when he said,
“Math really isn’t my thing.”
“What is your thing?”
I asked.
Then he pulled me to him,
nibbled on my ear,
and said,
“You.”
yes or no?
Blaze works at
a used-record store.
Apparently
a guy came in earlier that day
who had a perfect copy
of an English release
of the Beatles’
Magical Mystery Tour album.
They gave him twenty bucks for it,
and the dude was thrilled.
It’s worth
at least
a hundred.
Blaze loves it
when people are
stupid.
I told him
he should move in
to my house.
“By the way,” he told me,
“I have Friday off.”
“You do?” I squealed.
“Can we go out?”
“Can’t think of anyone else
I’d rather spend my seventeenth birthday with,” he said.
“Your birthday!
Shit, I totally forgot.
I have to get you a present.”
“There’s only one thing I want,” he said
in a low, husky voice
before he kissed me.
“Blaze—”
“Don’t say anything.
Just think about it, okay?
I love you.
You love me.
Just think about it.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
Just think about it.
Which meant
think about it,
and then say yes.
Right?
getting jerky with it
Monday at school.
I was telling Claire
about Blaze’s visit.
“He was bonding with Victoria.”
“Well, she seems all right, Ali.
Maybe you just need to get to know her better.”
Seriously?
“Claire, you don’t know what it’s like.
What she’s like.
She hates me, I think.”
She started to reply,
then changed her mind.
She handed me
a piece of her jerky.
“Forgive my jerkiness?” she asked.
It made me giggle.
Claire is better
than Tickle Me Elmo
that way.
“So,” I told her,
“Blaze wants to—you know.
For his birthday.”
She nodded.
She didn’t have to say anything.
I knew where she stood on the subject.
Abstinence.
Yeah,
she thinks
it’s best to
wait,
wait,
and then
wait some more.
Although,
I have to wonder,
how do you know
where you really stand
until you have someone
you’re madly in love with?
She hasn’t really
had that yet.
“So, will he get what he wants?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“I’m still thinking on that.”
She nodded again.
Took another bite of jerky.
Then she pointed the remaining stick at me.
“He’s not being jerky about it, is he?”
I laughed again and shook my head.
I held up my candy bar.
“He’s a sweetie, Claire.
You know that.”
Then she got all serious.
“Ali, I know it must be hard.
If you want to talk to my mom—”
“No. It’s okay.
I’ll figure it out.”
I like her mom,
but I couldn’t imagine
talking to her mom
about THAT.
But she probably figured
the only thing worse
than talking to her mom
about it
would be talking to my dad
about it.
And she’d have been
exactly right
about THAT.
on the tip of my tongue
Wednesday night
Victoria went out
for a little while
with some friends,
leaving the three of us
alone.
I’d been wondering
about Mom
and her first time
and who it was with
and what it was like.
She met Dad
in college.
Was he the first?
If he wasn’t,
would he know who was?
Would he even tell me?
As he fed Ivy,
I started to ask him.
As he bathed Ivy,
I started to ask him.
As he dressed Ivy,
I started to ask him.
When he noticed me
hanging around,
he asked, “You want to rock her?”
He thought I wanted to spend time
with her.
He didn’t know I wanted to spend time
with him.
I didn’t rock her.
And I didn’t ask him.
getting personal
Homework
was conquered
and destroyed,
so as a reward,
Claire and I made plans
to get together.
Thursday after school,
I went to her house,
guitar in hand,
thinking we’d practice
our music.
The basement belongs to Claire.
One corner has
a table,
a sewing machine,
and a mannequin.
The other corner has
a piano
and a sofa,
where we sit
and play music.
I strummed on my guitar,
showing her
what I’d been working on.
She shook her head.
“What?” I asked.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked at me.
Her eyes were like blocks of ice.
Cold and hard.
“You just keep writing the same sad stuff, Ali.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“Mom says the people at church are talking.”
“Talking?”
“They want to celebrate God.
They want to love Him and thank Him.
They want something different.
And to be honest, so do I.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s too sad.
You’ve been writing this sad crap for long enough.
It’s time to move on.”
I felt like my best friend
had just pushed me
down
the
s
t
a
i
r
s
“Sad crap?
Is that what you think of my music?”
“Come on, you know I don’t mean it like that.
But we need to take a break.
I’ve already told them at church.
It’s done.”
Then she stood up
and went to the piano.
Her fingers danced
across the keys,
light and airy,
like nothing
was even wrong.
I thought of Mom.
How could I stop playing?
It was the one place
that hadn’t changed.
The one place where
I felt her with me
no matter what.
“They’ve found someone else to play,” she continued.
“For a while.”
“Claire, what the hell?”
She shrugged.
“I want to focus on my clothing designs anyway.”
I was so pissed,
I almost threw
my precious guitar
across the room,
smashing
the mannequin
to pieces.
