Reckless, Glorious, Girl Page 7
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.
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
/>
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