Dating Down (2 page)

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I take the long way home:

Division Street to Western Ave.

My stretch of Chicago.

I receive sisterly questions:

Where were you, Sam?

How come you didn't call?

Did you take Angie Hippo off my bed?

I'm telling Mom.

She's Jane.

And she's not my mom.

I trail behind the household police:

Melanie.

a.k.a. My five-year-old sister.

I walk through the family room:

Vote Henderson!
signs

I see—

Jane.

a.k.a. Queen Vanilla.

pixie cut
breakingbreaking
properly combed

pearls poised
breakingsm
on collarbone

make-up made up
small
diamond studs

She's camera ready.

A posture-perfect picture of primness.

Dad:
sm
Samantha, where have you been?

Me:
sm
Thinking.

Dad:
sm
You're seventeen. How much you got

to think about?

Funny guy.

Suggests I “think” about attending his upcoming rally.

Dad:
sm
Miguel wants the whole family there for pictures.

Primness and rallies—

Equally fake.

Falling fast out of fashion.

My father fawns over Queen Vanilla feigning a

back ache
small
headache
small
something ache

for attention.

Jane:
sm
Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, Missy!

Name's not Missy …

I wrinkle my nose at Jane who's pretending to be

head of the house

sitting upright

uptight

in her chair

trimming and folding

trimming and folding

her campaign contribution.

I bound

up the stairs

thinking it'd be funny

if her perfect pearls

or other jewels

suddenly went missing.

… and you're not my mom.

My Mom

My mom is, graceful.

Her long, wispy limbs balance dishes while dancing.

With standing ovation, I watch a wine glass rest on her head

dazzling

vibrant.

My mom is, doting.

Her grand gasps and glowing accolades, hang on my

artwork.

With reassurance, I gladly give up my Gauguin imitations

encouraging

visual.

My mom is, lively.

Her kinky curls jump as she cracks kooky jokes.

With fascination, I join her clever chorus of “knock knock … ”

witty

vivacious.

My mom is, dead.

Politician for the People

Before he was a

politician for the people

my father was a

devoted son-in-law for Grandpa's business

coach for my soccer team

study partner for spelling bees

supporter for opening Mom's ballet school

cheerleader for my report cards

jokester for April Fool's Day

pizza pusher for movie night

storyteller for bedtime

doting husband for his sick wife

dedicated dad for his only daughter.

But now,

he can't be all those things

for me

and

for everyone else

For the People—Miguel

My father's favorite helper.

His little lackey.

My surrogate brother,

as Dad likes to say.

Miguel

makes everything go away

or come to life

rushing and researching
sm
recommending and reporting

rephrasing and reworking
sm
rebutting and rebuilding

relabeling and realigning
sm
reacting and readdressing

recouping damages

repairing reputations

rewording stump speeches

reviewing voter turnout

restructuring schedules

rethinking and rethinking and rethinking and rethinking.

He's a fixer of problems.

He's along for my father's political ride.

And he's doing it all while receiving his M.B.A.

restructuring his classes

refusing a social life

reassessing his career path

repeating the mantra

A politician for the people, not payoffs!

He's focused and fearless

and sometimes I wonder,

Is it ever rewarding?

For the People—Sam

Some of the people

mainly this person

is for a particular future,

my future.

For the People of Me!

Preparing for senior year—

college at RISD

East Coast bound

Rhode Island and me

where I will learn to be

my own masterpiece.

Setting my goals

setting my sights

painting my way into my own

picture.

In My Bedroom

I set up a fresh canvas.

Study the stark surface.

Prepare for an email from Gavin:

When can I meet this Romeo?

Or pseudo-apology from April:

R U mad at me? Don't be mad at me!

I had to take Ralph's call, right?

I place pink paint

onto the pale canvas

sm
feet dancing
sm
plié
sm
pirouette
sm
lifting tip to toe

like Mom used to teach.

Not Jane
.

A tiny hint of yellow, I

outline the edge of my shoe.

My ballerina shoe.

While the paint dries, I

open my laptop.

My BFFs both email.

I know them so well.

Gavin:
sm
Let's face it. I must meet this dreamboat
.

April:
sm
Sorry to ditch your call for that rat.

Ralph's a rat, right?

My Gavin

my go to

my guru

my glue

my
Green isn't your color

my Geronimo

my GPS

my getaway

my gouache pusher

my Gwen Stefani

my Google

my Gatorade

my gossip column

my gaydar

my gems of wisdom

my granite

my gut instinct

my Geico insurance

my get-'er-done

my gofer

my guardian angel

my goalie

my German Shepherd

my girlfriend

my guy friend

but not

my boyfriend.

April

She's flighty

funny

super bossy

fantastic busybody

flair for drama

and hair color

lip gloss

baggy shirts

and cool-girl kicks.

She loathes pretentious words like

ergo, nouveau riche, lexicon,

loquacious (although she is)

and describing people as fabulous

(apparently until now).

She's constantly changing

constantly obsessed with her

boyfriend

not-boyfriend

boyfriend

not-boyfriend

boyfriend

not-boyfriend

problems with Ralph.

