I Am Here Now, page 18
I ask her about Nastasia.
Is her gallery for real?
Would she ever want to see my work?
Kiki grabs my hand.
“She’s for real.
You’re for real.
All of us are for real.”
I don’t know what to say.
“You’re so quiet. What’s the matter?”
Kiki says, throwing paint around
like a happy toddler.
I could muster words
if I truly thought she wanted to know.
But I don’t.
“Hon?” she asks.
Hon. Like honey?
Being called hon is the opposite of
being called dirt.
“Hon?” she says again in her soft,
rumbly cigarette voice, a voice I love.
I hear the gift of that word
as if it were on loudspeakers.
I burst into tears.
Kiki puts her brush down,
touches my arm.
How can I tell her that,
in one syllable,
in one single word,
she’s told me who I am.
IT’S EASIER TO CRY IN THE RAIN
Kiki sits me down,
doesn’t reach for her cigarettes,
instead takes my hand, says,
“Let’s just listen to this downpour together, okay?
It’s easier to cry in the rain.
I’m a crier, too,” she whispers.
“Frankly, Maisie,
I wish there was more crying.
But folks think once they start,
they’ll never be able to stop.”
She brings me water.
Then asks about my father.
“You need him,” she says,
“even though he’s imperfect.”
“Imperfect? Seriously?”
“Okay, he’s a jerk!
But you love him.”
I start to protest, but my chest cramps
as if it might explode.
“You can’t stay with your mother, honey.
I’m afraid for you.
She’s not in good shape.”
FURY
I let those words sink in,
“not in good shape.”
“But my dad makes me furious.”
“Fury’s fine!” says Kiki. “I love fury!”
Somehow this makes me laugh.
“Is there an emotional menu?” I ask.
“Something like that!” says Kiki.
“Promise me you’ll think about
talking to your dad.”
Rachel clumps in, soaking wet.
When she sees me, her mouth drops.
“Maisie needed to talk,” Kiki rushes to say,
and almost sounding guilty.
“Let’s all get hot chocolate.”
“Not thirsty!” Rachel bellows.
“I’m glad I have a boyfriend.
I don’t need either one of you!”
She storms out.
I run after her.
“I didn’t get to tell you,
Richie is leaving!”
“Maybe that’s why you seem out of it!”
she says.
“I’m not out of it!”
I shout in a way
that makes me sound out of it.
The rain stops exactly at that moment.
SAD NEWS
At school,
Rachel avoids me at our lockers.
In the cafeteria, I say,
“Rache, I miss you.
Why can’t we hang out?”
She scrunches up her nose
as if the sentence smells bad.
Then she stops and sends me softer eyes.
“Sorry, I can’t. I have a date with Gino.
Don’t look so downcast.
Maybe tomorrow?”
Peter Collins sits down next to us,
leans into us and asks if we’ve heard.
“Heard what?”
“About your pal, Richie,” says Peter,
then gulps down his pizza.
“My father’s an accountant,
but he’s also the super
of Richie’s building—
he was there when Richie and his father
had a huge fight,” he pauses.
“Deadly,” he adds, and reaches for a napkin.
IN THE HEAD
“They were in the hallway.
Richie’s dad was demonstrating karate moves.
Mr. O’Neill got really tough on Richie.
The old man began to scream.
It got out of hand.
Then Richie freaked
and kicked his dad in the head!
In the head!
Mr. O’Neill was taken to the hospital.
Concussion. Serious!
The police came, but Richie had vanished.
They’re looking for him.
They even questioned me!”
He stares at us without blinking.
Now I feel myself turning Richie O’Neill–pale,
ghost white, strangely opalescent,
the walking-confused.
REALLY WANTED
I recall Richie’s “sooner or later” phone call.
I wish he would have said more.
Or that I’d made him explain!
I would’ve told him
we were supposed to be unhappy together!
Until one day, with any luck,
we weren’t. Unhappy that is.
But nobody was supposed to
get in trouble with the police!
I guess his dad figured out he was leaving.
What’s there to say?
Young Richie, crazy about trains and planes
then poetry, la langue française,
is off somewhere.
I won’t pass him dreaming on his bench.
He won’t punch out any boys for me.
No more inscrutable James Joyce notes.
Is he in trouble?
