Yellow Mini Read online

  Their schooling has ended,

  the whole balloon

  of their childhood pierced

  and emptied in a flash

  by a sewing machine needle

  so that people like Stacey

  can buy skinny jeans

  that cling to their bony hips.

  Glad He Didn’t See It

  Mark's Mom

  Your father would be rolling

  over in his grave

  if he could see the way

  you are turning out,

  hanging out with kids

  who are allowed to stay

  out all night long

  and never open a book.

  Your last report card

  a long row of D’s and F’s

  with comments like

  lacks motivation

  not trying

  shows disrespect.

  It almost made me glad your father

  didn’t have to see it. His

  face would have fallen,

  the lines around his mouth

  grown tighter and deeper.

  All those years of driving

  a cab to the airport,

  fighting traffic,

  hauling bags,

  so you could get

  the education he missed

  out on back in Lebanon

  because his family

  had to flee the war

  when he was fifteen.

  And now this yellow car,

  your constant companion,

  a new girl every month

  her head hanging out the window

  like a gargoyle,

  flashing a pretty smile

  at the world.

  What does her mother think?

  Does she know her daughter

  is out till all hours

  driving around

  god knows where

  doing god knows what?

  And, if she does, is she

  as scared as me?

  OMEN

  Mark

  My dad thought he would always have

  good luck.

  That’s because, when he was a kid,

  a bomb

  Landed on the roof of his apartment

  building

  But didn’t explode. It simply sat there,

  ticking.

  His friend, who climbed up, said it looked like a

  creature,

  A black bird of death that sent everyone

  scrambling

  Into the streets and throwing stuff down from

  windows.

  My dad didn’t see it as death, but as an

  omen

  That he was somehow protected,

  special.

  I think it just took death a long time to

  find him.

  Ordinary

  Annabelle

  I don’t want to be ordinary.

  You see ordinary people everywhere:

  at the grocery store, loading their carts,

  looking tired, checking the prices,

  shuffling along like zombies.

  Or where my mom and I have breakfast

  every Sunday. We always get the waitress

  with frizzy hair and she always asks the same thing,

  Sunny-side-up or over-easy.

  I wonder what her life is like:

  does she have talents

  she didn’t nurture

  or did she always dream

  of waiting on tables

  at the Greek deli

  where bloated pickles

  float in humongous jars?

  When I ask my mom

  she tells me not to be a snob,

  then she shakes her head at me

  like she can’t figure out why

  I wonder about such stupid things.

  I think she forgets what it’s like

  to worry about your future

  and ponder what kind of life

  you might have one day

  when you have no talent

  and when you’re an idiot,

  because you can’t walk past

  a lounge just because

  your ex-best friend is there

  on the other side, inside

  a group you were both in awe of

  just last year.

  Mr. Dawe says I have a talent

  for organizing people

  and motivating them

  to take action.

  But can I make a future out of that?

  Agitato

  Agitated, with excitement

  Mary

  In my basement, I like to shine

  the reading lamp down

  on my piano, but keep the rest

  of the room dark.

  That way I can pretend I’m

  anywhere—La Scala,

  Carnegie Hall, Covent Garden,

  the great music halls of the world.

  But in this auditorium

  the bright lights trap me

  at the out-of-tune piano.

  My mom bribed me

  with a trip to New York

  to see Angela Hewitt,

  who has magical hands.

  They had to roll the piano out

  from behind a mountain of props

  on three squeaky wheels, the

  dust sheet trailing behind like a veil.

  I’m on right after some dancers,

  so the smell of sweat and powder

  lingers on stage, along with the thump

  thump thump of their music, dark

  like bats caught in the rafters.

  My hands hover like hummingbirds

  over the keys, my eyes

  on the string of black dots,

  my foot a brick, poised

  above the pedals.

  Slowly, I enter the music,

  blocking out the stage and its

  dusty shadows, where the judges’ faces

  are tipped toward me

  Until my music is all there is,

  floating, cascading,

  circling back into itself,

  loopy as a butterfly,

  red and gold.

  Even the third-floor crowd

  is hushed, pulled in,

  just like my teacher said

  they would be.

  No one, he said, can resist

  the lure of Chopin,

  not even the kids

  of your generation.

  Could he be right?

  Love Poem

  Christopher

  I wrote her a poem

  and slipped it in

  her pocket

  at the meeting

  to plan

  the next

  protest.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d

  go back, but how

  else can I get close

  to Annabelle?

  I hope she finds it

  (or not, both

  options are scary)

  because it took me

  hours and hours

  to compose.

  You make me feel

  tall in a small world

  loud in the silence

  bright in the dark

  simply by your presence

  which is warm rain

  on my parched soul

  But I didn’t

  have the nerve

  to sign it.

  There’s no way

  she’ll think

  o
f me first.

  She’ll scan

  our faces

  at the mall,

  seeking

  clues.

  If I send her

  the right one,

  a wink

  a nod

  a smile,

  she’ll know.

  But then I might

  have to watch

  her face fall

  in dis

  appoint

  ment.

  It’s a Good Thing

  Stacey

  If my parents knew how late

  I stayed out last night,

  they’d flip.

  When we crossed

  the bridge back into town

  the sun was already rising,

  lighting up the tops

  of tall buildings

  like candles.

  Earlier, Mark parked

  by a lake and we watched

  the water grow dark

  as the sun set.

  It grew so black

  I couldn’t tell

  where land ended

  and water

  began.

  Mark didn’t budge,

  didn’t say a word

  for hours, just kept

  staring straight

  ahead, like he was

  waiting for something

  to emerge from the lake.

  I knew to just sit silently

  beside him because

  when Mark gets quiet

  it turns all sound

  into noise, like

  everything around

  him has to shut

  off, including

  me.