She's the cheeriest person in every

hallway, classroom, café, lunchroom, gymnasium,
theater, shopping mall, taxi, or bus

unless, of course, she's discussing

The Problem with Ralph
.

Regardless,

she's the world's most loyal friend.

The Problem with Sam

Sam washes dishes.

She babysits her sister.

She folds her socks.

Sam saves her money.

She makes her bed.

She flosses.

Sam applies for college.

She wears clean underwear.

She washes her hands.

Sam studies for finals.

She eats her broccoli.

She waxes poetic.

She waxes the kitchen floor.

She attends political rallies.

Sam aims

Sam shoots

Sam misses

her

life,

love.

Next Time I See X

I'm in my favorite faded black jeans,

Gauguin's
Woman with a Mango
T-shirt,

pink and purple charm bracelet,

and my Chuck Taylors.

I'm indie and girlie

at Café Hex.

Pretending to read

Life of Gauguin

I study the paintings

and X's flushed cheeks.

I'm stealthy and artsy

at Café Hex.

He stops by my table.

X:
sm
After my shift, can I accompany you home?

He really says
accompany
.

No high school boy would
accompany
me.

Certainly not Ted.

Jock-head Ted.

High school Ted.

It feels chivalrous, so I agree.

Walking and Falling

We walk

down the tree-lined streets of Bucktown.

Sweet gardenias

blooming from balconies.

Sidewalk cafés

sprouting from nowhere.

Chicago in spring.

We talk

over the finer points of coffee.

Countries and climates

where beans come from

tasting bitter,

tasting bold.

X and me.

He wants to ride his Vespa

through the coffee fields of Columbia.

A tendril of hair flies in his face.

I tell him how I

hate Geometry

love Gauguin.

X:
sm
Sam Henderson. Smart
and
artistic.

Hearing him say it, I actually feel it.

Artistic
.

I can say
sm
anything
sm
everything
sm
nothing

and he will understand.

Are high school boys really that difficult to talk to?

Or

maybe I forget myself when he

looks at me.

Secrets

It only takes his look

a glance.

And suddenly, shivers

a need.

I need to share my secret dream

of painting in Paris.

Even though I know my dad would think it dumb.

Flitting off to Paris to paint?

Me:
sm
I want to be an artist.

X:
sm
Looks like you already are.

He taps the Gauguin book in my arms

making me feel like a canvas

crisp and new

waiting for the acrylics.

It only takes my smile

a grin.

And suddenly, candor

a confession.

He swears he's never shared his dream

of a media empire like Hugh Hefner's.

His laugh is stealth,

like the funny things he says

just slip out the side, unnoticed.

X:
sm
Not the naked girls, of course. His media empire.

He smiles again in that way.

X:
sm
Hef changed the way people looked at stuff.

I'd like to do that.

His sideways gleam

sets the butterflies free in my stomach.

Who is this boy with these charms? These

beguiling gazes, languid movements

and crazy-new thoughts?

A breeze sweeps through the trees.

We stroll down the sidewalk. Me,

not wanting to ever reach

home.

In Flux

We pass a faded blue car

resting like Rip Van Winkle.

Rust spots eat their way through the fender

the front wheel's locked down by the boot,

tickets wallpaper the windshield.

X's car.

An Oldsmobile Rocket.

Says he loves old stuff
sm
records
sm
vintage shirts

he touches my T-shirt

Is he flirting?

and cars.

He looks longingly at his.

I can't tell if his touch is light or loaded,

he's still looking at his car …

X:
sm
She doesn't run right now so I'm storing

her on the street.

His cheeks flush

pink

crimson

burgundy.

His jet-black hair flops to one side.

He tucks it back like he's folding a blanket

hand to hair
sm
tuck behind ear
sm
repeat.

Two guys pass us.

Guys:
sm
Great party.

They pat X on the back
sm
smile at me
sm
walk on.

People know him
sm
like him
sm
party with him.

He places his hands in his pockets,

bows his head.

Is he embarrassed to be with me?

I study his

T-shirt
sm
faded
sm
hole starting along the sleeve

shoelace
sm
untied
sm
trailing as we walk.

His life is—

in a cast

in the boot, or

in flux.

In flux.

Much more exciting than—

in high school

in political rallies

in finals week.

Me:
sm
Well, this is me.

X:
sm
A brownstone.

He nods, flicks his hair.

Melanie peeks out from behind our bay window.

X:
sm
Your sister?

Melanie rests her face against the glass, staring at us.

Me:
sm
She came with the house.

X:
sm
You're funny.

Inside my head,

I throw a party for my brilliant wit.

Outside my head,

I smile.

X:
sm
So, want a lesson in coffee-tasting next time?

I nod, casually.

Neurons snapping in my brain.

A date?

A date!

A date?

A date.

Saturday afternoon

casual
sm
cool
sm
cups of coffee.

X:
sm
You're going to love it.

He winks

I smile

hoping I'm also not blushing

sm
pink

crimson

burgundy.

Me:
sm
Okay. See you Saturday.