Yellow Mini Read online

Her hands dance

  across the keys

  And I always wonder what she sees:

  a forest of silver trees

  or a frosted moonscape

  of sparkling craters,

  the perfect place

  for her music to soar

  above the galaxy?

  Con Forza

  With force

  Mary

  My piano teacher is pushing me

  to audition for the Talent Show.

  It’s like a conspiracy,

  everyone wanting me to play.

  He says:

  It’s a shame not to share

  your music with the world.

  It’s like a painter

  never showing her art

  or a poet never reading her words.

  My mom says:

  Why did we pay for all those lessons

  if you won’t play in public?

  My dad says:

  Listen to your mom!

  I say:

  When I’m not playing

  parts of me drift, like notes

  lifted off the bars, floating

  aimlessly in space.

  Isn’t it enough that I feel best

  when I’m playing, that playing

  makes me feel most like the me

  I was meant to be?

  Isn’t that worth your money, Mother,

  or would you rather see me

  in pieces, lost, with nothing

  to make me whole?

  Lucky

  Stacey

  I know I’m not Mark’s first girlfriend,

  but I think he likes me best.

  The rest were all too clingy, always wanting

  him to call and take them to the mall.

  They didn’t understand that Mark

  needs to keep moving

  and only he can decide

  where he wants to go.

  Sure, he wants you beside him

  but you’ve got to be willing

  to bend in and buckle up

  and put up with his moods,

  ride them out with him,

  no matter where they lead.

  Sometimes, we drive all the way

  to the border, where

  he’ll park and stare

  as though he’s plotting

  his escape.

  At moments like that

  you have to sit still, keep

  your mouth shut and wait

  until he’s worked it out.

  Then he comes back

  and sees you

  and remembers

  how lucky he is

  to have you there,

  all pretty and sexy

  in your tightest clothes.

  You can feel him shift

  toward you, his eyes

  glossy, his pants straining.

  You’ve waited hours for that look

  because it makes you feel

  a thousand feet tall,

  even though he still hasn’t

  said a single word.

  Just Because

  Christopher

  My friends tell me

  to forget it.

  Girls like her

  don’t go out

  with guys

  like me.

  They say it

  like I have

  a disease,

  Just because

  I’m shy

  like them

  And good at school

  and belong to

  the AV Club

  like them

  And have acne

  like some

  of them.

  None of those things

  mean I don’t

  have feelings.

  Even Galileo

  knew that all things

  fall at the same rate

  Whether they’re

  light as

  feathers

  Or heavy

  as stone,

  like me.

  Social Action Group

  Annabelle

  I’ve been seeing signs for their meetings

  since school started: kids

  at sewing machines, kids

  outside tin shacks, kids

  weaving carpets, kids

  bent over in fields; underneath,

  the words Do you care?

  Yesterday, I finally found the nerve

  to go to the meeting

  in the small room

  with no windows

  behind the boiler

  in the basement.

  Mr. Dawe wears cargo pants

  with a hundred pockets,

  sandals, and t-shirts

  with slogans like Ban the bomb

  and Make love, not war, and

  his gray hair is a skinny ponytail

  down his back.

  When I walk in, he says

  Welcome, comrade,

  and the five kids sitting

  in a circle on the floor

  laugh and say hello

  and I have never felt

  so welcome in my life.

  Mr. Dawe talks with his hands,

  waving them around

  like he is conducting

  an orchestra; we are

  the musicians, rehearsing

  a score, making plans

  for a booth on child labour

  and the war in Iraq.

  Why not plant two flowers

  with one seed? Mr. Dawe asks

  and I think how, if my mom

  had said that, she’d have used

  the one about killing birds

  with a single stone.

  These kids

  Mr. Dawe

  These kids turn me on—Hey,

  get your minds out of the gutter!

  I mean in an intellectual way:

  the way they think, the things they care about.

  It’s not all Hollywood superstars

  and fashion and fast cars.

  Well, at least not for these committed kids

  who come to the weekly meetings in that crap room.

  If the school really cared about education, as in

  the Latin educere, to lead, they’d put their money

  Where their proverbial mouths are and give us some cash

  for a better space and a computer.

  They just don’t get that these kids might be

  the Kings, the Ghandis, the Mandelas, the Suu Kyis

  Of their generation; it has been a complete

  privilege for me to work alongside them.

  I’d rather be with them and their energy and spirit

  than sit through protocol and curriculum meetings

  With my colleagues. Some of them are more burnt

  out than lava and haven’t had a new thought

  In their heads since they rolled off the assembly line

  at college, diplomas in their fists, forty years ago.

  It’s like there’s some fascist policy up there that says

  IF IT TURNS KIDS ON, IT’S GOT TO BE BAD FOR THEM.

  When John Lennon said, Whatever gets you through the night

  he meant night as a metaphor for any hard place, like school.

  I know that. These kids know it. Why not get through

  AND change the world in the process?

  MY STEEL SHELL

  Mark

  When I drive to school

  I always hope

  people are standing around

&n
bsp; because no one can help

  looking at my yellow Mini.

  It’s bright as the sun,

  speedy and slick.

  I weave it in and out

  of those concrete pillars

  meant to slow cars down

  on school property.

  We’re supposed to brake,

  but I just twist around them

  smooth as a snake.

  Sometimes people clap,

  but not the principal.

  When she sees me

  she calls me in

  and gives me

  a lecture

  on safety

  on being responsible

  on how a car isn’t a toy

  but a machine that has the power

  to kill, as if I don’t know that.

  She sounds like my mother

  warning me about speed:

  Haven’t I lost enough already?

  Mom always says.

  Don’t they know that when I’m in

  my yellow Mini I’m safe,

  impervious?

  The car is my thick skin

  and when I’m

  in it nothing,

  nothing,

  can sink

  in.

