Reckless, Glorious, Girl Read online

In My Head

  Sure, time is not a construct

  but does any of that really matter?

  What matters is that it’s Day #1

  of school. & whether time

  is real or not, the zit on my chin

  is real. I really tried to pop it

  this morning & made it worse.

  Of course! The story of my life.

  & I really am wearing a wrinkled top

  & barely had time to get my books

  & get my looks together.

  At drop-off, Mom pulls me in for a hug

  & tells me she’s sorry that she keeps

  losing her temper. She doesn’t even

  know why. I hug back & try to catch

  my reflection in the rearview.

  “Have a great first day of school,

  sweet, sweet Beatrice! Love you always.”

  Alternate Names for the Seventh Grade

  The Place Where No One Knows My Name

  The Place Where Everyone (Except Me) Knows One Another

  Middle of Nowhere

  Nowheresville

  Foreheads, Butts & Other Awkward Body Parts

  Pee on EVERY Toilet Seat

  Place of Dirty Bathrooms & Stinky Classrooms

  Land of Repugnant Lunches

  Body Odor & Sweat Heaven

  Does ANYONE Know What Deodorant Is?!

  Land of Hormones

  Puberty Land

  Land of Changing Bodies

  Place I Can’t Escape

  Science & Math & HELPPPPPPP!

  Not Elementary School Anymore

  Not What Your Mom Said It Would Be

  Not What Your Mamaw Promised

  New Faces & Names

  There are exactly twenty-eight of us in homeroom. Faces

  & names that are new to me. We wear name tags

  to define who we are. The correct spelling, perfect

  pronunciation, say them in my head like a chant.

  As if I’m casting some spell. Abdul, Alejandro,

  Alexia, Avery, Benjamin, Brianna, Chloe,

  Dante, Darnell, Ebony, Eliza, Guadalupe, Henry,

  José, Jessica, Katie, Liam, Lucas, Malik, Mariella, Miles,

  Nicole, Noah, Olivia, Penelope, Rodney & StaceyAnn.

  Not all of us look as scared as I am. But some of us

  look even more scared. Wide eyes & heads rested

  on palms. Shoulders slumped. To me, looks like

  some of us are trying to fit in by not calling too

  much attention to ourselves. & some of us

  are calling lots of attention to ourselves.

  All of us hoping for the same results. To see

  & be seen. For who we are & who we want

  to be.

  Where We’re From

  When Ms. Berry, our new poetry teacher,

  asks us to tell her where we are from, we whine

  & say: Here. Kentucky. Nowhere. But she pushes on.

  Says, “What foods and people and places make you you?”

  She gives us parameters. Some kind of constraints,

  she calls them. Says, “Tell me in ten lines,

  three-word sentences. Go on, try.”

  Beatrice

  Bluegrass-born Beatrice.

  My name’s corny.

  Still love Mamaw.

  Cornbread & butter.

  My whole life.

  Ancestors all Irish.

  Maybe Scottish, too.

  Never been anywhere.

  Love orange soda.

  Garden veggie feast.

  Mariella

  Born: Puebla, Mexico.

  Mole for life.

  Bilingual for life.

  Bicultural for life.

  Mexican flag flying.

  Church is everything.

  Missing home always.

  Kentucky’s still funky.

  Don’t always belong.

  Miss my cousins.

  Miss the sunshine.

  Love StaceyAnn, Beatrice.

  “I know it’s more than ten lines,

  but I had more to say,” Mariella begs,

  handing over her poem.

  StaceyAnn

  Dad = Black.

  Mom = white.

  Me = mixed.

  I know myself.

  I define me.

  Complicated country girl.

  Farmers, factory workers.

  I’m from everywhere.

  Represent the world.

  My own story.

  Social Misfits

  That’s what we call ourselves.

  Mariella, StaceyAnn & me.

  The three mini musketeers.

  Caped crusaders of cool.

  Okay, I made that last one up.

  But we’re a team.

  Awkward on the outside,

  hip & smooth

  on the inside.

  We say it when we hang out

  & when we make silly videos.

  & on the phone

  before we hang up.

  Social Misfits!

  Social Misfits!

  Social Misfits Unite!

  What Everyone Except Me Knows

  Malik knows all the answers.

  Mariella knows all the answers.

  José knows all the answers in English & Spanish.

  Alexia speaks French & Italian at home

  & English when she talks to me.

  & even with all those different ways

  to say the words swirling wild through her head,

  she still knows all the answers.

  I stay asking questions,

  the kind no one else ever thinks to ask.

  Why do zits have terrible attitudes

  & land on my face like they’re trying to move in?

  How much oil can occupy the bridge of my nose

  before I drown? Will I ever look in the mirror

  & really, really love what I see? When people look at me,

  who do they see? What does grown-up feel like?

