Yellow Mini Read online

  Mary will be my biggest challenge

  with her plain pudgy face and tiny eyes

  and lips that are thin as toothpicks.

  Too bad I can’t ask my sister for advice.

  In My Pocket

  Annabelle

  Standing in the parking lot,

  waiting for the others to show,

  stamping my feet to keep warm,

  I peek into a parked car

  and see a couple twisting

  toward each other.

  Suddenly, his face is on top of hers

  and he is eating her lips, not stopping

  for air, as if they’re kissing

  for the last time ever.

  I touch the note in my coat pocket,

  its corners soft from my fingers

  bending, creasing and smoothing

  down the paper while I try to figure out

  who popped it in there.

  I can see the others coming,

  placards balanced

  on their shoulders,

  but all I can wonder

  is who actually feels

  that way about me

  and how can I just be

  myself, knowing

  somebody does?

  Fleeting

  Annabelle’s Mom

  I admire her drive, the way she finds

  the pictures, makes the posters,

  assembles the group.

  At her age, I was out at parties

  or sneaking into bars

  with fake IDs.

  Youth is so fleeting,

  it goes by in a

  wink.

  It seems like only yesterday

  that I was sewing

  my grad dress:

  Braided straps and pleated skirt—

  far too complex for

  a novice—

  So that, last minute, I was ripping out

  the stitches, starting over,

  crying, dreading

  The fact that the fabric would pull

  and pucker around my

  middle.

  Touch me

  Stacey

  I watch our town grow smaller

  in the side mirror, measuring the buildings

  between my thumb and index finger,

  pretending to squish them like a bug.

  I love leaving my whole world behind

  as Mark and I speed along

  the highway, music blaring,

  my feet on the dash, getting dirty

  looks from people

  in other cars, giving them

  the finger, Mark’s gorgeous

  dark eyes piercing the road ahead.

  We are driving around the mountains,

  down winding country roads, some

  so steep we crawl, others

  only gravel roads for loggers,

  not a house in sight, the sun

  going down fast and dusk

  making monsters of the trees.

  At the end of one, he stops and gets out,

  leaving me to watch him weave

  between trunks, lit by nothing but

  the half moon.

  I sit here, listening to

  owls hooting,

  branches cracking,

  November wind

  rustling dead leaves,

  my eyes straining

  to see between

  the black branches,

  the car growing colder

  by the minute.

  I wonder if there are

  bears in these mountains,

  and what if Mark doesn’t

  come back and I can’t

  drive because he’s taken the keys

  and my cell phone signal is dead?

  Would my parents come look for me?

  They didn’t look for my sister when she left.

  Sure, they knew where she’d gone

  and even had her new address,

  but shouldn’t they have looked for her

  anyway?

  Then suddenly Mark appears,

  the moon catching the zipper

  of his jacket, turning him into

  a vertical streak of silver.

  At school he’s all over me:

  hands, arms, legs always

  wrapping round me, but

  now, when we’re parked

  out of town, he

  doesn’t try

  to touch me.

  He just fires up the Mini

  and zigzags us back

  to civilization.

  FOUND IT

  Mark

  I think I found it, the piece

  of land my dad dreamed of buying,

  surrounded by pine trees that grew high enough

  to touch the clouds.

  It’s pretty dark here in the woods,

  looking for the stream, listening

  for the trickling sound

  that pulled me in as a kid.

  My dad found it first shot—no bad turns

  for him when it came to navigating roads—

  he’d have found it blind-folded because

  he had an internal compass and always

  Knew where to steer, except that one icy day

  when no amount of swerving worked,

  the force of nature pulling the truck toward him

  like two tons of death.

  Pinch Pinch

  Christopher

  I keep doing it because I can’t

  believe it’s real.

  Annabelle didn’t cringe

  when I confessed.

  She turned redder than me,

  rosy apple red,

  And when I took her hand

  there was a spark.

