What My Mother Doesn't Know

  around the nearest pretty girl.

  Whenever I see Dylan

  I kneel down to tie my shoelace

  or start searching through my backpack

  like I’ve lost my favorite pen.

  When we can’t avoid each other

  Dylan acts so glad to see me—

  only now he calls me Sophie.

  I’m not Sapphire anymore.

  DELETED

  Tonight Chaz asked me:

  “What’s your favorite thing to do?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say

  so I just wrote back:

  “I don’t know. What’s yours?”

  He’s not real quick at typing,

  but I had to wait even longer than usual

  for his answer to pop onto my screen:

  “I like to jerk off in libraries.”

  The words just sat there staring at me,

  like something ugly

  scratched on a restroom wall.

  I felt as if I’d been punched

  hard

  in the stomach.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  I typed back.

  “No. I’m not,” he wrote.

  I read those words again and again,

  trying to get myself to believe them.

  I felt like I was

  plummeting through cyberspace

  out of control,

  until I took some deep breaths,

  pulled myself together

  and wrote:

  “Consider yourself permanently deleted.”

  Then, I clicked off.

  And just now,

  I changed my e-mail address.

  CHAT ROOM CHUMP

  How could I ever have let

  such a pervert into my life like that?

  “Come right in, Mr. Disgusting,

  make yourself at home.”

  I could have ended up as a headline:

  STUPID TEEN MURDERED BY CYBER PSYCHO!

  And to think

  that just last night

  we were talking about maybe even

  trying to meet each other

  “in the flesh,”

  as he put it.

  What if

  we’d actually arranged that meeting?

  What if

  he’d chosen the library as the place?

  What if

  when I got there he’d been—

  WHEN I TELL THEM

  Grace shivers

  and pretends to gag.

  Rachel’s eyes

  quadruple in size.

  Then they scoop me up

  in a three-way hug,

  and whisk me off

  to the movies.

  Their treat.

  THE HALLOWEEN DANCE IS COMING UP

  Rachel says

  she’d rather go trick or treating.

  Grace says me too.

  I say me three.

  But Rachel says

  if we don’t go

  it’ll probably turn out to be

  the best dance of the millennium.

  And Grace says

  besides, trick or treating’s too risky.

  What if someone saw us?

  We’d never live it down.

  I say

  I just wish I knew where Chaz lived

  so I could go over there

  and throw rotten eggs at his computer.

  SHOPPING FOR A DRESS TO WEAR TO THE DANCE

  Scene One: At the Sale Rack

  “How about this one, Soso?” my mother says,

  holding up a dress with these

  enormous pink roses plastered all over it.

  “Mom, I do not want to go to the dance

  dressed as a potted plant.”

  “Of course not.

  I was thinking of a rosebush.”

  “A rosebush?!”

  “You’ll see what I mean when you try it on.

  It’ll look so darling on.”

  “But, Mom. It’s ugly.”

  “How can you tell

  if you don’t try it on?”

  “Mom, I hate everything about it.

  I like this little black one.

  I could go as a beatnik in this one.”

  “But being a rosebush would be so original,

  so creative . . .”

  “So kindergarten!”

  “Then try them both on.

  But you’re gonna love the flowered one.

  You’ll see.”

  Scene Two: In the Dressing Room

  “What do you think?” I say,

  twirling in front of the three-way mirror

  in the gorgeous black dress.

  “Perfect. For a funeral.

  Besides. It’s too tight.

  Now, take that one off

  and try on the beautiful one.”

  Scene Three:

  In the Dressing Room, Moments Later

  “It looks even more hideous on, Mom.”

  “I think it flatters your figure.”

  “I don’t care what you think.”

  “That’s right.

  Why should you care?

  I’m only your mother.”

  “Aw, Mom.

  Please.

  Don’t cry.”

  Scene Four: At the Cash Register

  No dialogue.

  Only the crinkly sound

  of the flowered dress

  being slipped into a paper bag.

  OKAY, HERE’S THE PLAN:

  I’ll call the store from a phone booth

  and ask them to hold the black dress

  for two weeks.

  I’ll baby-sit

  for the Weingartens

  and the Bigelows

  and the Devlins.

