Reckless, Glorious, Girl Read online

cherries & sweet juice.

  Another birthday cake

  & more candles. Mom

  invites her coworkers

  & Mamaw invites hers

  too. Along with a special

  someone she thinks

  Mom will like. The house

  full & smelling like sautéed

  onions & garlic all day.

  Mariella & StaceyAnn

  want all the scoop. Say

  I better be there for them

  at StaceyAnn’s birthday

  at the roller-skating rink.

  Join Mamaw in giving thanks,

  say a silent one for friends

  who love me

  exactly the way I am.

  Mamaw Dancing Was So Beautiful

  It near made me cry. & I would have.

  Had there not been a whole Friendsgiving

  crowd staring & standing in her sway.

  She was all casual & catapult.

  Smooth & shoulders.

  Sunset & banjo.

  Hips & hilltops.

  With everyone watching. Eyes

  wide. She reached out to me.

  & I went ahead & joined her.

  Twirling & bumping. Shaking

  & erasing all the ideas other folks

  might’ve had of me & us & all

  I was & am capable of. Yeah,

  I went ahead & shook

  till I couldn’t shake

  no more.

  What Money Can’t Buy

  Feeling this full.

  A cool November night,

  singing songs together,

  porch sitting, still holding hands.

  All of us & a bonfire in the yard.

  S’mores soon or something

  to satisfy sweet teeth.

  My mom’s voice lifting

  me right up.

  The garden still alive,

  not quite frozen over

  just yet. The earth

  & the people

  who love me

  still beating

  & pulsing

  around me.

  Reasons Mariella & StaceyAnn Are Forever Friends

  In first grade, I wet my pants in the bathroom.

  Mariella found me crying & rushed to ask for help.

  She brought a change of clothes & stayed with me

  talking me down from my elementary school panic

  & never told one other person about it.

  In third grade, Joey Blane said his dad knew my dad

  & said my dad was a good-for-nothing. I knew enough

  to cry & tell the teacher, who said she couldn’t prove it.

  StaceyAnn believed me anyway & socked him in the jaw.

  She got a week’s detention from recess. I sat inside

  with her every single day.

  In fourth grade, we perfected our dance routine to every

  single Beyoncé song. Entrances & exits. We recorded

  our future YouTube videos—gave ourselves new names.

  I was Crystal, StaceyAnn was Rebel,

  & Mariella was Queen.

  In fifth grade, we wrote a zine called: Country Stories

  & wrote down all the tallest tales

  we’d heard from family.

  We put on a production of: Bardstown Secrets

  & pretended we lived in a ghost town. Set up scavenger

  hunts, built whole cities with dolls & blocks.

  Spent all our days together.

  In sixth grade, we crowned ourselves the Social Misfits.

  Then it didn’t matter who liked who & who had a crush

  on who. What mattered was making each other laugh,

  the best food from the best garden,

  Mariella’s family’s restaurant,

  StaceyAnn’s dad’s dirt bike.

  Our families & the ways they all held us.

  What matters now is I get it. Know the truth

  & how to hold friends as close as possible.

  As long as possible.

  Girls Are Bad Drivers—Part I

  “No way,” I say, my mouth

  full of pepperoni pizza.

  “You should see my mamaw.

  The way she takes corners

  & hills, she …” I look up,

  see everyone watching me.

  On the inside, the conversation goes something like this:

  What is wrong with you, Beatrice Miller?!

  Did you just bring up your granny

  in a conversation at StaceyAnn’s

  birthday party

  when everyone else is steady drinking soda

  & being normal everyday seventh graders?

  Are you bonkers? Did you just brag

  about the way your mamaw takes corners?!

  AHHHHHHHHHHH!

  Silence.

  On the outside:

  “Oh, I just mean, uh, she’s

  really fast is all. And, uh, a really

  great driver. That’s all I meant.

  Like, she could beat you in a race.”

  Inside: Why are you still talking?

  Shut up, Beatrice. Seriously.

  Outside: “Also, that’s a total stereotype

  to say that all girls are bad drivers.

  & it’s not true. At all. Fact is my mamaw

  could beat you at any race.”

  Inside: NOOOOOOO!!!!!

  Lucas starts laughing, says,

  “I’d beat your granny any ol’

  day. And I’ve been in the car

  with my mom & my sister

  & my grandma. What I said

  is true. Girls Are Bad Drivers.”

  Prove It

  StaceyAnn says. She’s listening

  in behind me. Fired up for sure.

  She’s been go-karting

  & motorbiking & tractor-ing

  since she was nine & cruising

  on the back of motorcycles

  with her dad & her mom.