  Her eyes widened as it dawned

  on her that it was me,

  Then she pulled out the poem,

  crumpled and creased,

  And I nodded and said,

  I hope you liked it,

  And I could tell by her smile

  that she did.

  Then the door banged open

  and the others clomped in,

  Shattering our moment

  like glass.

  How do You Know

  Annabelle

  When someone is it?

  It’s not like a game of tag

  where you count,

  eyes-closed,

  against a tree

  then run squealing

  and tag the slowest

  runner.

  Christopher wasn’t even running.

  He was standing right next to me

  like he was a tree

  that I could’ve leaned

  against and he would’ve

  wrapped his arms

  like branches around me.

  I’d never really looked at him too closely before.

  But now, only inches away,

  his big brown eyes drinking me in,

  his hand brushing back my hair,

  his tall body bending toward me

  as if he wanted to blend into me,

  I saw him for the first time.

  And now I’m wondering: what will next time be like?

  Will it be hard to stand around handing out flyers,

  trying to get people to see what’s wrong

  with the world when Christopher is around,

  because all I’ll want to do is stand near him

  and see if he looks at me like that again,

  because when he did, something in me flipped,r />
  making an acrobat of my emotions?

  SAILING

  Mark

  The lake was in the middle

  of the woods, ringed by maples

  with buckets set in to trap

  the sap trickling in spring.

  My dad made boats out of newspaper,

  folded over and over and over in a way

  I could never follow and then coated

  with shoe spray to keep them afloat.

  We raced to see whose boat

  could float the farthest, like

  a mini regatta in the woods, our

  leaf flags flapping in the breeze.

  He said the boats would sail

  all summer long, bumping

  into canoes and strange fish

  long after we’d disappeared,

  And he’d enjoy seeing them in his head

  as he zoomed down the gray highway

  to the airport, surrounded by nothing

  but concrete and cars and smog.

  It made me mad that the boats

  didn’t come back, but he said

  it was always good to leave your mark:

  I suppose I am his.

  How Could She?

  Stacey

  I saw her with Christopher.

  He’s always been such a loser.

  I can’t believe she’d go out with him.

  It’s like she’s lost her senses and can’t see

  his pimply skin or geeky neck that sticks

  out of those shirts his mom buys for him.

  It makes me wonder how we used to be friends

  and what we ever had in common, which

  couldn’t have been much because I could never

  Go near someone like Christopher who’s so

  different from Mark, who’s so gorgeous

  and built, hot enough to be a model.

  When I saw them, they were holding hands

  and he hung onto every word she said as they walked past our lounge, oblivious to everything.

  I called to her but she didn’t even blink. It was like

  they were walking on the moon, they were so into

  each other, Christopher smiling and nodding

  While she was talking,

  their shoulders tapping like glasses

  as if every word was a celebration.

  Crescendo

  Increasing gradually in volume

  Mary

  Today’s the first rehearsal

  and I’m already

  regretting trying out.

  Stacey is working

  make-up.

  I bet she can’t wait

  to get her hands on me,

  to make me over

  into a monster, just

  to amuse herself.

  Will it look rude if I

  bring a book and simply

  nestle in a chair, incognito,

  until it’s my turn on stage

  or will they expect me

  to be part of the whole

  Rah rah rah thing, the entire cast and crew spinning

  a web of excitement, rising in crescendo until

  the big night when the bright lights go on

  and the backstage sizzle carries us

  out there to dazzle the crowd?

  Will anyone mind

  if I just watch

  from afar?

  What Stacey Thinks

  Annabelle

  I wonder what Stacey thinks

  when she sees me with Christopher.

  Does she remember the way kids mocked him

  because he stuttered like a machine gun?

  Does she wonder how I can touch him

  when his skin has patches of acne?

  Does she compare him to Paul and Mark

  and beam at how well they fare?

  Do I care?

  At first I did.

  I was shy to hold his hand at school, knowing

  everyone would look and point and talk.