  It’s a good thing

  I know that because

  that’s what Mark likes

  about me, the fact that

  I know what to do—

  how to be pretty

  and wait until he’s ready

  to notice me.

  If my parents knew

  how late we came home

  they’d kill me.

  It’s a good thing

  they sleep

  so deeply

  and fall for

  the jumble

  of blankets

  I lay out

  to make it seem

  like I’m at home,

  sleeping

  deeply

  too.

  Stacey’s Sister’s Diary

  Annabelle

  I was at Stacey’s when her sister

  came home and announced

  she was engaged to this guy

  her parents hadn’t even met.

  Her mom put down the pot

  she was scrubbing

  and dried her hands

  on the dish towel slowly.

  Her dad put down his paper,

  (I think it was the first time

  I ever saw his whole face)

  and leaned forward in his chair.

  The kitchen was completely silent,

  except for the hum of the fridge

  and the drip of the tap

  and five noses breathing.

  Stacey kicked me gently

  under the table

  and I kicked back

  because we both knew

  What her sister, only eighteen,

  had been up to: she laid

  it all out in graphic detail

  in the diary we could open with a pin.

  We knew her sister had been doing it

  for months in John’s father’s car,

  parked behind some warehouses,

  her left foot braced on the gear shift.

  They’d done it on the hill behind the arena,

  her back jabbing against

  some rocks, John’s socks

  vanishing in the stream beside them.

  And they’d found an abandoned mattress

  in a lane downtown and fooled around

  like a couple of alley cats, scratching

  their skin on loose coils.

  We read the pages over and over,

  curled up under the covers,

  our flashlight burning the paper,

  giggling and gagging.

  And now they were going to get married

  and turn into a respectable couple

  who’d shop for end tables

  and a matching double bed.

  That’s it for the diaries, Stacey said.

  In nine months I’ll be an aunt,

  my sister will be fat,

  and I’ll have to try to look at John

  Without turning beet red

  because in my head

  I’ll be seeing them at it

  in all those weird places.

  But Stacey’s sister didn’t marry John

  or have a baby. She moved out

  west instead, with another guy,

  taking her diary with her.

  I wonder if Stacey’s doing those things

  now with Mark, parked

  on some dead end street,

  scrunched up inside the Mini.

  Does she think of her sister’s words

  and try to copy her moves,

  or is she so in love

  her mind is blank?

  And does she ever think of me

  reading those pages with her,

  burying our screams

  in her pillows?

  HIS LAST THOUGHT OF ME

  Mark

  Driving out, getting away,

  ribbons of highway

  beneath my wheels,

  is the only way I feel

  real these days.

  It’s like my Mini and I have morphed,

  like those transformer toys

  I used to play with,

  twisting joints

  to turn hulky heroes

  into mean machines.

  My dad used to say he wished

  he could fold up his cab

  that way and become a big

  strong man, with blades

  for fingers, exhaust blasting

  out of his heels, speeding

  him away from the concrete

  he spent his life driving on.

  He always talked about Lebanon,

  its white Mediterranean beaches,

  twisty cedars and ancient ruins,

  as if nothing here could compete,

  not even me.

  He was always comparing

  me to my cousins in Beirut,

  top of their classes

  buckling down, busy

  as beavers, building

  futures, not

  Out having fun

  going to parties

  dating girls

  playing games

  making money

  flipping burgers.

  Sometimes I wonder

  if his last thought

  was of me, yelling

  at him to leave me

  the fuck alone.

  You Don’t Know

  Stacey's Mom

  Of course I hear you coming in

  at all hours, even after

  the sun has already

  risen.

  I can hear the front door click

  shut, no matter how softly

  you close it. The click is like

  a crack of thunder in my brain

  And those creaks on the stairs,

  as you tiptoe up, are like

  deep cracks opening in a quake.r />
  One day, Stacey, the earth will open up

  beneath you and swallow you whole,

  But what would I have to do

  to stop you?

  Lock you in your room, tie

  you up, kick you out

  so that the world will swallow you

  even sooner?

  Your father’s heart is still broken

  from your sister’s succession of guys

  who lured her so far away.

  He pretends he doesn’t hear you

  come in—that way he doesn’t have to

  deal with you, so I go along, asking

  if you had a good sleep when I know

  it was only two hours long, or if you’re not

  feeling well when I know your eyes

  are dark and puffy from lack of rest.

  It’s the car that scares me most.

  I’ve seen the way your boyfriend drives,

  zipping in and out like the rules of the road

  don’t apply to him.

  When I watch you leave I think how it’s my daughter

  he is hauling, my own flesh and blood,

  who kept me up countless nights

  watching her fight her fevers,

  feeding her medicine, chicken soup, and hugs,

  for what?

  To watch her throw

  her life away?

  Sotto Voce

  In an undertone

  Mary

  The list is out

  and I am in.

  Now there’s no

  turning back:

  Rehearsals Tuesdays and Thursdays

  3:30 - 6:00 sharp.

  I’ll be there, but

  maybe not sharp.

  Sharp is for extroverts

  and stage lovers.

  Sharp is for people who can

  crack up in public

  Or talk to strangers

  full volume, brazen,

  Not sotto voce,

  like me.

  Make-up

  Stacey

  I always knew I’d do it one day.

  It’s something I’m good at, maybe

  because of all the time I spent

  letting my older sister make me up.

  She’d practice on me, like I was

  one of those giant-sized doll heads

  that come with mini lipsticks and shadow.

  She’d make me look ten years older

  or, on dark days, like I’d been punched

  around the eyes, the lids so blue.

  I’m already thinking about what I’ll do

  for different people, how I’ll make

  their faces look like they’re lit up

  From the inside, like I’m a magician

  who can flick a switch inside a dull person’s

  skull, turning them bright.