  And I’ll give up lunches,

  which will save me

  another couple of dollars a day

  right there.

  Then, when I have enough,

  I’ll sneak over,

  buy the dress

  and stash it at Rachel’s.

  On the night of the dance,

  I’ll leave the house

  in the rose disaster dress

  but do a quick change at Rachel’s.

  And what my mother

  doesn’t know,

  won’t hurt me.

  THE MINUTE MR. SCHULTZ LEAVES THE ROOM

  Art class degenerates

  into a giggling gabfest

  about Halloween Dance costumes.

  The only one still working is Murphy,

  hunched over his desk,

  painting a gray road,

  a road

  that’s fading away

  into the gray emptiness of the horizon

  and in the foreground, just

  one

  tree,

  a tree that looks like a poem,

  a tree that makes me feel

  like weeping.

  2 WEEKS, 6 DIAPERS, 5 PUPPET SHOWS, AND 9 READINGS OF “GOODNIGHT MOON” LATER

  Rachel donates half of her tuna sandwich.

  Grace parts with her pickle.

  Henry gives me his carrot sticks.

  Zak offers what’s left of his chips.

  Danny hands over

  the remains of his beef jerky.

  And when I stuff today’s lunch money

  into the jar,

  there’s finally enough

  in the Gorgeous Black Dress Fund

  to actually buy

  the gorgeous black dress.

  THE MOCKINGBIRD

  I’m watching him up there,

  silhouetted on the wire,

  alone against

  the silky blue sky,

  belting out the songs

  that he’s borrowed

  from all the other birds,

  trying on

  one voice after another,

  pausing briefly

  between each one
br />   to see if he’s attracting

  the girl bird

  of his dreams,

  and every now and then

  he dances up into the air,

  fluttering in a loop

  that shows off the patches of white

  etched on his wings,

  before landing back down on the wire

  to begin another song.

  And as I watch him,

  I’m feeling a lot like him,

  like a feathery creature

  balancing on a wire,

  trying on lots of different voices

  to see which one

  works best

  and every now and then,

  doing a little twirl

  out on the dance floor,

  hoping the boy bird of my dreams

  will fly by and notice me,

  flutter down beside me

  and ask me to dance.

  THREE HOURS BEFORE THE DANCE

  Even though I wash it,

  twice,

  with shampoo that’s especially formulated

  with essential fatty acids

  derived from natural botanic oils

  to replace valuable lipids

  and restore the emollients necessary

  for the hair to remain

  soft, pliable and supple

  with a healthy, radiant shine,

  and even though I remove

  the excess moisture from my hair

  and evenly distribute a small amount

  of instant reconstructor and detangler

  to enhance strength and manageability,

  and even though

  I work it through to the ends,

  leaving it on for three minutes

  and then rinse thoroughly before adding

  the revolutionary polymerized

  electrolytic moisture potion

  that actually repairs split ends

  while providing flexible styling control

  by infusing the roots with twenty-three

  essential pro-vitamins,

  and even though I massage it in

  to make my hair feel instantly softer

  and fuller with added shaping power,

  and then rinse it again

  with lukewarm water,

  towel dry and apply the desired amount

  of styling gel to the palm of my hand,

  and then comb it through

  and blow it dry,

  it still looks pathetic.

  TWO HOURS BEFORE THE DANCE

  Eyeliner

  should be a no-brainer

  for someone as good at drawing

  as I am.

  But even though

  I’m extra careful,

  the line on the left eyelid

  ends up just a tad thinner

  than the line on the right eyelid.

  And when I try

  to even them out,

  the left line ends up

  thicker than the right line.

  And forty minutes later,

  when I finally manage to get them even,

  they’re both half an inch wide—

  which is not a good look,

  even for a beatnik.

  So I scrub it all off

  and settle instead

  for some “Just Say Yes”

  Moisture Lick Luminous Lip Gel.

  In my case, less is definitely more.

  ONE HOUR BEFORE THE DANCE

  We pull up in front of Rachel’s house.

  Mom kisses me on the cheek,

  says I look dope in my new dress

  (she’s trying to sound so with it

  but she’s so totally without it)

  and tells me to have a good time.

  Like she really means it.