  My Dad

  Annabelle

  I can’t help wondering what he

  was like, or is like, because he’s not dead,

  he’s just not here, in my life.

  My mom tells me I don’t need

  to know him, that knowing him

  wouldn’t change who I am.

  But how does she know that? It’s like

  the one about the tree falling in the forest

  when no one is there to hear it. Doesn’t it still fall?

  I guess I’m kind of like the tree, only

  my father isn’t around to see me.

  Maybe I’d grow differently if he were.

  My mom grew up near here, so I might

  have passed my dad a million times,

  maybe even handed him a flyer at the mall.

  If I did, I wonder what he did with it: did he read it,

  or ditch it? Is he the type of guy who cares about things

  like child labour? Does the world keep him up at night

  Or is he the type of guy who only cares about hockey

  and football, watching TV with a beer in one hand,

  a cigarette in the other, swearing at the screen?

  Either way, I’d like to know because it might help me

  figure myself out, it might help me see what kind

  of life I’ll have when I’m older, not that I expect

  To become exactly like my mom or dad, but

  it would be nice to know that I inherited some traits,

  instead of feeling everything about me starts at zero.

  Ostinato

  Persistent

  Mary

  I hear her, tip-toeing

  down the stairs,

  crouching

  In the stairwell, like

  an intruder,

  trying

  To figure out what’s keeping me

  down here for

  hours.

  It’s like she thinks I can’t

  hear her

  breathing

  Or scratching her hair, or tapping

  her fingers on

  her knees

  Like she’s a human metronome

  decoding my music

  in the dark.

  Things She Doesn’t Want to Know

  Annabelle

  My mom says:

  Why don’t you hang out

  with Stacey anymore?

  You used to be over there all the time

  and now, nothing. Has something happened

  that you’re not telling me about?

  She thinks I put Stacey off by telling her

  things she doesn’t want to know

  about the clothes she wears.

  As if I would.

  I don’t even speak to Stacey anymore,

  but I can’t help it if she reads our posters.

  It’s the type of info my mother thinks

  I should keep to myself because

  it won’t win me any friends.

  My mom says Mr. Dawe is a leftover hippie.

  She can tell by the fluff between his toes

  that he shows off in Birkenstocks, and

  by his shirts that never smell clean

  but are rumpled and musty.

  She says he shouldn’t encourage us to protest

  like that in public, that it might harm

  our image, prevent us from

  getting summer jobs.

  I say some things are more important

  than money.

  The school agrees with my mom

  and they’ve told Mr. Dawe not to

  take us off school property,

  as if we belong to the school, like

  the gym mats or desks.

  Don’t they know we have

  our own free will?

  Sure, Mr. Dawe led us there, but now

  we are ready to go ahead,

  even without him.

  Poem

  Christopher

  I need to send her

  a sign to tell

  her

  How I feel because

  until I do

  I am

  Just some guy she walks by,

  blended in,

  instead

  Of a guy who is bursting

  with feeling

  for her.

  I need to put myself

  in her sphere, her

  orbit

  Like one of

  Jupiter’s

  small moons.

  I could write a poem

  comparing her to a

  flower,

  The perfect rosy petals

  of her cheeks

  blushing,

  The delicate stems of her

  fingers waving when

  she talks

  About things she really

  cares about,

  fiery

  As a rose in full bloom,

  each velvet petal

  folding

  One on top of the other

  the way I’d like

  to fold

  Annabelle

  in my

  arms.

  This New Guy

  Annabelle

  On Saturday, this new guy

  shows up and he doesn’t know

  how to persist when people

  reject the flyer.

  I tell him:

  You have to

  stick it under an arm

  or on top of a bag.

  You have to

  act like it’s the most

  important paper ever printed.

  You have to

  push when pushing

  is against your nature.

  You have to

  smile even when someone

  is cursing you.

  You have to

  stay hopeful even when you see

  your flyers crushed

  Under the wheels

  of a thousand

  cars,

  Which is not

  always easy

  to do.

  Trying to Change the World

  Christopher

  I can’t get the hang

  of standingand handing

  out the flyers.
/>
  I feel I am

  being rude

  when I say:

  Do you know this store

  buys from suppliers

  who use sweatshops?

  I can’t stand

  seeing people’s eyes

  hit the ground,

  or the way they

  tuck in their chins

  and skulk through

  the doors,

  some grasping

  the flyers, others

  waving them away

  like wasps.

  I try to study

  Annabelle

  to see how she

  does it, her technique

  as smooth as honey,

  always pleasant,

  like she is handing

  out candy

  and not bad news.

  Once or twice she smiles

  at me, nods

  to encourage me,

  and it makes the day

  worthwhile,

  makes me glad

  to be standing

  in the October cold

  trying to change

  the world.

  Watching her flick

  her hair

  out of her eyes

  and blow the tips

  of her fingers

  to keep warm

  makes me want

  to wrap

  myself around her

  like the fuzzy blanket

  my mom bought

  at this store

  last week.

  At the end of the day,

  frozen, we all stop off

  for hot chocolate.

  When Annabelle

  blows a hole into

  the whipped cream,

  a dab of it clings

  to her upper lip.

  I want

  to lick it off.

  The Truth

  Annabelle

  My mom says people don’t always want

  to know the truth.

  She says if everyone knew the truth

  about everything

  In the world, no one would ever

  get out of bed.

  But what if knowing just a piece

  of the truth

  Changes one little thing that a person

  does or thinks?

  Like the challenge Mr. Dawe

  just gave me

  For our Hallowe’en info-booth

  in the lobby.

  This is one piece I’ve discovered

  so far:

  Factories in Bangladesh

  are full of kids whose fingers

  bleed. They sleep

  on planks in dorms,

  their stomachs rumbling.