Yellow Mini Read online

tonight

  to a place I never

  expected to be: inside

  the Yellow Mini,

  listening to Mark

  talk about

  his dad’s death

  and his quest to bury

  his dad’s key.

  He even showed me

  the dirt in his nails,

  as if he thought

  I wouldn’t believe him,

  as if it really mattered

  that I did.

  Then he said he wanted

  to show the spot to

  someone and he thought

  that someone could be me,

  that something about me

  made him think

  I’d get it

  and not laugh

  at him or call

  him crazy.

  The whole time

  I was listening

  I kept thinking

  how strange it was

  to be inside

  the car

  that is normally

  reserved

  for popular people,

  like maybe it was all

  a mirage,

  Except Mark was real

  enough, gripping

  the steering wheel,

  turning to me,

  telling me

  more and more

  of his story,

  the words pouring out

  inside the metal hull,

  my ears their only

  audience,

  like he was performing

  a symphony of sorrow

  just for me.

  I kept thinking

  he’d eventually notice

  who he was talking to

  and stop and try

  to lock his words

  back up inside

  the tough image

  of himself he likes

  to project at school,

  but he talked

  all the way home,

  then even more

  in the driveway.

  When he said that what he did

  with the key was weird

  but simple, I told him

  that Chopin said Simplicity

  is the highest goal.

  That’s what I strive for

  when I play.

  He thanked me

  for listening and said he hoped

  I’d forget about

  what happened

  at the party

  because shit like that

  happens to everyone

  and that, in the grand scheme

  of things, it didn’t really matter.

  And the funny thing was,

  as I walked into my house

  later than ever before,

  my mom trying

  her best to hide

  in the curtains,

  like she thought

  I’d come home

  in a million

  pieces,

  it suddenly didn’t.

  Simplicity

  Stacey's Mom

  It was so simple:

  his two arms around

  her, forming such a lovely

  shape, one that’s been captured

  in so many ways through the years

  in so many famous works of art. As

  I watched, I couldn’t help thinking how

  hugging used to come to us so naturally; we

  did it with both girls, and each other, all the time,

  yet just now it was like he had to relearn the gesture,

  like someone in rehab, learning to walk after an accident.

  Into the Adult World

  Annabelle's Mom

  It’s like Annabelle’s growth replaced

  mine—her limbs, her hair, her ability

  to laugh and walk and talk became my

  milestones, my own thwarted.

  I used to envy the girls I’d graduated

  with when I saw them, turning

  from girls into women, their newfound

  confidence and plans for the future.

  They’d coo over Annabelle in her stroller

  and, in a way, I knew they envied me,

  like they thought I was the one who’d

  crossed over into the adult world.

  They thought becoming a mother gave me

  an automatic ticket, one that let me

  bypass all the growing up

  they still had to do.

  On the outside, I was doing adult things:

  shopping for food, banking, arranging daycare,

  but inside I was still seventeen, shy, unsure,

  stepping timidly outside of myself.

  It took me years to make my way

  from secretary to agent, baby steps up

  the ladder, learning to speak up

  and walk like I really belonged.

  Now, watching Annabelle pack for New York,

  flinging her generic clothes into her bag,

  I know it will all be different for her—

  nothing will hold her back.

  I want to grab her and hold her and tell her

  how proud I am of who she is. I did a better job

  than I expected. She is stepping out the way

  I wish I could have. Part of me will

  go with her.

  LIGHTENING UP

  Mark

  Tonight, I don’t feel the full

  weight of my body

  when I hit the mattress.

  Like before

  I buried my dad’s key,

  I wasn’t a body

  but a torpedo clunking down

  ready to explode

  And send bits of heavy metal

  all over my room

  and through the walls

  to my mom’s room

  Where she sleeps alone in a king

  -sized water bed that must

  feel wide as an ocean

  beside her.

  Tonight, I want to wake her up

  and show her how light

  I am, like she could lift

  me up herself.

  It sounds crazy but I picture

  the two of us doing

  an old-fashioned dance,

  twirling around,

  My hand on her small back,

  steering her away

  from the clutter of stuff

  we should

  Go through one day, things

  like my dad’s big oak

  desk under the window,

  or his stacks

  Of Outdoor Life magazines

  that are so covered in dust,

  they look exactly like

  tombstones.

  First Step

  Annabelle

  Sunday night

  Packing for New York,

  I picture this:

  The bus crossing

  the Lincoln Tunnel, emerging

  into Manhattan, Christopher and me pointing

  out the Empire State Building

  the Chrysler Building,

  and other famous landmarks.

  The yellow taxis winding

  through busy streets, cutting

  through Greenwich Village, taking

  us to where the conference is waiting

  at NYU.

  In the morning,

  the store grates scraping,

  pigeons cooing,

  and cars honking

  will wake everyone up and send us hurry
ing

  to our workshops.

  In the evening

  Christopher and I will be gazing

  at stars splashed across the high ceiling

  of the Planetarium

  My mom is helping

  me pack and I can feel her thinking

  that this is my first step to leaving

  her behind—she keeps sighing

  heavily, like she is picturing

  the saddest things in the world.

  I know it wasn’t easy, having

  me so young, raising

  me alone, putting

  her dreams on hold, forgetting

  about things she’d been wanting

  to do forever, like dancing

  on Broadway, singing

  in musicals, taking

  on the world like I am about to.

  I can’t imagine anything stopping

  me from living

  the kind of life I want.

  And when we’re in the workshops, learning

  about ways to make a difference, sharing

  ideas with other kids, I know I’ll be thinking

  about my mom, working

  at a job she doesn’t really like, giving

  me so much.

  Whatever I end up doing

  it will have meaning

  because of her.

  I won’t leave without telling

  her that.

  On the Bus

  Christopher

  Packing for New York

  I picture this:

  Greyhound rolling

  down the highway

  in the middle of the night.

  Through the mountains

  climbing, falling

  in the path of high-beam light.

  In the window

  we’re reflected,

  touching, talking, sleeping tight.

  MY YELLOW MINI

  Mark

  Is bright as the sun,

  speedy and slick.

  It takes me places I need to go,

  determined and quick.

  Maybe it’s true that my dad wouldn’t have wanted me

  to buy it. Maybe he would’ve seen it

  As a ticking time bomb, like the one that landed

  on his roof as a kid.

  But I don’t believe that—not now that it helped me

  find the land he loved. Now,

  If he’s looking down, he’ll see me and Mary

  winding up the mountain.

  He’ll hear me humming Chopin

  and he’ll know that I’m okay.

  Copyright © 2011 Lori Weber

  Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8

  Published in the United States by Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8.

  www.fitzhenry.ca [email protected]

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Weber, Lori, 1959-

  Yellow mini / Lori Weber.

  ISBN 978-1-55455-199-6 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-838-4 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8645.E24Y44 2011 jC813’.6 C2011-905599-6

  Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S)

  Weber, Lori, 1959-

  Yellow mini / Lori Weber.

  [ 248 ] p. : cm.

  Summary: A powerful free-verse novel that intertwines the coming-of-age stories of five teens and

  their relationships with each other, their parents, and themselves.

  ISBN: 978-1-55455-199-6 (pbk.), 978-1-55455-838-4 (epub)

  1. Teenagers – Juvenile fiction. 2. Parent and teenager – Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  [F] dc22 PZ7.W4347Ye 2011

  Fitzhenry & Whiteside acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

  Cover and interior design by Daniel Choi

  Cover image courtesy Christie Harkin

  eBook development: WildElement.ca