Where did he disappear to?
BECAUSE OF RICHIE
When school gets out,
I seem to be unable to rise up
off my chair.
Shock?
Rachel saunters by me, then says,
“You look awful!”
“Because I’m guilty! It’s my fault!
I didn’t ask him enough questions.
I thought he and his father were getting along.
My mother’s right about me,”
I moan.
Rachel takes my elbow, helps me up.
“Your job wasn’t to save him.
You can barely save yourself.”
I’m wobbly.
My stomach gurgles loudly.
“Jeez! You should probably come with me
and Gino,” she says, so softly and kindly
that the region of my heart comes alive.
“And, anyway, Mr. O’Neill might recover,”
she adds. “He might be fine.”
In a daze me and my wretched self
follow Rachel out the door.
AFTERSCHOOL
It’s 2 P.M. and Rachel, Gino, and I
head to Fordham Road.
They walk ahead of me
mumbling, sometimes giddily,
sometimes somberly.
I hear her recount the Richie mystery
as we head to the usual spots:
Jay’s Coffee Klatch, the corner store.
Finally, we’re chewing Chiclets,
sitting across from the subway overpass
watching the commuters.
I take out a pencil and try to sketch Gino’s profile.
He has this almost-mustache growing in
and hazel eyes
and really thick, dark lashes
that remind me of a sexy ad for cigarettes.
He could sell anything.
I think to myself, if Gino was the pitchman,
I’d probably start chain-smoking!
ON
I’m thinking about Richie,
worried about his father.
Will he survive, and if not,
does that mean Richie’s a murderer?
Somewhere my brain decides
the way to cope is
to become upbeat, entertaining
so I won’t explode.
Suddenly I’m talking,
putting on a show,
making my parents’ relationship
into a routine.
Telling how,
when my mother got a speeding ticket
my dad said, “When you go in front of the judge
say only two words: traffic school!”
She asked, “Shouldn’t I explain that I felt sick?”
“‘Traffic school!’ That is all you say.”
“He’ll think I’m an idiot, Joe!”
“Doesn’t matter, Judith,
say nothing except ‘traffic school.’”
My mother almost threw a plate at his head.
Then she went to court.
The judge asked,
“How long have you been driving?”
She said, “Traffic school, traffic school.”
The judge looked at her as if she were an idiot.
Then he gave her traffic school!
She was furious that my father was right!
Then, maybe on purpose,
she almost failed traffic school!
Gino starts clapping!
FUN
There’s too much energy inside of me!
I need a cosmic benediction.
Someone or something,
to make up for the ditch inside of me.
For my guilt.
Richie was always there for me.
I took him for granted.
Is that the kind of person I am?
So I keep going and going.
Gino tells Rache, “She’s funny!”
“Yeah,” Rache agrees, “she cracks me up.”
She tosses me an unhappy look.
“We should all hang out from now on.”
Gino smiles at me.
“Yeah,” says Rache, “we really should,”
and looks even more miserable.
I stuff my Gino drawing in my pocket.
MINE
When he leaves, I say,
“Rachel, I don’t know what came over me.
I know I was too much. I’m sorry.”
She juts out her chin, almost touching mine.
“You infiltrate my life,
but still I invite you along
because I feel sorry for you.
And look what you do:
You try to take everything,
everyone that’s mine!
Well, you’re not getting Gino!”
She walks away.
SEE YOURSELF
“Hey, Rachel,” I call after her,
“I was out of my mind.
I didn’t mean to. Honest.
You have to believe me.”
Rachel stops in her tracks, then charges me.
“You did mean to!
Why don’t you even see yourself?
Look in the mirror!
My family is not yours.
You don’t even look related!
Your hair is different from ours.
Your skin is different.
Observe!”
She pivots and flounces off, turns the corner.
I’d like to run after her.
But it hits me hard: She’s right!
No matter what I want,
I’m not a part of her family.
Only Richie knows how I feel,
needing so much, too much,
wanting people, things
that aren’t ours.
GOOD ENOUGH?
Nastasia, Kiki’s friend, sends me a brochure
for her gallery
with a note that asks me
if I’m still painting.
I write:
Dear Nastasia, I’m always drawing,
in my house, at school, everywhere.
I’m working mostly with dark colors.