But I didn’t.
I just squeezed it,
looking at the girl
I thought I knew.
When she said, “You need to let God in, Ali,”
it felt like she was rubbing
sandpaper
up
and
down
my
skin.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Come on. You know.
Write about something else.
Write about the good stuff!”
As if sadness
can be thrown,
like a small stone,
into a raging river
and quickly
forgotten.
I can’t help it
if Mom is there,
in my music.
She brought me to it
in the first place.
I squeezed my fists
tightly around the guitar neck.
I squeezed so hard,
the strings
cut into
my hands.
There was nothing
I could think of to say,
because she’d probably
never understand.
And so
I just
left.
not a solo artist
When I got home,
I called Blaze
and we talked.
Well, I talked, shouted, and screamed.
He listened.
When I finally
shut up for a minute,
he said,
“You can play your music for me anytime.
You don’t need that church messing with your mind
anyway.”
“Blaze, please don’t.”
“What? It’s the truth.
I swear, that place is like a cult.”
And here
was the damn splinter,
getting deeper,
hurting more and more.
I’ve learned
the best thing to do
is change the subject.
“I know I can still play my music,” I told him.
“It’s just not the same without Claire.
But how can we ever play again?
She called my music crap.”
“I’m sorry, baby.
I’m sure she’ll get over it,
and you’ll be doing your thing together again soon.”
Blaze is right
about a lot of things.
But I was pretty sure
he wouldn’t be right
about that.
not hungry
Friday at school
was weird.
Weird like
mashed potatoes
without gravy
or
a hot dog
without mustard.
It wasn’t
how it was supposed to be.
I couldn’t figure out
if Claire and I
were fighting
or fine
or what?
I went to the library
at lunch
and worked on
a science project,
while hoping
I wouldn’t be gravyless
for long.
foul
When Dad got home from work,
he yelled at me
because I had forgotten to pick up
his dry cleaning
on my way home
from school.
His green eyes,
with big, dark bags
underneath them,
scowled at me
as he told me
how much the family
needed me to be
a team player.
“Dad,” I screamed, “I didn’t forget on purpose!”
Then I ran up the stairs
to get ready for my date,
thinking what a
rotten coach
my father
made.
the answer
That night,
Blaze picked me up
looking like
he just stepped out
of Rolling Stone magazine.
Hot.
“Blaze,” Dad said, coming up behind me at the door,
“want to come in for a few minutes?”
“He can’t,” I said.
“We have, uh, dinner reservations.
Bye.”
I stepped out
onto the porch
and shut the door
behind us,
before they had a chance
to say anything else.
“You in a hurry?” he asked.
“And should I take that as a good sign?”
I smiled. “In a hurry to get out of there, is all.”
He pulled me close,
gave me a squeeze and a kiss,
and whispered,
“I’m excited to be with you, too.
I love you so much, Ali.”
And in that moment,
knowing completely and fully
that no one
understood me
or loved me
more than Blaze,
I heard my soul whisper
yes.
hold on tight
Italian food
is Blaze’s favorite.
I remember that night so clearly;
I can smell the oregano and garlic
and hear the buzz of conversation
wafting through the restaurant.
We talked and laughed
over plates of
angel hair pasta piled high
with tangy marinara sauce
and fresh parmesan cheese
sprinkled on top.
Blaze twirled the noodles
around his fork, and I thought,
Those noodles are like me,
wrapped around
Blaze’s little finger.
We shared a bowl
of spumoni ice cream,
one bite for him,
one bite for me,
and so on,
until the little silver bowl
sat empty
between us.
When I pulled his gift
from my coat pocket,
he smiled
like a five-year-old
on Christmas.
“Happy birthday.”
Blaze dreams
of the day
he rides off
into the sunset
on a Harley,
so I was thrilled
to find
the vintage
Harley Davidson key chain
on eBay.
He turned it
over and over
in his hands,
admiring its beauty
and the words
I had engraved
on the back.
Another year ahead.
Ready, set, go.
Please take me with you.
Love, Ali.
Then
Blaze’s hands
reached across the table
and cradled my face.
“Of course you can come with me,” he said.
An image of me and him
on a Harley,
riding far, far away,
po
pped into my head.
And I wished
I had bought him
the motorcycle
to go along
with the key chain.
what does it mean?
With happy hearts
and stuffed bellies,
we left the restaurant
and walked out
into the drizzly night.
As we approached his car,
Blaze pulled me to him
and kissed my neck,
sending tingles
up
and
down and sideways
through
my
body.
“I got us a room,” he told me.
“At the MarQueen Hotel.
We can stay for a few hours,
then I’ll take you home.”
I kissed his delicious lips again
and tried to imagine myself
tangled in sheets
with the boy I love
in the old and charming
MarQueen Hotel.
“That’s sweet,” I said.
“Your first time should be sweet,” he said