Exposed (3 page)

I hate to admit—
as he puckers his lips
and pretends to try to kiss me—
that I miss these deep discussions.
So instead I say,
“Hope you don’t try to kiss other girls, smelling like that.”

Thoughts

When Mike left for college
a month ago
I thought we’d stay close—
maybe even grow closer.

I thought he’d call me up
and invite me down for a visit.
I’d pack a bag
quicker than I could click my camera
and off I’d go
living a college life
if only for a weekend.

I thought when he’d come home to visit
we’d hang out by the docks
and make up boat stories like we used to do—
who’s stowing away,
who’s sailing off with someone’s stolen loot,
who’ll wind up on a tropical island
or in a shark’s bloated belly.

But I thought wrong.

He hardly ever calls me.
The one trip I took
to Millbrook U

was when I helped lug stuff
into his dorm before Labor Day.

And I only see him now
when a pile of faded jeans
and smelly running gear comes home
crying to be cleaned.

And I don’t want to miss him.
But I do.

I Call Again

Carol answers the phone,
tells me Kate came home at dawn,
that she felt sick
and didn’t want to wake me.

And I feel sick
knowing she’s not.

Bright Penny Beach

“She probably has the flu,
so stop worrying,” Brian says
as we pull off our shoes and socks
later that afternoon
and walk along the water’s edge.

I love the beach in the fall—
no crowds, no searing heat,
no worrying about how
my bathing suit looks.

I worry less about Kate
when Brian finds
a long, weathered stick
and carves
I love Liz
into the cold, wet sand
on Bright Penny Beach.

As the tide rushes in
and, with each ebb and flow,
smooths the surface of his words,
I imagine that Neptune himself
is sending our love
on a current from Cape Cod
all the way to Tahiti.

The Travel Channel says
Tahiti
is the most romantic place on earth.

But I stop believing
when Brian
kisses me on the shore
of Bright Penny Beach.

At the Track Last Spring

The first time I noticed him
he was trailing
too close for Mike’s comfort
as they ran sprints along the track.

After the whistle, Mike said,
“You better slow down, man,”
smiling, shaking his head
just over the line,
sweat flying off his hair like rain
off a wet dog’s coat.

Brian laughed,
patting his glistening neck with a towel,
and told Mike,
“You better speed up.”

“You ready to go?” I asked my brother
as I leaned against the chain-link fence,
staring at this shiny new boy.

“Brian, this is my sister, Lizzie.
Lizzie, this is Brian,
just transferred here from Wilton.
He’s a junior, like you.”

I took in his deep brown eyes,
his sandy blond hair,
his beautiful God-help-me lips
as they formed the word
hello
.

“Check it out, Brian!
My sister’s speechless!” Mike teased.

I grabbed Mike’s towel from the fence
and whipped it at his head
as Brian smiled.

At me.

Time to Study

“Sorry, I can’t stay,” Mike says to Mom
as she lays pale blue dinner plates out on the table.

“But we’ve barely seen you,” she says.
“And dinner is ready.”

Dad asks, “What’s the rush?”

Mike slings his duffel over his shoulder
and grabs a steaming new potato
from the serving bowl,
tossing it from hand to hand to cool it down
before popping it in his mouth.
“I have to study,” he says as he chews.

Mom’s fingers still cling
to that last piece of stoneware
and I want to tell my brother
he should study
the look on Mom’s face,
the way her jaw muscles just went slack
and tightened again in a split second’s time.

Left Out to Dry on Sunday Night

No ringing of my cell.
Inbox is empty.
No blink of forgiveness
on the answering machine.

I leave another message,
“Kate, call me. Please call me,”
and my want hangs
heavy on the line.

Best-Friends Collage

I’m putting together a photomontage,
cropped pictures
of Kate and me at our best,
to help put last night behind us.

This 8½-by-11 sheet of paper
isn’t big enough
to hold every photo,
so I pick some of my favorites:

Noses, bright red,
our arms draped around
a lopsided snowman
made with six-year-old hands.