  But we hung on tight and now no one cares,

  except Stacey, who always glares

  When we walk into the auditorium

  and climb the stairs to the glass booth

  Where Christopher and his friends

  are working the sound and lights.

  Christopher showed me how to throw the big switch

  And flood the stage with light, exposing

  Every square inch, even the dusty corners.

  It reminded me of the way Stacey stares,

  Illuminating every part of me, taking me in, frame

  by frame, like she’s storing away the image.

  It makes me uneasy because I don’t know what

  she’s planning to do with it.

  I Never did Know Mary

  Stacey

  Even though we were a constant

  threesome

  Annabelle was always our

  go between,

  As if Mary could only be

  reflected

  To me through the mirror of

  Annabelle,

  So that now, when I watch her

  play Chopin,

  It’s like watching someone I’ve

  never met,

  Someone mysterious, with

  hidden depths.

  I’d never have expected

  such music

  To flow from her fingers

  so freely,

  Because she always struck me

  as heavy,

  All locked up inside her

  closed-off self.

  Even the way she walks—head

  pointing down,

  Blocking out the world around her,

  blinkers on,

  Oblivious to everything

  important,

  Like who’s walking by, or who to

  look good for,

  Who to laugh for, who to shine for,

  who to perform for,

  In the hallways of high school as

  expected.

  When I do her makeup I’m

  supposed to

  Accentuate her features and

  make them pop,

  But I think I’ll use white powder to

  efface her

  And dress her in white to

  erase her

  So all that’s left is sound:

  sensual.

  A word I never would have used

  for Mary.

  Overture

  Mary's Mom

  She’s doing it and that’s all that

  matters.

  It has to be a step in the right

  direction.

  I hope it will be the start of

  something,

  Take her outside the tight

  little world

  She’s built in the basement,

  playing

  Piano in the near dark, her music

  spreading

  Along the floorboards, like a

  colony

  Of musical mice who stop

  scurrying

  The minute anyone else

  appears.

  Christopher Is

  Annabelle

  Christopher is the guy no one

  notices,

  standing behind his locker door

  to hide his

  tall and lanky body and his

  pimply face.

  Christopher is the guy who gets

  the best grades

  and turns beet red delivering

  French
orals

  but can whiz through an algebra

  equation

  on the board at the speed of light

  times twenty.

  Christopher is the guy who’s been

  in my class

  since grade one, front row and centre

  quiet, shy,

  kicking soccer balls in the yard

  at recess,

  never showing off or seeking

  attention.

  Christopher is the guy who held

  my hand so

  tenderly and looked into my eyes

  so deeply

  that he turned into someone new

  and handsome,

  the chocolate brown of his eyes

  suddenly

  delicious.

  NEVER LONG ENOUGH

  Mark

  The road is never long enough.

  I’ve got to find a way to go farther.

  One day I’ll keep going and never look back,

  Leave school and Stacey and my house and mother behind,

  Especially my mother because I can’t stand the way she now

  has to speak for my father

  So that even though he’s gone his words are still a constant

  chatter of disappointment in my ears

  Until I feel I’ll scream and never stop screaming so loud

  my relatives will hear me all the way across the continents

  in Lebanon

  And maybe hop on a plane and come over to check out what’s

  happening to the only part of the family that moved away to

  the new world, the land of opportunity,

  Only to find a two-bedroom apartment in an old run-down

  complex with rusty balconies where my mother spends all her time

  crying and wondering why my father had to die

  Except they won’t find me because I’ll have found the nerve to just

  keep driving, all the way west or south, even though the police

  will stop me wherever I go because I’m a young guy with

  olive-skin and an Arabic last name.

  Injustice

  Annabelle

  It’s what I see

  when people’s carts are loaded

  with stuff: stuffed bears,

  cartoon slippers

  and plastic Santas.

  What I see is

  stuff nobody really needs:

  tacky, cheap, made

  by people who have

  nothing.

  What my mom sees is

  harmless stuff

  bought with love