What My Mother Doesn't Know

  and then he winks at her.

  He actually winks.

  And she just about dies

  whenever he does that.

  And she says he finally asked

  for her phone number yesterday

  and when he called her last night

  she just about fainted

  and they talked for three solid hours,

  and she can’t believe

  how much they have in common.

  They even have the same number

  of letters in their names,

  and she says he better ask her out soon,

  because she doesn’t think

  she can go on like this

  much longer.

  He better.

  Because we don’t think

  we can

  either.

  WHEN WE’RE ALONE

  Rachel does her Grace impression:

  “. . . He’s got this Pig Latin accent

  that just about makes me ool-dray.

  And we have so much in common.

  We even have the same number of zits!”

  When she finishes,

  we share a guilty giggle fit,

  but then Rachel’s smile fades

  and she says sometimes

  listening to Grace

  go on and on about Henry

  makes her feel as if

  her relationship with Danny

  is inferior or something.

  She says she can’t remember

  ever having talked on

  the phone with Danny

  for more than twenty minutes

  at a stretch.

  Not even in the very beginning.

  And when she says this,

  I suddenly realize

  that the same thing’s true

  about Dylan and me.

  And my heart

  sinks

  all the way to China.

  AT THE COUNTY FAIR

  If only

  Dylan liked

  Ferris wheels.

  If only

  I liked

  roller coasters.

  If only

  Dylan liked

  fun houses.

  If only

  I liked

  bumper cars.

  If only

  Dylan liked

  horse shows.

  If only

  I liked

  video arcades.

  If only

  I had come with Rachel and Grace

  instead.

  TEST RESULTS ARE IN

  I took one of those

  really stupid magazine tests just now.

  The kind that’s supposed to tell you

  how compatible you are with your mate.

  This one was called:

  “Is Your Mr. Right, Mr. Wrong?”

  If you scored in the nineties

  he was definitely Mr. Right.

  Above seventy-five meant he was Mr. Maybe.

  Above fifty meant he was Mr. Maybe Not.

  And anything below fifty meant—

  Well, you know.

  I answered all those idiotic questions

  as honestly as I could.

  I should have lied.

  I DON’T GET IT

  I used to think it was so cute

  the way Dylan’s sneakers always

  squeaked when he walked.

  I liked teasing him about them.

  Called them his squeakers.

  Loved being able to hear

  him coming a mile away.

  When I’d hear that squeak of his

  heading in my direction,

  my heart would dance right up

  into my throat.

  I used to feel like I was floating

  a few inches above the ground

  whenever he was squeaking along

  next to me.

  But now when I hear those

  noisy Nikes of his,

  I feel like

  I want to scream.

  I want to stomp on his toes.

  I want to trip him up and run away.

  I just don’t get it.

  HE CALLS HIMSELF CHAZ

  I like the ring of it—

  chatting with Chaz.

  I met him on the Internet last week

  and we just seemed to click right away.

  No pun intended.

  We’ve been getting together

  every night since then at ten o’clock

  for these long private talks.

  Just the two of us

  floating through cyberspace.

  There’s something so neat

  about not even knowing

  what he looks like.

  Something even neater

  about not even caring.

  And knowing

  that he doesn’t care

  what I look like either.

  It’s a soul thing,

  with us.

  A cybersoul thing.

  I made up that word.

  Chaz really likes it.

  MY MORAL DILEMMA

  I ask Rachel and Grace

  if they think it’s the same thing

  as cheating on Dylan

  when I chat with Chaz.

  Grace says that depends

  on who I like talking to more,

  the cyberstud (as she calls him)

  or Dylan.

  Grace says she can’t imagine

  wanting to talk to another guy

  more than her new boyfriend Henry.

  On the Net or otherwise.

  She says it’s a bad sign if

  I don’t feel that way about Dylan.

  But Rachel says one person

  can’t completely fulfill

  anybody’s needs a hundred percent

  and it’s not as if

  I’m actually dating Chaz,

  so she doesn’t see anything wrong with it.

