as he chews.
Mom’s fingers still cling
to that last piece of stoneware
and I want to tell my brother
he should study
the look on Mom’s face,
the way her jaw muscles just went slack
and tightened again in a split second’s time.
Left Out to Dry on Sunday Night
No ringing of my cell.
Inbox is empty.
No blink of forgiveness
on the answering machine.
I leave another message,
“Kate, call me. Please call me,”
and my want hangs
heavy on the line.
Best-Friends Collage
I’m putting together a photomontage,
cropped pictures
of Kate and me at our best,
to help put last night behind us.
This 8½-by-11 sheet of paper
isn’t big enough
to hold every photo,
so I pick some of my favorites:
Noses, bright red,
our arms draped around
a lopsided snowman
made with six-year-old hands.
Flour on our cheeks,
bowl of batter on the counter,
messy nine-year-olds in too-big aprons
attempting to bake something edible.
Buried up to our necks
in the sand on Bright Penny,
Kate’s smile has a gap where a tooth used to be,
must have been seven or eight.
More recent shots, too,
of us being silly,
of us being serious,
of us being us.
I know this collage
is a bit over the top
but I can’t help myself.
I’ve never been good
at guilt.
Making Amends
I see Kate in the hall after first period.
“Hey! Feeling better?” I ask.
She shrugs—“Yeah. A little”—
and tucks a strand of hair behind her left ear.
“I’m sorry about our Slumber,” I say,
handing her the collage.
She looks at it, bites her lower lip.
“I’m sorry, too,” she says. “I have to go.”
“No. Wait!”
But she’s already rounding the corner,
disappearing into a sea of students,
and all I can see of her
is her left hand,
fingers clutching the patchwork picture
of friendship.
Whoosh
I just finished developing
the photo of the woman on the Vineyard
and an idea starts swirling.
I leave the darkroom and place my hands
on the edge of Mrs. Pratt’s cluttered desk.
“I’m thinking of focusing
part of my portfolio
on Vineyard portraits.
Not of day-trippers or rich summer folks
but off-season shots
of what-you-see-is-what-you-get
year-round islanders.”
The swirling turns to a whooshing
as I say the words aloud,
and I hope she likes the idea
because I like the way the whooshing feels.
She leans forward,
clasps her hands around mine
like we’re praying together,
and says, “That sounds wonderful.”
WHOOSH!
Small Talk
“Hi,” I say
at the end of the day
when I catch Kate
coming out of history class.
“Oh! Hi!” she says,
acting surprised to see me,
even though I always meet her here.
We laugh at Mr. Clay’s “Staaap running!” squeak
as he reams out some kid down the hall,
and I ask her if we’re okay.
She says, “Yes,”
in a distant, formal way
that doesn’t sound
okay to me.
“I’m just in a rush.”
And as I watch her dash
down the hallway
I wonder if she’s rushing to
something important
or rushing away
from me.
Home
Mom’s in the kitchen
emptying a bag of groceries
and singing some song about
putting up a parking lot.
I tell her about my portfolio
and she thinks it’s a great idea
but worries about me
spending a lot of time
alone on the island.
“Take Brian with you?” she asks,
then immediately shakes her head.
“You wouldn’t get much work done that way.
How about Kate?”
I swallow hard. “We had a fight at our Slumber.”
“About what?”
“I said mean things about Trevor
and laid into her about not wanting
to major in dance.”
Mom puts a loaf of bread on the counter.
“Kate doesn’t want to major in dance?”
“See!” I tell her.
“I’m not the only one who thinks that’s nuts!”
“Did you apologize?” she asks,
handing me a gallon of milk.
“I tried.”
She reaches up
to put a can in the cabinet.
“You and Kate are like sisters.
Everything will work out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I hope so.”
As I head to my room,
Mom goes back to singing
something about not
Mom’s fingers still cling
to that last piece of stoneware
and I want to tell my brother
he should study
the look on Mom’s face,
the way her jaw muscles just went slack
and tightened again in a split second’s time.
Left Out to Dry on Sunday Night
No ringing of my cell.
Inbox is empty.
No blink of forgiveness
on the answering machine.
I leave another message,
“Kate, call me. Please call me,”
and my want hangs
heavy on the line.
Best-Friends Collage
I’m putting together a photomontage,
cropped pictures
of Kate and me at our best,
to help put last night behind us.
This 8½-by-11 sheet of paper
isn’t big enough
to hold every photo,
so I pick some of my favorites:
Noses, bright red,
our arms draped around
a lopsided snowman
made with six-year-old hands.
Flour on our cheeks,
bowl of batter on the counter,
messy nine-year-olds in too-big aprons
attempting to bake something edible.
Buried up to our necks
in the sand on Bright Penny,
Kate’s smile has a gap where a tooth used to be,
must have been seven or eight.
More recent shots, too,
of us being silly,
of us being serious,
of us being us.
I know this collage
is a bit over the top
but I can’t help myself.
I’ve never been good
at guilt.
Making Amends
I see Kate in the hall after first period.
“Hey! Feeling better?” I ask.
She shrugs—“Yeah. A little”—
and tucks a strand of hair behind her left ear.
“I’m sorry about our Slumber,” I say,
handing her the collage.
She looks at it, bites her lower lip.
“I’m sorry, too,” she says. “I have to go.”
“No. Wait!”
But she’s already rounding the corner,
disappearing into a sea of students,
and all I can see of her
is her left hand,
fingers clutching the patchwork picture
of friendship.
Whoosh
I just finished developing
the photo of the woman on the Vineyard
and an idea starts swirling.
I leave the darkroom and place my hands
on the edge of Mrs. Pratt’s cluttered desk.
“I’m thinking of focusing
part of my portfolio
on Vineyard portraits.
Not of day-trippers or rich summer folks
but off-season shots
of what-you-see-is-what-you-get
year-round islanders.”
The swirling turns to a whooshing
as I say the words aloud,
and I hope she likes the idea
because I like the way the whooshing feels.
She leans forward,
clasps her hands around mine
like we’re praying together,
and says, “That sounds wonderful.”
WHOOSH!
Small Talk
“Hi,” I say
at the end of the day
when I catch Kate
coming out of history class.
“Oh! Hi!” she says,
acting surprised to see me,
even though I always meet her here.
We laugh at Mr. Clay’s “Staaap running!” squeak
as he reams out some kid down the hall,
and I ask her if we’re okay.
She says, “Yes,”
in a distant, formal way
that doesn’t sound
okay to me.
“I’m just in a rush.”
And as I watch her dash
down the hallway
I wonder if she’s rushing to
something important
or rushing away
from me.
Home
Mom’s in the kitchen
emptying a bag of groceries
and singing some song about
putting up a parking lot.
I tell her about my portfolio
and she thinks it’s a great idea
but worries about me
spending a lot of time
alone on the island.
“Take Brian with you?” she asks,
then immediately shakes her head.
“You wouldn’t get much work done that way.
How about Kate?”
I swallow hard. “We had a fight at our Slumber.”
“About what?”
“I said mean things about Trevor
and laid into her about not wanting
to major in dance.”
Mom puts a loaf of bread on the counter.
“Kate doesn’t want to major in dance?”
“See!” I tell her.
“I’m not the only one who thinks that’s nuts!”
“Did you apologize?” she asks,
handing me a gallon of milk.
“I tried.”
She reaches up
to put a can in the cabinet.
“You and Kate are like sisters.
Everything will work out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I hope so.”
As I head to my room,
Mom goes back to singing
something about not
Similar Books