  Not scared of any highway

  or back road. If I was in trouble,

  I’d all the time want StaceyAnn

  riding along beside me.

  & she beats us all at Grand Prix.

  Swears her mom said she’d teach

  her in the school parking lot

  after the eighth grade. “A woman

  should know how to drive

  a stick shift & an automatic,”

  she’s all the time saying.

  So I know a good challenge

  when I see one. & I know that Lucas

  (who was only invited

  because StaceyAnn’s mom

  insisted they invite the whole class)

  is going down.

  Girls Are Bad Drivers—Part II

  Lucas says it again

  right before StaceyAnn

  CRUSHES

  his score at Grand Prix Legends.

  It’s easily

  the sweetest defeat

  I’ve ever seen.

  We all whoop & shout.

  I’m not positive

  but I think Rodney yells loudest.

  My snow cone nearly flips

  out of my hand, & Mariella

  skates straight out on the rink,

  raises her arms to the disco ball,

  & shouts, “YEAHHHHHHH.”

  She knows a win when she sees one.

  The DJ (also our gym teacher)

  plays “Last Night a DJ Saved My Life”

  by Indeep & we know this

  because he keeps shouting

  the lyrics into the microphone.

  StaceyAnn pulls back & hugs me

  around the neck. “I won,”

  she whispers. “She won!” I shout,

  smiling hard at Lucas.

  He kicks the machine & it sings,

  “W-w-w-WIPE OUT!”

  As if on cue, as if the whole

  roller-skating rink

  is in on the joke.

  He sulks down low />
  in his chair. Tries to say

  “do-over,” but no one

  hears him over our voices

  all rising up over him

  & his old-fashioned

  ideas.

  Berry Teaches Us Self-Love & Worth—Lesson One Trillion

  She

  tells us:

  write our dreams

  vision future

  selves & how to soar

  take it seriously

  never underestimate you

  & all you’re capable of now

  they’ll try & tell you girls don’t know how

  change their perceptions just by showing up

  Shift the way they see you, show yourself off

  pride is only ugly if you’re lost

  or bragging out of turn; you’re not

  show them the Beatrice I see

  the one you keep hiding

  one you’ve stowed away

  scared of yourself

  don’t let them

  define

  you

  Beatrice Miller’s Abecedarian

  Always

  Believing

  Crying

  Dreaming

  Every

  Fantasy

  Gargantuan

  Hypnotizing

  Inspiring

  Jarring

  Kaleidoscope

  Laughable

  Magic

  Natural

  Obsessive

  Perfectionist

  Quirky

  Rambunctious

  Soaring

  Talkative

  Understanding

  Verse

  Wacky

  Xenodochial

  Young

  Zany

  Winter on Its Way

  Rain

  won’t stop,

  pours endless

  from above, makes

  me hold all my breath

  & count every minute

  & replay every second.

  All of me is crying inside,

  feels so much like outside, I open

  my windows & put my face to the sky.

  Mamaw Says

  Walking empties your brain,

  so we keep at it. Sometimes

  with weights on both ankles

  & two-pounders in our palms.

  She keeps up a speed

  that has me huffing & puffing.

  “Pump those legs, Beatrice.

  Work those biceps.

  Use that core.

  A good heart

  is one that lasts

  & keeps on ticking

  & tick-tick-ticking.”

  Know she’s thinking

  of Papaw & how his heart

  gave on out. Up & stopped

  on her & us.

  We hoof it on straight

  through the cemetery,

  kiss our palms & offer

  our own healthy hearts

  & lungs. “Gotta remember

  even when they’re gone,”

  she says. Then: “Pick up

  the pace.” Circle the block,

  school parking lot. She loves

  to run laps around town,

  then the football field

  & up & down the bleachers.

  If you think grandmas

  are old & lazy,

  then you definitely haven’t met mine.

  She teases me while doing squats.

  Pumps her arms in victory.

  Laps me & giggles.

  After a while, I let her.

  Tell her I need a water break.

  Lean back on the bottom bleacher

  & feel the almost winter sun

  wash over my face.

  When I open my eyes,

  I see Rodney Murphy

  looking right back at me.

  & changing the whole

  shape of my day.

  What’s Up

  Rodney says, shading his eyes with his palm.

  I’m still breathing harder than I should be.

  He looks up to the top of the bleachers,

  Kentucky’s sunshine reflecting back from his silver

  sunglasses. I stay squinting up at him.