  And for once

  she doesn’t give me the evil eye

  and warn me to watch out for the boys.

  Maybe she’s using reverse psychology.

  Maybe she’s finally growing up.

  Maybe she’s just giving up.

  Or maybe

  she’s terrified

  that I’ll never get married

  and end up living with her and dad forever.

  Now

  there’s

  a scary thought.

  SHE HAS NO IDEA

  That I’m about to go in there

  and switch into the gorgeous black dress.

  Do I feel guilty?

  Sort of.

  But not enough to keep me from doing it.

  A girl’s got to do

  what a girl’s got to do.

  R AND G ANSWER THE DOOR

  Rachel takes one look at the

  gigantic pink roses all over my dress

  and says, “Oh, Fifi. You poor thing.

  No wonder you were so obsessed.”

  Grace says, “Are you thirsty?

  I could go and get the hose . . .”

  I say, “Thanks. But I’d rather have

  a swig of some Miracle-Gro.”

  We burst out laughing,

  race up the stairs

  and lock ourselves in Rachel’s room

  to perform the Sacred Transformations.

  Grace slips into her Juliet costume

  (Henry’s going as Romeo).

  Rachel puts on her Bert costume

  (Danny’s going as Ernie).

  And me?

  I’m just going as

  the beatnik who’s deliriously happy

  not to be going as a rosebush.

  I SLIP INTO THE GORGEOUS BLACK DRESS

  And instantly feel

  as smooth and as soft and as silky

  as the satin that it’s made of.

  I feel as slinky as a model in this dress.

  So full of possibilities.

  Like anything could happen.

  And something is

  going to happen.

  Tonight.

  I can feel it coming.

  And I’ll be wearing this dress

  when it does.

  Sometimes I just know things.

  AT THE DANCE

  Mr. Schultz is

  selling tickets at the door,

  dressed as Howard Stern.

  Not a pretty picture.

  The gym’s been transformed

  into a haunted house,

  which basically means that some spider webs

  are hanging from the basketball hoops.

  It’s loud,

  dark,

  crowded,

  sweaty,

  and I’m very glad to be here.

  GUESS WHO?

  I’m dancing with a bunch of girls,

  bouncing like kernels of popcorn

  in a hot frying pan,

  when this guy pushes through the crowd

  and starts dancing right in front of me.

  Real close.

  He’s wearing this evil-looking mask,

  and I don’t recognize his eyes.

  He seems older than the other boys . . .

  And I suddenly think:

  What if this is Chaz?

  What if he’s tracked me down somehow?

  I

  stop

  breathing.

  Then Rachel shoves him

  and says,

  “Move over, Fletcher.”

  And my lungs

  fill back up

  with air.

  IS IT MY IMAGINATION

  Or is the drummer

  staring right at

  me?

  His wild eyes

  are dancing with mine,

  swimming into mine.

  He’s choosing me to play to, me

  out of all the other girls

  at this dance.

  I’m

  afraid

  to blink.

  But the second the song ends,

  this blonde leaps out

  from behind the velvet curtains

  and kisses hi
m

  so hard on the mouth

  that it looks like it hurts.

  After that

  he doesn’t look my way

  again.

  THERE’S DYLAN

  Dressed in those pale blue hospital scrubs

  that they wear on ER,

  with a stethoscope dangling around his neck

  and his hair all grown in and spiked up,

  wailing on an air guitar.

  Looking so hot.

  I’ve got this crazy urge

  to run up and tell him

  I’m feeling faint,

  like maybe I’m having

  a heart attack or something.

  (Well, I am, sort of.)

  And then

  I could keel over

  and he’d have to catch me in his arms

  and give me some emergency

  mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  I could use some of that right about now—

  But here comes Angela Pierson,

  sneaking up behind him,

  putting her

  delicate little hands

  over his eyes.

  Dressed like a nurse.

  MASKED MAN

  He walks up to me

  and holds out his arms.

  I ease into them

  and we begin to dance.

  The music

  is slow

  and

  saxophony.

  I can feel the heat

  of his hands penetrating

  the thin fabric of my dress

  at the small of my back.

  His fingers roam up to my shoulders,

  melting away my shyness,

  as he draws me close enough

  to feel my breasts against his chest.