Flour on our cheeks,
bowl of batter on the counter,
messy nine-year-olds in too-big aprons
attempting to bake something edible.

Buried up to our necks
in the sand on Bright Penny,
Kate’s smile has a gap where a tooth used to be,
must have been seven or eight.

More recent shots, too,
of us being silly,
of us being serious,
of us being us.

I know this collage
is a bit over the top
but I can’t help myself.

I’ve never been good
at guilt.

Making Amends

I see Kate in the hall after first period.
“Hey! Feeling better?” I ask.

She shrugs—“Yeah. A little”—
and tucks a strand of hair behind her left ear.

“I’m sorry about our Slumber,” I say,
handing her the collage.

She looks at it, bites her lower lip.
“I’m sorry, too,” she says. “I have to go.”

“No. Wait!”

But she’s already rounding the corner,
disappearing into a sea of students,
and all I can see of her
is her left hand,
fingers clutching the patchwork picture
of friendship.

Whoosh

I just finished developing
the photo of the woman on the Vineyard
and an idea starts swirling.

I leave the darkroom and place my hands
on the edge of Mrs. Pratt’s cluttered desk.

“I’m thinking of focusing
part of my portfolio
on Vineyard portraits.
Not of day-trippers or rich summer folks
but off-season shots
of what-you-see-is-what-you-get
year-round islanders.”

The swirling turns to a whooshing
as I say the words aloud,
and I hope she likes the idea
because I like the way the whooshing feels.

She leans forward,
clasps her hands around mine
like we’re praying together,
and says, “That sounds wonderful.”

WHOOSH!

Small Talk

“Hi,” I say
at the end of the day
when I catch Kate
coming out of history class.

“Oh! Hi!” she says,
acting surprised to see me,
even though I always meet her here.

We laugh at Mr. Clay’s “Staaap running!” squeak
as he reams out some kid down the hall,
and I ask her if we’re okay.

She says, “Yes,”
in a distant, formal way
that doesn’t sound
okay to me.
“I’m just in a rush.”

And as I watch her dash
down the hallway
I wonder if she’s rushing to
something important
or rushing away
from me.

Home

Mom’s in the kitchen
emptying a bag of groceries
and singing some song about
putting up a parking lot.

I tell her about my portfolio
and she thinks it’s a great idea
but worries about me
spending a lot of time
alone on the island.

“Take Brian with you?” she asks,
then immediately shakes her head.
“You wouldn’t get much work done that way.
How about Kate?”
I swallow hard. “We had a fight at our Slumber.”
“About what?”

“I said mean things about Trevor
and laid into her about not wanting
to major in dance.”

Mom puts a loaf of bread on the counter.
“Kate doesn’t want to major in dance?”

“See!” I tell her.
“I’m not the only one who thinks that’s nuts!”

“Did you apologize?” she asks,
handing me a gallon of milk.

“I tried.”

She reaches up
to put a can in the cabinet.
“You and Kate are like sisters.
Everything will work out.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I hope so.”

As I head to my room,
Mom goes back to singing
something about not knowing
what you have until it’s gone.

Ridiculous

I grab the catalogs from my desk
and start thumbing through them.
So what if Kate’s still mad at me?
I’ve got better things to think about:
The School of the Museum of Fine Arts,
Parsons,
Rhode Island School of Design.

Packets of possibility.

Fine Dining

Brian’s dad brings bundled energy
and a heaping plate of fries
over to the red leather booth I’m sitting in.
“Hi, Liz!” he says.
“Keeping my boy out of trouble?”

“Trying my best.”

Brian scoots in next to me,
kisses my cheek,
grabs a fry.

“You’ve got a half hour left,” Mr. Kent says.
“But it’s a slow Tuesday
so I’ll let you loose.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Mr. K high-fives me
before heading back to the kitchen.
Brian points a french fry at my face.
“How ya doin’?”

