After the Kiss (21 page)

An End, a Beginning

It wasn't

as bad as I thought.

He called me again,

I finally answered,

told him,

—once and for all—

I'm sorry; I can't.

Now Mom sits,

filling out St. Andrews papers;

spring break is next week,

and we are going up to see.

I have my pen too—

a new job application:

there's more that is needed,

more money to save.

We are peaceful together,

and pleasantly tired.

The future curls up

on our back porch,

presses its back to the door, waits

until morning.

One Is Silver, the Other Gold

Jenna is nervous

in the parking lot before school,

but Jonah tells her

we will bring down the house.

We have practiced for days

and now it is time,

but she is not sure we can say

high-class prostitute
in class.

But that's the best part!
Jonah cries with a gasp,

and I remember his mom

bringing cupcakes in sixth grade.

These are my old friends,

this is my new,

they are mixing together

like vinegar and oil: separate, but still savory

—essential with zest.

The bell rings and Jenna's eyes

are flung at me, wide,

I hook my arm in hers sing,

Ooo you're a leg-end, Dave.

and she busts out laughing like she always does.

Paloma says not to worry,

as she follows us to the building,

she has seen us together

and knows

we'll be great.

Alternative Heat

Two days and Alec hasn't written,

won't write

—will never write me again.

And there is still a place inside me,

an empty place where once a fire burned,

and lava flowed.

There may always be a trail of ash there.

But that fire burned only

in a darkened cave

where two people

sat alone together.

Out here

in the sunshine

I have other ways to keep myself warm.

Nostalgia

Driving by the coffeehouse

—and I could go in.

I have meant to call Nadia

but it still seems too weird.

I miss Denver and his juggling,

but my little crush was dumb, and he was never

more than friendly.

I wonder about the redhead,

if she's forking up cake,

if she misses me, knows

I won't ever be back.

I wonder if I saw her

if I'd say anything,

or if I'd let her stride by

in her knee-high boots.

I picture her biting

her stubby fingernails.

I hated her;

I loathed her;

but I don't anymore.

I'm not sorry I won't see her,

not sorry she's gone,

just sorry

we didn't meet

in a different way.

Self-Portrait (with apologies to Robert Creeley)

She wants to be

a bold woman,

an energetic woman

as bright, as brave

as the eccentrics around her.

She doesn't want compromise,

nor to be excessively nice (nor cruel)

to anyone. Just herself,

and final in her beautiful,

her total, embracing of it all.

She tried the angry,

the hateful, the “Oh, let's

stick knives in each other”

and it was awful,

bumbled, wholly inconsequential.

Now she'll stand on

her own strengthening legs.

Her arms, her skin

glow daily. And

she hates, but loves equally.

the final leap

dear neil—i'm sorry i haven't written before now. i'm sorry for a lot of things, but especially for the way i left you. next week is spring break and i'm coming to chicago. i hope that you'll see me. i hope you'll say yes.

 

 

Everyone always thanks their editors in these things, but in my case it is particularly necessary. Anica, thank you for knowing me so well and for cheering and coaching and guiding and suggesting and advocating and in general making me a better person and writer. Next I must thank Andrew and Jenny at Java Monkey, for their excellent decaf and croissants, but mainly for their friendliness and all their helpful insider information. To the poetry coaches in my life—the people who inspired and educated and formed me—this book absolutely could not exist without you: Mrs. Shepard, Mrs. Merickel, Ron Bayes, Ralph Berry, plus Matt (Holden), Dan, Carissa, Brad, Jose, and above all Mr. Davis.
All
the completely amazing people at Simon & Schuster (Bethany, Jen, Bess, Emilia, Mara, Annette, Russell, Tom, Jim, Victor, Christina, Mary, Venessa, Lucille, Nicole, Paul, Carey, Brenna, and Lauren) get a big thank-you kiss on the cheek for the hard work and incredible support. Cara Petrus earns an extra-juicy kiss for the amazing cover and for always presenting my books in such a tasty way. I think I've said once before that I cannot thank my family enough for simply helping to make me me, and the same thing goes here. Nat and Casey, thanks again for the high school low-down. Amy, thank you as always for all your serious counsel, but special thanks for just being there this whole time. Thank you too to everyone at (or in) Little Shop of Stories for being totally awesome. Finally—best, favorite, and deepest thanks to Scott, for bringing the poet alive in me again.

From
Pure

by
Terra Elan McVoy

 

When we get to the Midtown YMCA the music's already
slamming, and it's crowded. Twenty yards inside the main doors are throngs of people we both know and don't: kids from youth groups across the metro-Atlanta area, including a lot from Decatur, where we live, plus some who were bussed in from way outside the perimeter, just for this. You can feel everyone's glee to be here, which is what makes JGCC dances way better than ones at school, where everyone's too cool to do anything. The DJ is onstage with his mixing board: some prematurely balding college kid with perfectly broken-in Cons and rainbow suspenders; a guy who likely thinks DJ-ing for a bunch of Christian kids is some kind of ironic alterna-cool, though the joke's on him 'cause everybody's digging his groove so much, he's genuinely getting into it.

