at the end of his sentence,
and he’s gone.
The bell rings,
and I’m left gasping
in the hall.
Glad there was a wall
to lean on.
Blinded by fear
masquerading as teardrops,
I feel my way
to the school exit,
and leave, lost,
struggling to register
a new definition
of lonely:
the baby growing inside of me
the only company
I can count on.
And, maybe, if I’m lucky,
God.
Odd, that I hardly
feel my feet
as I wander the streets
pointed toward Broadway.
I turn, on automatic pilot,
pass the Audubon Ballroom
and the ghost of Malcolm X,
wishing, if only for a moment-
Lord, forgive me-
wishing I could join him,
that I could simply
disappear.
It’s Friday night.
Mom sticks her head in the door,
waving a video cassette.
I bet it’s some old-school flick
like Casablanca.
She loves that stuff.
Not me, but I love her.
Plus, its our ritual,
huddling on the sofa
close as bone and skin,
in celebration mode,
ticking off another week gone by
and us alive and well
despite the dangers of these streets,
this world.
Just us girls.
But I can’t risk cuddling anymore.
So when Mom says, “Come here, baby”
and reaches out,
I shout, “Stop calling me baby!”
before I’m sure my mouth
is even working.
Mom leaps back from the punch.
Softer, I say, “I’m sorry. It’s just that
I’m not a baby anymore.”
“Well,” Mom says,
“I guess you’ve grown up, overnight.”
She sighs. “Alright. I stand corrected.”
I nod, wanting to hug her,
wanting to squeeze away the heap of hurt
that makes her shoulders slump,
but if I get too close,
she’ll feel the bump and know.
So I sit at one end of the sofa,
and Mom sits at the other.
For the first time
we’re together,
alone.
Mom’s twenty-nine. Again.
So I count out candles for her cake,
numbering her fake age.
I light them, one by one,
wondering why her real age
is such a mystery,
wishing she had a driver’s license
I could check.
Not that her age matters to me,
but I’m curious why
she sometimes gets furious
if I press the point.
Is there some scary story
threaded through the truth,
or have I just been
watching too many movies?
Last Communion Sunday
marked me as villain.
Never mind that I sat in the pew
with yards of blue cotton-polly
and an oversized vest billowing
out around me.
Cool camouflage, right?
But hardly good enough
for God.
“Prepare your hearts for the feast,”
said Pastor Grant.
“All are welcome at the Lord’s Table.”
I sat up straight to wait
for the holy tray.
I’ve always loved Communion.
“But take heed,” Pastor warned.
“Do not eat the bread, or drink the cup
unworthily.
For some, doing so,
have died.”
I fell back against the pew
as my secret sin gave me two
swift kicks, and sent my heart racing.
Did anybody see?
Mom sat right next to me.
I snuck a peek
but found her lost in prayer.
Eyes closed, she sent the tray my way.
The silver rim all but singed my fingertips.
I quickly passed it on
without taking my share,
too scared to even dare
a look.
At long last,
I crack my Bible open,
finger the fragile pages
of Luke, chapter two,
and review the old story of Mary.
Jealous, I read how Joseph
stood by her
even though the kid
wasn’t his.
But the Spirit whispered
Reread the passage,
so I did.
And there it was:
a reminder that God
gave Joseph
a giant push
in the right direction,
sent him a dream,
and an angel, no less.
Details.
I look in the mirror,
but don’t recognize
the girl I see.
Suddenly, she’s some
scared-crazy kid
entertaining fleeting notions
of throwing herself
down a long flight of stairs,
or lingering over thoughts
of abortion.
Like I don’t know
how God feels about that.
Like I could forget
for more than two seconds.
But Lord, you tell me:
What, exactly,
am I supposed to do
with a baby?
I sit at the computer,
volleyball between my legs.
(Never thought I’d miss those drills!)
To hold the ball still,
I squeeze my thighs.
Someone told me
it’s a good exercise, but who?
Anyway, Seth’s latest IM
says the VB club misses me,
especially after tanking
three games in a row.
“Ouch!” Seth types,
and I reply,
“Maybe I should come back,
baby bump and all.”
LOL pops up on the screen,
and I almost do.
Almost.
I tell Mom I’m quitting
the volleyball club, for now,
so she can save
all the slave wages
she pays out for dues.
Of course, she asks why.
I only half lie,
telling her I’m just too tired
this season.
Tired or not, nothing stops me
from dreaming of a future.
When I graduate,
I want to be a teacher.
At least, that’s what I thought
when I was ten.
Then again,
I could be a librarian.
That way, I would spend my days
swimming in a sea of books.
Before I sign on
for desk duty, though,
I’d like to make
the U.S. volleyball team,
go to the Olympics
and kick some butt.
Truth is,
I haven’t settled on
a profession yet.
All I know for sure is,
when I grow up,
I (still) want to be
a girl with options.
“Nothing moves faster than gossip.”
– Virgil, Aeneid, IV, 174
I walk the school halls
behind an invisible wall,
cut off from the rest of the world.
It doesn’t matter
that I carry small.
I’m Pregnant Girl,
not supergeek, not freak,
not girl-jock, or even
plain old Mister.
I’m just a girl in trouble.
Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you
no other identity applies.
And if you’re wise,
you’ll keep your distance.