  And you can’t miss Mamaw,

  who’s wearing her neon-green biker pants

  & exercise cape, which she assured me was in fashion

  but I’m beginning to think

  she just cut the arms off an old sweatshirt,

  fanned it out in the back

  & then extended the truth so’s I wouldn’t say anything.

  She’s singing at the top of her lungs.

  “I got a new attitude.” We both smile.

  “So that’s your mamaw, huh?”

  “Well, nobody else would claim her,” I say

  & instantly feel guilty, even though I know

  she’d laugh at that too.

  I know Rodney is thinking about what Eliza said

  & the word “crazy” is probably right at the top

  of his tongue too, but he just looks at her

  & then back at me.

  Says, “I think ‘eccentric’ is a good word for her.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I say.

  “Also ‘wild’ and ‘unique’ and ‘super special’

  and ‘one of a kind.’”

  “Yeah,” he says,

  “kind of like you.”

  The Color of Tomatoes—

  Is what I turn

  when Rodney says this.

  The petite ones we plant

  in our side garden.

  Ultimate red-faced,

  I start to say “thank you”

  but then hear footsteps

  barreling down the middle.

  “Is that Rodney?” she loud-whispers in my ear.

  “I can hear you,” he says,

  & they both laugh. What is happening?

  “Mamaw, meet my friend Rodney.

  Rodney, this is Mamaw, my grandma.”

  “Who is sometimes mistaken

  for Beatrice‘s sister and sometimes

  mistaken for her great-grandma.

  I am what you call a shape-shifter.”

  “An original,” Rodney says,

  & Mamaw & I both smile.

  Mamaw says, “You know what

  I could use after a good workout?

  A cupcake,” she answers herself.

  “And I know just the place.

  Rodney? Join us?”

  And That’s How We End Up

  We help ice two dozen

  double-chocolate cupcakes,

  our gloved hands working

  double-time at Baked

  while Mamaw hums, turns

  the radio up & bounces

  from countertop to stove.

  The kitchen smells so sweet,

  I almost think I’ll pass out.

  Can’t tell if it’s the sugar

  or the way my heart

  is bump, bump, bumping

  in my chest. This falling

  for someone. Is as much

  a workout. As running

  up all those steps. Feels

  as good to me as all

  that blood pumping,

  arm raising, jumping-

  jack doing & speed

  walking combined.

  The Walk Home

  Rodney doesn’t hold my hand

  but bumps into me twice, gentle

  & easy. Says he’s sorry about score

  sheets & Spin the Bottle. Says he’d love

  to hang out sometime. Talk comic books

  & ice cream flavors. He’d love to grow a garden,

  something from the earth. At my doorway, I lean in,

  surprising myself & Rodney both. Is this what

  firecrackers feel like? My mouth is a field of strawberries.

  It’s a tree swing flying to the clouds. Or clouds too full

  to the bursting point of rain. Pouring.

  I�
�m lit up—a skyline of some city I’ve never visited

  or seen but can imagine. New York or Chicago.

  That’s how I feel inside. Yes. That’s how I imagine

  my heart feels inside too. Kissing for the first time,

  a fresh, new magic.

  When I Can’t Sleep—Episode 4,592

  Walk

  all night

  through my mind

  so cavernous

  I nearly get lost

  imagine myself whole

  striding into school so cool

  I nearly glide across the surface

  people watch me & say, who’s that girl

  did we just meet, is she new, what’s her name?

  Can’t believe I’m the same Beatrice as old

  like some new, shiny bold; I’m like gold

  I shimmer when they look my way

  don’t shy from their attention

  I go on, soak it all in

  let them praise the new me

  when they ask, Beatrice?

  I just say, yes

  you missed me

  the first

  time.

  Happy New Year

  Mamaw whispers in my ear

  & I actually believe it will be.

  The three of us sit outside,

  Mamaw, Mom & me,

  the way it has always been.

  We let all the stars & all the sky shine

  & all the dust of the earth

  & all the planets

  & all the matter

  & all that matters

  watch over us.

  Atmosphere & design—however life

  decides to unfold. Mom is home

  for tonight. Cradling & holding us.

  We have already devoured her lentil soup,

  loaded with sweet carrots & potatoes,

  lemon meringue pie piled tall as a tower.

  We’ve already laid out all our crystals

  & written our wishes on tiny slivers

  of paper, burying them deep into the soil

  for next year. Mamaw’s got so many sayings,

  sometimes I can’t hardly keep them straight

  in my brain.

  But I’ve got the feeling this one’s

  going to stick with me.

  She says, “You’ve got to nurture and tend