  I love that girl.

  CYBER SOUL MATE

  It’s almost ten o’clock.

  I can hardly wait

  to see his voice.

  HIS WORDS POP ONTO MY SCREEN:

  “So tell me about your day.

  I want to know everything that happened

  from the minute you woke up this morning to right now.”

  I don’t think anyone’s

  ever

  been this interested in me before.

  Not even me.

  As I place my fingers

  to the keys

  and begin,

  my heart does the happy chatroom dance.

  MORE OR LESS

  If Dylan and I had met

  by chatting on the Net

  in a room in cyberspace

  instead of face to face

  and I hadn’t seen his lips

  or the way he moves his hips

  when he does that sexy dance

  and I hadn’t had a chance

  to look into his eyes

  or be dazzled by their size

  and all that I had seen

  were his letters on my screen,

  then I might as well confess:

  I think I would have liked him

  less.

  DOUBLE DATE

  All Grace has to do is smile at him

  and Henry forgets what he’s saying

  right in the middle of his sentence.

  And when he can complete a thought,

  Grace acts like it’s just about

  the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

  Henry keeps wrapping

  the little curl at the nape of her neck

  around his finger,

  and he hasn’t let go of her hand once,

  even to scratch,

  since we’ve been here,

  which seems like hours

  even though it’s probably only been

  twenty minutes.

  I don’t know how

  they’re going to manage it

&n
bsp; when the food comes.

  Dylan and I are just sitting here

  across from them in the booth,

  trying to make small talk.

  Our thighs

  aren’t even touching

  on the seat.

  AT THE MOVIES

  I’m sitting between Henry and Dylan.

  Dylan’s holding my hand,

  but I can tell he isn’t feeling it.

  He’s actually watching the movie.

  I mean really watching it,

  like it doesn’t even matter that I’m here.

  And the saddest part is

  that I don’t care.

  I’d almost rather snuggle up to Henry.

  But he’s too busy holding hands

  (and everything else)

  with Grace.

  WALKING HOME

  The light changes

  and Dylan and I head across the street,

  arm in arm.

  That’s when it happens:

  I notice our reflection in

  the window of Starbucks

  and I get this weird feeling

  that something isn’t quite right.

  Only I can’t put my finger on it.

  Then it hits me:

  what’s wrong is that it looks like

  I’m taller than Dylan,

  which is totally bizarre

  because I’m wearing my flattest shoes

  and I know for a fact

  that he’s taller than me.

  At least he was taller

  six weeks ago

  when we first started

  going out together.

  I’ve heard of people

  outgrowing relationships,

  but this is ridiculous.

  GOOD NIGHT

  We’re standing under the porch light,

  face to face,

  leaning our foreheads together.

  He’s playing with my fingers,

  whispering something

  about what a great time he had tonight.

  And all I can think about

  is that his hands look smaller than mine,

  like the hands of a little boy.

  Q AND A WITH CHAZ

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is she?”

  “You.”

  Me?!

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah.”

  HIM

  I wake up

  thinking about him.

  All day long

  I’m dreaming about him.

  I fall asleep

  thinking about him.

  Only

  it’s the wrong him.

  IF IT WEREN’T FOR DYLAN

  I wouldn’t be feeling

  like a

  low-down

  dirty rotten

  good-for-nothing

  deceitful

  despicable snake.

  I could just be

  enjoying this thing with Chaz

  totally and completely,

  without one

  single

  speck

  of guilt,

  if it weren’t for Dylan.

  IT’S STRANGE

  I used to wish like anything

  that he’d want to spend

  every

  minute with me.

  But now that he’s practically

  glued himself to my side,

  I keep tripping over him.

  Like he’s my Siamese twin or something.

  He’s always

  pushing me

  to go further

  but I just don’t want to

  and maybe it’s because

  I’m not ready

  or maybe it’s because

  I don’t love him enough.

  Or maybe

  I don’t

  love him

  at all.

  Or maybe I never did.