  Will I always be a kid somehow? What if

  everyone grows up without me & I stay stuck?

  Will my outside ever match what I feel inside?

  The Average Day in Middle School

  8 a.m.: arrive early, since Mom does drop-off

  as soon as she gets off her shift. Pretend to blend.

  Sit near your locker. You still can’t remember

  the combination. Play clueless, then play smart. Ugh.

  Eat second breakfast. Waffle sticks & syrup.

  Pretend the rest of the day will be this sweet.

  8:15 a.m.: homeroom. Keep memorizing. Names

  scroll through your head. Say them when you

  ask for a pencil, extra eraser. Mistakes keep

  happening & you want ways to make them fade.

  Dissolve right before your eyes.

  8:30 a.m.: Ms. Harrison for English language arts.

  Ms. Berry for special poetry class once a week.

  Love reading. Love books. Love disappearing.

  Love words. Love blank pages. Love fairy tales.

  Love fiction. Love poetry. Love storytelling.

  9:15 a.m.: five minutes between classes to: pee,

  never poop (I would truly rather EVAPORATE

  than poop in the middle school bathroom).

  People have done it before, but they never

  returned.

  10 a.m.: science with Mr. Brady. He loves building

  community. But clearly likes boys the most. Says

  things like: “Lucas, Malik, Avery, Darnell, Henry,

  you got it.” “Correct.” “Right again.” “Well done.”

  “So, so, so, so smart.” My hand doesn’t always go up,

  but even when it does, it feels like it flies right

  up & off my arm. Me = melting.

  10:45 a.m.: Español. Mi nombre es Beatrice, excepto

  que mi nombre en español es Margarita.
/>   Lo elegí para ser cool. No creo que esté funcionando.

  Buenos días. Mariella habla con fluidez, así que me siento

  a su lado y pretendo no hacer trampa.

  Pero definitivamente estoy haciendo trampa.

  Google Translation: my name is Beatrice,

  except my Spanish name is Margarita.

  I picked it to be cool. I do not think it is working.

  Good morning. Mariella is fluent so I sit

  next to her and pretend not to cheat.

  But I am definitely cheating.

  11:30 p.m.: LUNCH. Praise God, or the universe, or each

  goddess, the way Mamaw does in our garden every

  morning. I spend all day waiting for this moment. Order

  extra gravy on my mashed potatoes & extra cheese

  on my pineapples. Bardstown, Kentucky, lunches are

  eccentric & delicious in their own ways.

  Mariella & StaceyAnn sit close so we feel like we could

  actually survive.

  12 p.m.: sink back into social studies. The world. Where

  we live & how we live in it. Think: Why did you eat

  so much at lunch? Think: How in the actual world

  am I supposed to keep my eyes open? Head nodding,

  swallowed up by the droning.

  12:55 p.m.: nurse’s office. Text: I swear, I think I’m sick.

  Cold sweats, tired & achy all over. Fever, I’m sure,

  flu season is upon us. Stomachache. Sore throat, sniffles.

  Subtext: “Don’t make me go to gym. Rather perish. Pass

  all the way away. Gym + me = death every time. Death

  by soccer ball. Death by volleyball. Death by anything

  that includes a ball. Please send me home early?!”

  Nurse’s response: You’re fine.

  1 p.m.: gym—NOOOOOOOO!!!!!

  2 p.m.: math + Beatrice = same as gym but worse. Sit

  as far back as possible. Deep breaths. Cease to exist.

  2:45 p.m.: bell rings. Still can’t remember

  locker combination. Names still muddled.

  Find Mariella.

  Find StaceyAnn.

  Find ways to exist again.

  Bardstown Baked

  Takes up a whole block on Third Street downtown,

  next to Benny’s Barber Shoppe & Hurst Drugstore.

  Mamaw’s been working here going on twenty years.

  She calls it: a staple. We call it: delicious.

  Mariella & StaceyAnn & I pretend to study here,

  & every day, Mamaw slips us molasses & oatmeal

  cookies, chocolate chunk & walnut surprise.

  Sometimes she’ll make us her Bluegrass Elixir

  with coffee, extra milk & caramel swirl, or better,

  a slice from one of her fancy cakes like bourbon

  funfetti or Kentucky crumble loaded with raspberries.

  Mamaw calls it “old hand,” but we call it “experimental.”

  A sea of tarts & muffins & almond croissants that melt

  upon first taste. We call it “heaven” sometimes.

  The ultimate reset after a day in middle school hell.

  The Boys in My Class

  Sometimes the boys in my class

  think their voices are smarter & louder & more polished.

  They think they shine—brighter, bolder. Sometimes

  one of their voices starts, and the others join up.

