You didn’t hear that
from me.
But I should get serious
about college.
Let’s face it,
I’m gonna need
all the scholarships
I can get.
Nix on the glee club.
I’ve already got choir.
Can’t stand politics,
so class council is out.
Hmmm.
For the rest of the day,
as I pass from class to class,
I scan the hall bulletin boards,
half hoping for ideas.
One ad jumps out:
a call for tutors
in the library literacy program.
Ding, ding, ding!
If there’s one thing
I love to do, it’s read.
That ad
might as well have
screamed out my name.
It’s eight weeks since Trey,
and I am almost over him.
In two days,
it’ll be our choir’s turn
to rock the house,
and four-part harmony
never sounded so good.
I close my eyes,
let my soprano raise the roof,
and before I know it
I’m lost in the music,
rubbing shoulders with God,
my faith as natural and easy
as it used to be.
I can’t explain how,
but Mary must be getting to me.
My stomach sloshes like
I’m at sea.
What’s the matter with me?
Is this some new version of PMS?
Guess it could be.
It’s been awhile
since my last period.
But that’s one good thing
about being a girl jock.
I don’t get periods
as often as other girls.
The sight of eggs
sunny-side up
makes me want to hurl.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
asks Mom, shuffling into the kitchen
in Sunday slippers.
“You look a little pale.
I hate for you to miss church,
but you can stay home
if you’re feeling ill.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say,
halfway to the bathroom.
“I think I will.”
My eyes follow Trey
down the central stairway.
“Snap out of it,” says Seth,
watching me.
I know she’s right,
but I still feel a twinge
when Trey slips his arm
over some other girl’s shoulders.
Good thing I ended it.
Imagine how much worse I’d feel
if we had gotten serious,
and he had dumped me
for the next cute girl
to come along?
And what if I’d gotten pregnant,
or caught some nasty disease?
Like Seth said,
I don’t even know
where his thing has been.
I shake my head
and leave all thoughts of Trey,
and possible disasters, behind.
I know I was lucky this time.
We’re pulling on
our uniforms,
Sethany next to me,
both of us getting ready
for the big game against
Cleveland High.
“You’re getting quite
a pooch there,” Sethany says.
“Time you lay off those
potato chips.”
She was just being flip,
but I cringe,
having to admit
my waistline seems to be
wandering a bit.
Better hit that floor
and work those drills double time.
That oughta shake off
a pound or two.
A sleepover
is all I asked for.
Nothing fancy since
I know we can’t afford it.
Mom makes a fuss anyway,
takes me and Seth out for dinner,
bakes my favorite carrot cake
with cream cheese icing,
and serves it with a tiny jewelry box.
Inside, I find a promise ring,
just like the one I tossed,
the one I’d said I lost.
“I know how much
it means to you,” Mom says,
and I cry, because my lie
has made us less close
than we used to be.
“It’s okay, baby,” she says.
“Sorry,” I whisper,
wiping my wet cheek.
Meanwhile, Sethany studies
her perfect nail polish,
keeping her knowledge to herself.
“Now blow out your candles!” Mom says,
giving my shoulder a squeeze.
“And don’t forget to make a wish.”
I’d tell her I’m too old for this,
but I know what she’d say:
Nobody’s too old for wishing.
Saturday, I stroll Broadway
hunting mangos for Mom.
I slow in front of
Fashion Passion,
and drool over cool clothes
hanging in the window.
A girl with a too-thick waist
stares back at me
and I wonder why she’s
wasting time
checking out
these clingy numbers.
Do I know her?
I step closer to the window,
squint, spy the mirror
behind the mannequins,
and-Oh!
Guess it’s time
for me to go
on a diet.
LaVonne Taylor waddles into
the cafeteria today,
four months along but looking six.
Kids laugh as she passes by,
but I don’t see
what’s so funny.
In fact, I think
it’s pretty sad.
She’s still a kid,
only fifteen years old,
same age as-
Something nasty rises in me,
like a flood:
thoughts of my pancake breasts
suddenly swelling like dough;
a growing list of shirts and jeans
too shrunken to fit;
waistline slowly vanishing
like some magic act gone wrong;
and way too many bloodless days
on the calendar.
I feel myself
start to drown,
make a gurgling sound,
and, next thing I know,
the school nurse
is leaning over me,
asking, “Honey, are you okay?”
“No. God, no!” I say,
but not to her.
How long I laid on her
office cot, crying,
I’ll never know.
But at some point,
a soothing voice
deep in the core of me
whispered, “Breathe. Breathe.”
And I did.
I clutch Mary, Mary
to my chest,
waiting for sanity
to return.
“Help me, Mary,”
I whisper.
“Help me, God.”
Elizabeth and I
sit in the synagogue
where women are assigned,
rapt in twin silences,
but separate thoughts.
Elizabeth beams,
clearly more than ready
to slip into a mother’s sandals.
But I shiver, wondering
what kind of mother
I will be.
I know so little of babies.
Will caring for a child
come naturally?
I can only hope to match
my own mother.
But where do I begin?
Then, I remember the story:
how Mother wrestled
with the Lord, in prayer,
pleading for a child,
and how, when I came,
she blessed God for the gift.
So, I will start with prayer.
Jehovah, please prepare me
to be a mother.
And Jehovah, I pray
as you knit this child
inside of me,
strengthen him
in every way.