He shakes the fry a bit before I answer,
“I’m okay.”

Yesterday, I gave Kate the collage
and our friendship still doesn’t feel
patched up.
But I’m tired of talking about it
so I bite the fry instead.

“How was work?” I ask him as I chew.

“Fine dining at its best,” he says,
which he means as a joke.

But you’ll find no finer fries
anywhere on Cape Cod.
And no finer boy
than my Diner Boy.

No More Hide-and-Seek

I walk toward the cafeteria
after a bad night’s sleep,
which has little to do
with the diner food I ate last night.

Kate, Amanda, and Dee Dee
are up ahead.

Kate sees me, pretends she doesn’t,
walks through the double doors.
She’s been avoiding me
all week long.

I said I was sorry.
That should be enough.
But it’s not and I’m done
playing games.

In the Cafeteria

I sit across from her at our table,
lean forward,
make myself
unavoidable.

Kate focuses on everything but my eyes.
She looks at her hands, the lobe of my left ear.
I take a fumbled cocking-my-head-to-meet-her-gaze step.
She drops her fork and bends down to get it,
perfectly executing the dodge-and-duck dip.

She’s the dancer; I’m not graceful,
and this particular routine exhausts me.

“What’s wrong with you?” I say.
Amanda and Dee Dee stop eating
and stare at me, at Kate,
at each other.

Kate busies herself
stirring her soup in slow circles,
then says to her spoon, “Nothing’s wrong.
I just need some space.”

Space?
What does she mean by
that
?

Space from me?

Before I can ask, she stands up,
swings her backpack over her shoulder,
and grabs her tray.

We’ve always talked out everything
and now she won’t tell me anything.

“What the hell is wrong?
I said I was sorry!
It was just a stupid fight!
Besides, isn’t Trevor the one you need space from?”

I’m in her face now
and everyone is looking at me
like I’m a lunatic.
And Trevor comes up out of nowhere and says,
“What the hell does
that
mean?”

Kate glares at me like she wants to kill me,
then runs from the room.

I still don’t know what her problem is
but I’m trying to convince myself
it’s not
my
problem.

I grab my pride and my lunch
and walk away.

And Then There Were Three

“What’s up with her?” I ask
when Amanda and Dee Dee
follow me into the bathroom.

I can’t believe I’m the one
who doesn’t know
what’s going on with Kate.
I can’t believe I’m asking
them
.

We’re a foursome
made up of two twosomes,
and although there are three of us in the room,
I’m the one left out.

“She’s been quiet with us, too,” Dee Dee offers.

Amanda nods and says,
“Maybe she needs some time alone.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder.
I swat it away.
What does she know about what Kate needs?

“But why is she avoiding me?”
God, I hate how whiny I sound,
but I can’t stop.

Amanda says she doesn’t know,
and she probably doesn’t.
But there’s something—
a glint in her eye—
that makes me think Amanda is enjoying
seeing me sweat it out,
enjoying the fact that I have no clue.

“I’ll talk to her,” she tells me,
hooking her arm into Dee Dee’s,
as her constant sidekick
turns to offer me pity
with big doe eyes.

Advanced Portfolio

Mrs. Pratt makes her way
from table to table,
looking at each of our portfolios.

She’s looking at my stuff now,
bent over, all serious,
and my stomach
is fighting its way up my throat.

She spoke to every other kid
but she says nothing to me,
just grabs one of my pictures
and holds it up over her head.

“This, my friends, is a perfect shot.”

As she puts the picture back on the table
she leans to me and whispers,
“Liz, you can go places.”

Perfect Shot

The young boy’s face is bursting with energy:
openmouthed grin,
eyebrows arched,
gray-green eyes wide with wonder—
sparkling even—
as he cranes his neck
around the larger boy in front of him in line,
to get a good view
of the Flying Horses Carousel.

When I zoomed in on him last summer
the other tourists, flashing lights,
piped-in organ music
faded away—
PMS to the max.