2 U.”
“Coming to the girls game today?
We’re playing Woodruff MS.”
“Can’t. Choir.”
“Bummer.”
“I know.”
This is a new dance
for KeeLee and me.
We still haven’t learned
all the steps.
Woodruff Never Had a Chance
Thirty seconds on the clock,
I block out screams
from the bleachers,
power downcourt,
get in place for a pass
from Glory.
Ball in hand,
I feint left,
feint right,
push forward,
work the poor girl
guarding me
into a lather,
then fly for the net
and swoosh!
I’m so hot
it hurts!
If only Santiago
could see me.
Kudos
I feel a pat
on the back,
turn and find Jake
grinning enough
for the both of us.
“Not bad, kid,” he says.
“Glad to see
you remember everything
I taught you.”
I give him
a little shove.
“You wish!” I say.
“Why didn’t you tell me
you were coming?”
“There’s this thing
called a surprise.
Have you heard of it?”
That earns Jake
an eye roll,
but he just ignores it.
“I don’t see any
earrings or lipstick.
That must mean
you’re not expecting
Santiago.”
I shoot Jake a look
that shuts him up.
He raises his hands in surrender.
“See you later,” says Jake.
All he gets from me
is a nod.
Obsessed
I spend the morning
noticing hair:
straight, curly,
wavy, dreads,
braids, twists.
It’s like I’m shopping
for the style that’s right
for me.
Then later, I see Santiago,
whos
e brown curls are
too beautiful for words.
In the packed cafeteria,
I sneak up behind him,
stroke his hair,
and race past him so fast
I crash into a support beam
I never even noticed was there.
That was hours ago
and the roomful of laughter
is still ringing in my ears.
Reminiscing
Don’t know what makes parents
decide to reminisce,
but tonight Mom turns up
in my doorway
in the mood.
“When I was a girl,
I loved to climb trees,” she says.
I look out at the lifeless
lampposts that fill
our street, our city,
and wonder where.
“Then one day,” Mom drones on,
“I just didn’t feel like
scrambling up trees anymore,
and it was okay,
you know?”
I nod, thinking,
There’s got to be a point
in there somewhere.
I just can’t figure out
what.
The Hang-Up
All evening
I think about calling Jake,
about telling him what happened
with me crashing into
that support beam.
It’s the sort of thing
we used to laugh about.
Only this time
the girl in the story
is me.
I pick up the phone,
then put it down again.
I love my friend, but
the last thing I need
is to mention anything
that has to do with Santiago.
Jake doesn’t need to know
what kind of crazy girl
that boy has turned me into.
Huddle
I don’t like the strangeness
between Jake and me lately,
so when Mom mentions
he hasn’t been over for dinner
in a while
I invite him.
Everything seems normal again,
him kicking me under the table,
chewing with his mouth wide open
so only I can see,
both of us sticking our tongues out
at our plates
like we did when we were eight.
Later, washing dishes,
I ask why he’s the same old Jake
when he comes over for dinner
but all weird
when we play basketball these days.