I hope not too depressing.
My friend Richie disappeared,
but he’s somehow lurking in my charcoal.
I draw his face from memory.
I try for a brighter palette,
but it turns muddy.
I’m making art to find my friend.
And myself.
FLORIDA VACATION
My grandma is still on her Florida vacation.
I love going to her apartment,
one stop on the Castle Hill line.
I enjoy the subway.
There are all kinds of people,
every color of skin.
I like watching humanity riding the trains.
I draw them, their worried looks,
their worn shopping bags and briefcases,
their jittery kids, unfashionable coats,
looking as if being in New York
was a punishment
they could scarcely manage to bear.
Inside my grandma’s apartment,
I feel settled to be with her things,
which to me have an echo
from a long time ago.
My grandmother was young once.
I’ve seen proof!
Old pictures from the old country.
I feel welcomed here.
This sense of belonging is the opposite
of the flavor in my house.
THE EMPIRE
But today I’m not in the mood
to stick around.
Too guilty to be at peace.
One good friend was probably all Richie needed.
It should have been me!
And it wasn’t.
I give the ferns water, spray the succulents,
pick off the dead leaves,
lock the door,
push the elevator button,
ready to cart my burdens home.
IS THAT YOU?
Someone says, “Maisie? Is that you?”
I whip around.
“You don’t live here, do you?”
Gino asks, then continues,
“I do! On the top floor!”
He smiles as if I’ve made his day
by bumping into him in the outdated lobby.
I don’t believe in fate.
But this must be fate.
What is wrong with me?
My solar plexus is lighting up
as if there were rocket fuel shooting up my spine,
and all I can think of
is getting closer to him.
Red light! Alarm!
Do not pass go!
He’s Rachel’s guy!
GREAT POET
“You look upset,” he says.
“Richie was my friend,” I say.
“I let him down.”
“Are you sure? I heard it was really about his father.
Do you want to hear from a great thinker?”
Gino closes his eyes before I can answer.
“And if it is a care you would cast off,
that care has been chosen by you
rather than imposed upon you.”
“You think I’m just deciding to worry?” My voice trembles.
“That’s what Gibran is saying.”
Gino takes a wisp of hair covering my eye
and carefully brushes it aside.
“But it’s natural to worry, Gino.”
“Maybe natural, but not necessary, Maisie.”
But as serious and somber as Gino and I are,
the air is tense, intense, present tense, future tense,
and before I know it, he’s asked
to see my grandmother’s apartment,
and before I know it, we’re there, alone,
and I’m showing him my grandma’s needlepoint.
DA VINCI
But Gino’s not interested in sewing,
no, he’s interested in making out,
which is exactly what I’m interested in.
We’re on the couch,
heating up the living room,
tongues everywhere,
hands crawling under clothes,
desperate somehow
to change the laws of physics
and be in the same exact place
at the same exact moment.
There is almost no point in objecting.
It’s as if this encounter was already scripted
the first time we laid eyes on each other.
Inevitable. Necessary.
Lacking in free will.
That would explain why
my blouse is half off, right?
Why Gino is bare-chested;
his torso is like a Michelangelo statue,
smooth and perfect.
Rachel’s face appears
in my head.
She’s screaming. Apoplectic!
I wipe this out of my brain.
Later maybe I’ll care but not now,
now I’m just hormones, excitement,
one horny, desperate, despicable girl.
Plus I’m busy thinking,
maybe this is it.
The day someone finally loves me.
THE TRIBE SPEAKS
I’m face up on the couch.
We’re both making sounds
I’ve never heard before;
these deep utterances come from somewhere hidden,
half human, half animal.
The sounds of pure wanting,
if wanting had its own music.
My body has never been so alive.
Beyond Gino’s beautiful eyes,
so close to mine,
I spot old black-and-white photos
Grandma has hung on the wall.
My ancestors.
The brown-eyed Hungarians,
in their starched flowered dresses
and stiff wool suits, are frowning.
From inside their antique picture frames,
they’re glaring down at me.
Fiercely. Furiously inflamed.
With heartfelt disapproval, horrified!
Their grimaces tell me
that they’re completely against this idea
of me practically getting naked
with this boy I hardly know.
Rachel’s boyfriend, no less!
What is wrong with you? they shout silently.