Right away, we see Wedge, one of the youth ministers at Morgan's church, standing close to the stage, nodding his head to the beat. There's this ten-yard radius of emptiness surrounding him, like everyone knows about his “Save Britney” website.

Regardless, Morgan bounces over to him, chattering like mad. The music's too loud to tell what she actually says, so Priah and I don't even try to pretend to follow the conversation. We scan the crowd instead: a mass of shirts and faces, people dancing, an arm going up—a head flung back. Out there on the back edge is Cameron, the Methodist poster child for gayness, surrounded by his savior angels: girls from his church and our school who are determined to love Cameron despite his refusal to See the Light (i.e., Convert to the Straight Side). More faces, more folks I don't know—I'm looking for Naeomi's face somewhere out there—and then,
omigah,
there he is.

“Come on,” Priah says, just as the DJ starts a remix of some old Madonna, “I love this song.” Pree's knack for timely diversions is so keen it's almost spooky, but I don't dwell on it as she pulls me into the crowd and we start to dance. I concentrate on the music, on Priah's big smile, instead of wondering whether Jake saw me, if he saw me see him, if he didn't want to see me, blah blah blah. Instead, I'm just dancing. Or trying to. This really
is
a good song, even if it is kind of old, and Priah's fun to dance with, because she's so good, though not the kind of good that makes you feel bad dancing next to her. I smile back, only occasionally looking over her head, telling myself I'm looking for Cara, and am not, in fact, trying to spot Jake again.

Morgan butts into us then, yammering excitedly, but we just swing our hips and jerk our knees and fling our arms, too happy to listen. She gets it and moves with us too, and soon we are all sweaty and grooving. Some girl from the Unitarian church near
my house—the first one my parents took me to in their Tour of Houses of Worship back when I was seven and they thought I should at least be exposed to
some
religion, the one I think they'd attend if they still cared about church—bangs into us and we all smile and wave and do a little dip-you-dip together as a foursome, and the DJ takes us to another hip-hop level, and the whole gym seems to be smiling and . . . just. . .
dancing.

About twenty minutes later Naeomi has arrived. We open our circle to include some kids from we-don't-know-where, who have this kind of tribal-edge vibe to them (shaved parts of heads, black cargo shorts, chains, “native” tatts on their forearms), and who occasionally bust into this awesome break dancing thing with each other. This DJ has a penchant for the old school, but it's okay because the music is good and my friends are here and everyone is into it. Even Naeomi seems in a good mood. When I scream to her “Where's Cara?” in the middle of the next song, she simply shrugs and smiles and lets this tall Rasta dude grab her hands and pull her into a cute swing-shuffle. I figure if Cara's best friend can take it, I'd better chin up over her absence too.

After another good forty-five minutes, it gets hot—really hot—and Morgan says, “I need to sit.” Without protest we all grab hands and follow her to the back of the gym. We sit on the bleachers together about halfway up. Next to me Priah sweeps her hair off her neck. I give my own braids a little pat to make sure they're still holding, and am glad to find they are. Naeomi fans herself and then Priah, and Morgan leans back on her elbows, watching the crowd before us. Her face is even and cool, but when she catches me staring, she twists her mouth into this goofy grimace, stretching her lips in different directions, her eyes rolling back. We crack up.

The DJ starts a slow set then. The chaperones all take a few steps forward as couples immediately form and lean in together. I'm glad we're already sitting, so we don't look like we got driven off the dance floor just because we don't have slow-dance partners, like most of the masses now swarming to the bleachers around us. I've done a pretty good job so far of not really thinking about Disappearing Jake, but now I can't help it. I wonder where in the crowd he might be, if he's out there already somewhere, leaning on some other girl.

Ugh. Awful thought. So I watch Cameron twirl a chubby girl in purple tights and a scraggy tulle skirt around instead. A few other people start twirling too. We are all watching, not wanting to be. I look at Morgan and wonder if she wishes Cody were here, or is glad that he's not. She's been either quiet or exasperated whenever he's come up lately, which means, based on her track record, that a breakup is imminent, though I still haven't figured out if it'll come from him or her.

My eyes move to Priah. Of all of us, she's the one who wants a boyfriend most, and this makes her a prime candidate for getting wistful and sobby during the slow dances. There was this boy she had a “relationship” with back in Allegany and even though they only kissed that one time, they kept up pretty well during our freshman year. After school started again in September, though, he
stopped writing her back (Morgan and I figure he found someone actually in his own town, but whatever), and Priah got pretty melodramatic, especially since that was when Cara and Michael started getting serious for real. Priahs better now, but tonight I want to make sure she is still holding on to our shining happy dancing moments, instead of sinking into sad sighing. I want to catch her eye, to thank her for my fantastic hair, but as I'm trying I have to look away real fast because about ten feet beyond her is
him.
Jake. Jake Harper. Jake from Old United and Seymour High. Jake from Valentine's weekend. That Jake. Him.