  So they sound just like a chorus.

  Lucas talks louder than all of them.

  It’s like his voice is a trophy

  & he spends all his time polishing it

  & finding the perfect spot to display it.

  Loudly!

  & Mr. Brady seems to like his the most,

  because he’s always calling on him.

  Lucas, what do you think? Lucas,

  how do you feel about it? Let’s start with you,

  Lucas.

  Sometimes, the louder his voice gets,

  the quieter mine becomes.

  Body Moves

  My body moves sometimes—without me.

  In my mind, I’ll be thinking,

  Walkcoolbecoolactcoollookcoolpretendcoolplaycool

  coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool.

  And then just like that—as soon as I’m all

  ice cube, pool in the summer, Popsicle, snow globe,

  freezing rain, twenty degrees, freezer full of ice cream,

  just like that—my body goes lopsided & loose,

  goes all Gumby & stretches when it’s supposed to glide

  & fidgets when it’s supposed to be calm & stumbles

  when it’s supposed to be smooth. & worst of all

  is that it does all this clumsy & uncontrollable

  in front of the people I want to be so coolcoolcool

  in front of.

  Lunchroom Catastrophe

  Just like that, I fall. In the lunchroom. In front of

  EVERYONE!

  Nightmares do in fact come true.

  Here I am, piling my tray.

  Salisbury steak & mashed potatoes,

  double rolls (because they’re heavenly),

  corn loaded with butter & salt,

  & a very large piece of chocolate cake.

  Most of the time, our lunch is super healthy,

  but some of the time, the folks who cook

  get a little wild & let loose their skills.

  They forget about calorie counting

  & good for your heart. Mamaw says

  the cooks in the lunchroom are Southern

  to the bone & still cooking with salt + fat + love.

  She knows most of them, which is why

  my slice of cake is currently overflowing.

  I am planning to share with my crew

  when I exit the line too fast

  & my milk carton tips over,

  tilting too close to my feast.

  I lean to the left, then twist right

  & get caught up in my complete lack

  of coordination, twisting one foot behind

  the other & buckling under the weight

  of keeping everything balanced.

  CRASH

  CLASH

  CLATTER

  CLANG

  SMASH

  THUNDER

  A P P L A U S E!

  It’s such a cliché, but people do in fact

  start to clap. A tradition

  when anyone drops or spills anything

  in any way. StaceyAnn sees me first

  & runs over to help me up. So does Abdul,

  who is standing right behind me.

  I gather my tray & pile what’s left

  of my food & my pride together.

  StaceyAnn whispers in my ear, “Take a bow.”

  I look at her like she’s wilder than I thought.

  “Trust me. Take. A. Deep. Bow,” she urges, nudging me.

  I stop the tears from bursting out of my eyes,

  take a small step forward & gesture the biggest

  & goofiest flourish I can think of, bending down

  all the way. A breathtaking bow for my adoring

  fans. The crowd actually & in real time goes wild.

  People yahoo & roar. A symphony because of me,

  for me, about me. Either way, I am both wilting

  & coming alive inside.

  Alternate Names for the Bathroom

  The place where I go

  to cry

  hide

  stare

  disappear behind a closed door.

  The place that never

  has enough

  soap

  toilet paper

  sanitizer

  sanity

  doors that actually close

  locks that actually lock.

  The place

  where

  no one

  looks for me.

  The place
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  I don’t want

  anyone

  to find me.

  Are You Okay?

  Is the thing Rodney says

  when I walk out of the bathroom.

  “Are you talking to me?” I ask,

  looking behind me.

  He can’t be talking to me. Can he?

  “Yeah, I, uh … just wanted to make sure

  you weren’t hurt or anything.

  You fell pretty hard back there.”

  Yes, he is talking to me. Did he follow me?

  No, he couldn’t have followed me.

  “I followed you to make sure everything was okay.

  You were in the bathroom for a while

  so I just … I wanted to make sure.”

  He was following me. OMG.

  “Oh, you mean that little fall back there?

  Oh, that was nothing. I fall all the time.”

  What are you even saying?!

  “Oh, good. I just figured someone

  should come and check on you.

  I mean, it sucks,” he says,

  throwing his arms out.

  “If only we had those superpowers,

  you know? Fast healing, invisibility,

  either of those would’ve worked.”

  “Yeah, I could’ve really used invisibility

  back there.” I could really use invisibility

  ALL THE TIME.

  He pushes his dark, wavy hair away from his face

  & smiles so wide it makes his eyes

  light up. & his smile makes me smile too.

  Well, maybe not all the time.

  Supernatural Powers & Abilities

  After school, I sit with Rodney outside

  while he waits for his dad to pick him up.

  He pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper