single
word from her, I’m wrecked. I fake
my way through English and calculus,
concentration impossible. I don’t see
her in the hallways, wonder if she’s even
here, until the lunch bell rings. I find
her in the cafeteria, surrounded by
her posse of believers, who are no doubt
discussing the relative merits of their youth
minister. When I gesture for her to join
me, I’m terrified she’ll shake her head.
Instead, she says something to her friends,
grabs her book— The Perks of Being
a Wallflower , I can tell by the cover—
and comes over without hesitation. She tilts
her chin, reaching for a kiss. Relief upwells.
I whisper in her ear, “Thank you,” encircle
her with one arm, and acknowledge
her gift of forgiveness. This is the kiss
I wanted two days ago. The one that makes
everyone in this chili-stinking room understand
that Hayden and I are in love. Unfortunately,
it draws the attention of Ms. Hannity,
who happens to be passing by. Break it
up, Mistah Turnah. This isn’t HBO.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. As you
know, self-control isn’t my forte.”
Yes, well, work on that. Some things
are best done in private. That is all.
Arm Still Firmly Wrapped
Around Hayden’s waist, I steer her
to a more private place—a table way
in the back of the room. As we pass
the deli cart, I grab a ham sandwich.
“Want something?” Who says chivalry
is dead? But Hayden shakes her head.
I’m eliminating carbs for a while.
Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what
I really want to say. Instead, I go
with a much more generic “Why?”
Prom’s coming up. I want to fit
in the dress I bought. We are going?
What kind of an idiot boyfriend
would say no, even if he quite
reasonably thought prom was nothing
but a money-sucking nightmare?
“Of course. Can’t wait.” We sit
and Hayden watches me unwrap
my approximation of a delicious meal.
Rather than have her stare as I scarf
it down, I direct her attention back
toward the Bible-thumpers’ table,
where Jocelyn and friends seem
to be in deep discussion. “What’s up
with them? Have they discovered
a lost gnostic gospel or something?”
She smiles.
That’s good.
I think.
In the last five minutes? Don’t think
so. No, they’re planning our spring
break retreat. We’re staying at a hostel. . . .
Spring break.
Retreat.
Hostel.
And . . .
“Don’t tell me. Judah is going.”
Suddenly my lunch is flavorless.
Well, of course. It was his idea.
A week of meditation, communion,
and spiritual awakening. Don’t
look at me like that, Matt.
Don’t Look at Her
Don’t say a damn thing. Spring break
is still weeks away. Who knows what
might happen by then? I bite into
my cardboard sandwich, concentrate
on the tabletop. “I can’t give you a ride
home today. I have to see my therapist.”
Mom made the appointment, insisted
I show up, No matter what, no excuses.
I could blow it off anyway, except
it might do me good to talk about this
crap with Hayden. I sure as hell
can’t talk to her about it. She’s dug in.
That’s okay. I can ride with Joce.
What about the game tonight?
I’ve only gone to a couple, and there
are only a few weeks left until
the play-offs. I shrug. “If you’re going
I guess I will, too.” Better to kiss a little
butt than reevaluate our relationship.
“Will you wear that green sweater?”
My Therapist’s Lair
Is in a modern building with a big,
sunny atrium smack in the middle,
circled by brightly painted offices,
all designed to fool patients into
believing things are better than they
seem. But let’s face it. Body-sick
or brain-sick, we’re all here because
it pretty much sucks being us.
I arrive five minutes late, still have
to wait another ten because I’m unlucky
enough to have the only therapist
on earth who’s willing to go fifteen
minutes over, to be absolutely certain
her clients will make it through
the week without overdosing or parking
on the
word from her, I’m wrecked. I fake
my way through English and calculus,
concentration impossible. I don’t see
her in the hallways, wonder if she’s even
here, until the lunch bell rings. I find
her in the cafeteria, surrounded by
her posse of believers, who are no doubt
discussing the relative merits of their youth
minister. When I gesture for her to join
me, I’m terrified she’ll shake her head.
Instead, she says something to her friends,
grabs her book— The Perks of Being
a Wallflower , I can tell by the cover—
and comes over without hesitation. She tilts
her chin, reaching for a kiss. Relief upwells.
I whisper in her ear, “Thank you,” encircle
her with one arm, and acknowledge
her gift of forgiveness. This is the kiss
I wanted two days ago. The one that makes
everyone in this chili-stinking room understand
that Hayden and I are in love. Unfortunately,
it draws the attention of Ms. Hannity,
who happens to be passing by. Break it
up, Mistah Turnah. This isn’t HBO.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. As you
know, self-control isn’t my forte.”
Yes, well, work on that. Some things
are best done in private. That is all.
Arm Still Firmly Wrapped
Around Hayden’s waist, I steer her
to a more private place—a table way
in the back of the room. As we pass
the deli cart, I grab a ham sandwich.
“Want something?” Who says chivalry
is dead? But Hayden shakes her head.
I’m eliminating carbs for a while.
Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what
I really want to say. Instead, I go
with a much more generic “Why?”
Prom’s coming up. I want to fit
in the dress I bought. We are going?
What kind of an idiot boyfriend
would say no, even if he quite
reasonably thought prom was nothing
but a money-sucking nightmare?
“Of course. Can’t wait.” We sit
and Hayden watches me unwrap
my approximation of a delicious meal.
Rather than have her stare as I scarf
it down, I direct her attention back
toward the Bible-thumpers’ table,
where Jocelyn and friends seem
to be in deep discussion. “What’s up
with them? Have they discovered
a lost gnostic gospel or something?”
She smiles.
That’s good.
I think.
In the last five minutes? Don’t think
so. No, they’re planning our spring
break retreat. We’re staying at a hostel. . . .
Spring break.
Retreat.
Hostel.
And . . .
“Don’t tell me. Judah is going.”
Suddenly my lunch is flavorless.
Well, of course. It was his idea.
A week of meditation, communion,
and spiritual awakening. Don’t
look at me like that, Matt.
Don’t Look at Her
Don’t say a damn thing. Spring break
is still weeks away. Who knows what
might happen by then? I bite into
my cardboard sandwich, concentrate
on the tabletop. “I can’t give you a ride
home today. I have to see my therapist.”
Mom made the appointment, insisted
I show up, No matter what, no excuses.
I could blow it off anyway, except
it might do me good to talk about this
crap with Hayden. I sure as hell
can’t talk to her about it. She’s dug in.
That’s okay. I can ride with Joce.
What about the game tonight?
I’ve only gone to a couple, and there
are only a few weeks left until
the play-offs. I shrug. “If you’re going
I guess I will, too.” Better to kiss a little
butt than reevaluate our relationship.
“Will you wear that green sweater?”
My Therapist’s Lair
Is in a modern building with a big,
sunny atrium smack in the middle,
circled by brightly painted offices,
all designed to fool patients into
believing things are better than they
seem. But let’s face it. Body-sick
or brain-sick, we’re all here because
it pretty much sucks being us.
I arrive five minutes late, still have
to wait another ten because I’m unlucky
enough to have the only therapist
on earth who’s willing to go fifteen
minutes over, to be absolutely certain
her clients will make it through
the week without overdosing or parking
on the
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