  TOO LATE

  Way back in the beginning of September,

  when I wasn’t even sure yet

  if he liked me,

  I used to imagine what I’d do

  if Dylan told me he loved me.

  In my fantasy I’d just throw back my head

  with a triumphant sexy laugh,

  and then

  he’d rake his fingers through my hair

  and kiss me hard on the mouth.

  But tonight

  when he finally said the magic words,

  I didn’t laugh and he didn’t kiss me.

  He just peered at me with this worried look

  and I suddenly felt like crying.

  AND RIGHT THEN, MURPHY POPPED INTO MY HEAD

  It was so weird, but he did.

  And I found myself wondering

  if anyone has ever told Murphy

  that they love him.

  His mother maybe has.

  Or his father.

  But I wondered

  if a girl ever has.

  Or if one ever will.

  And somehow

  that made me feel even sadder

  than I already was.

  And then I found myself wondering

  if this was the one time,

  the first and last time,

  that a boy would ever say it to me.

  TONIGHT’S CHAZ CHAT

  He writes:

  “Of course,

  I don’t really care what you look like,

  But—

  what do you look like?”

  I think for a second

  before I answer:

  “Well, people say

  I’m sort of a combination of

  Marilyn Monroe, Julia Roberts,

  and Madonna.

  What do you look like?”

  And he writes back:

  “Same.”

  I burst out laughing

  and suddenly find myself imagining

  what his laugh sounds like,

  and what his lips look like,

  and how they’d feel

  covering mine.

  LITTERBOX ICG

  If I could marry a font

  I’d marry his.

  I just love it,

  the way all of the letters lean

  at those quirky little angles.

  They remind me of the letters

  in those thought balloons

  in the Sunday funnies,

  like words that Snoopy

  or Garfield

  might be thinking.

  And those question marks are—

  well, they’re adorable.

  They just are somehow.

  If I could marry a font,

  I would definitely marry his.

  SHOWER

  I step into the steam

  and let the water

  rinse my body clean

  while rivers flow in ribbons

  down my arms

  and waterfalls caress my breasts

  and swirl in lazy trickles

  to my thighs

  as soap melts into creamy suds

  that slide across my skin

  like foaming clouds,

  and all the while

  I’m thinking about Chaz,

  imagining he’s with me in this mist,

  imagining he’s

  with me . . .

  BIT BY BIT

  “Okay,” I write.

  “Describe how you’ve been picturing me.”

  “I don’t have to picture you,” he replies.

  “I’ve got a very powerful computer.”

  For a second I panic,

  thinking of all the times

  I’ve chatted with him

  wearing my ratty old nightgown.

  But then he writes, “Just kidding.”

  And I write, “Whew!”

  And he writes,

  “Actually, I see you as a curly-haired redhead

/>   with sea green eyes, very wise,

  and a few freckles

  sprinkled across your perfect nose.”

  “Right!” I reply,

  “Except for the hair, the eyes,

  and that part about the freckles and the nose.”

  Then I add,

  “What do you look like?”

  “Why don’t we meet

  so you can find out?” he asks.

  “Gulp,” I answer.

  “Ditto,” he writes.

  I DON’T KNOW HOW TO TELL DYLAN

  I used

  to think I was

  in love

  with him.

  But that

  must have been

  a different him.

  Or maybe a different me.

  Because

  when I look at him now

  I see a friend,

  not a boyfriend.

  And when he kisses me,

  all I feel is

  the overwhelming

  overness of it.

  WHEN DYLAN CRIED

  When Dylan cried,

  I felt way more powerful

  than I wanted to feel.

  I started crying too.

  I couldn’t help it.

  And then we hugged each other

  tighter than we ever had before,

  knowing that we never would again.

  LOWER THAN LOW

  He said he wasn’t mad.

  He said he understood.

  He said he’d be okay.

  So,

  why do I feel this way?

  WE SAID WE’D STILL BE FRIENDS, BUT

  Whenever Dylan sees me

  he pretends he doesn’t notice

  and he tosses both his arms