Game Face, page 12
about the alien.
* * *
I call him Al, I say
then immediately wish
I’d kept that bit
to myself.
* * *
Excellent idea, she says
and I look up to be sure
she’s not joking.
* * *
I don’t know your alien
she says, but I know others
like him.
* * *
She leans forward a smidge
hands resting loosely
on her lap.
* * *
He likes you, she says.
* * *
Now she must be joking
but she says it again.
* * *
He likes you
which is why he sends
all those messages.
He’s trying
to keep you safe.
* * *
I shift in my seat.
She knows I don’t actually
have an alien in my head
right?
* * *
But, she says, he can get
carried away, can’t he?
* * *
No kidding.
* * *
I tell him to shut up, I say
but he won’t listen.
My words sound whiny
as they escape.
* * *
Maybe this week, she says
instead of fighting with him
you could try negotiating.
Tell him he can remind you
about the big stuff
if he leaves
the probably-not-going-to-happen
stuff to you.
* * *
I can already see the problem
with this plan: the way Al
tells it, all stuff
is big stuff.
Trapped
Saturday morning
I’m sitting in the kitchen
in my pajamas, eating toast.
Dad brought home a few things
from the corner market
to tide us over, but we still need
to do a major stock-up.
* * *
I’m going for groceries
this morning, he says now.
And I have to work this afternoon
so you’re pretty much
on your own today, kiddo.
* * *
Without hockey
and without Ty
my Saturday looks bleak.
I could hang out with
the usual group, but all the talk
will be about hockey.
* * *
Spending hours ricocheting
between dreams of winning
the championship
(and feeling guilty
about wanting to)
and nightmares of all the ways
I’ll cause us to lose
is not really my idea
of fun, so when Dad asks
if I want to go with him
to the store, I say yes.
* * *
We bus to Save-On-Foods
grab a cart, start on our list.
It isn’t long before
we stutter to a stop
midway along the cereal aisle
* * *
fenced in
sandwiched
between rows of
tall shelves
a million products piled high
towering above us
* * *
carts clattering
a squeaky wheel
baby crying nearby
awful piped-in music
from the local radio station
and people everywhere
squeezing
past our cart.
* * *
Dad’s gaze swings wildly
looking at everything
choosing nothing
and, oddly, reminding me
of me on those days when
the packed hallways
at school suddenly seem
too loud
too close
too much.
* * *
I scan the mass of boxes
zero in on a familiar one
nab it and drop it in the cart.
* * *
I snatch the list, divvy up items
between us, figuring two
will get through
the decision-making
much faster than one.
* * *
You find the pasta sauce, I say
in the next aisle. The one
we usually buy.
I’ll get the noodles.
* * *
We work through the whole list
this way, and by the time
we’re outside waiting for a cab
I’m pretty sure Dad feels
as pleased as I do
about escaping unscathed
from the grocery store.
* * *
I wonder what would’ve
happened if I’d stayed home.
Help: Monday Poems by Jonah Vanderbeek
The Save-On-Foods is
an anxiety attack
waiting to happen.
*
Aisles of decisions
shelves of possibilities
overwhelm my dad.
*
I don’t mind helping
but someday it would be nice
if Dad could help me.
I Can’t Hand That In
I’ll have to come up with some new
haiku, some Monday Poems
that aren’t so
true.
Poetry
Why does poetry
insist on revealing truth
wrapped in syllables?
Focus
Last thing on Monday, I meet
with Ms. Rogers again.
We talk about the noise
— how crowded it feels
in my head
with Al carrying on
the way he does.
* * *
Ms. Rogers listens
and nods, head slightly tilted
to one side, every bit as focused
on me and my words
as I am on the puck
in a close game.
* * *
When I tell her
Al doesn’t seem open
to negotiating, she offers
a different approach.
* * *
When it gets too noisy, she says
try pushing pause.
Push pause
on the what-ifs
and take a moment
to think about
what is.
* * *
What is?
* * *
What’s happening for real.
Right then — what do you see?
What do you hear? Even
taste, smell, feel … What is?
* * *
Okaaay, I say
not at all sure
I get it.
* * *
Ms. Rogers opens
her desk drawer
pulls out a flat round stone
(she keeps rocks
in her desk?)
draws two lines on the stone
with a gold Sharpie
— a pause button.
She slides it across the desk
to me.
Disappointment
Oma calls to say she’s sorry
but she can’t drive me
to hockey practice
— her back pain is worse.
She has to skip dance class too
so you know
it’s bad.
* * *
I catch a ride with Cole.
* * *
Coach goes easy on us
— a scrimmage
instead of drills
which is usually great
almost as fun
as pick-up hockey
on the outdoor rink
but not tonight.
* * *
Tonight, my reactions
are off, and I misread the play
more often than I
get it right.
* * *
At the end of our ice time
Coach gives us a bunch of
reminders for Friday’s game
then Rob waves Kyle and me over
for some last-minute
pointers. As we head
off the ice, something like
disappointment
flits across Rob’s face
like a shadow. It settles
dark
and heavy
inside me — he’s right.
* * *
My team
deserves better.
* * *
I’m last to the dressing room.
As I step inside, the room
quiets, and I’m not sure if it’s Al
or if it’s for real, but it seems clear
everyone was talking
about me
my lousy play tonight
and how they hope
Coach goes with Kyle in goal
for the playoffs.
* * *
Back at home, I stow
my gear in the garage
drop the bag
prop my stick
in the corner.
* * *
Why
do I keep
playing?
Tuesday Morning Puddle
Ty isn’t on the bus, so when I
arrive in class, I’m surprised
to find him at his usual desk.
He catches my eye
and for half a second
it feels normal, like everything
between us isn’t ruined.
But then
he looks away
laughs with Cole and Bennett
and the other kids who’ve
gathered around him.
* * *
Heat creeps up my neck
and my face
flames.
I slip into my seat
s
i
n
k
as low as I can without
sliding right off my chair.
Please, let me melt
disappear in a puddle
beneath my desk.
* * *
Everyone must’ve noticed
my best friend
isn’t talking to me.
Messages
That afternoon there’s a school-wide
assembly. We pile into the gym
claim spots on the bleachers, teachers
with watchful eyes
lining the sides of the room.
* * *
Rose is with Alexis and Mina
but she makes space for me
beside her. Ty ends up
almost directly behind Rose.
I resist the urge to turn my head
stay face-forward
instead.
* * *
When Principal Ewing eyes
the eighth-grade students, looking
for a volunteer
I duck my head, a turtle
pulling into its shell.
Not me
not me
not me
— seriously
* * *
do not make me climb
down these bleachers to stand in front
of everyone, all eyes on me.
Al gears up, ready to point out
* * *
the million ways I’ll
embarrass myself. I fumble
to find the pause button, pull it
from my pocket
rub the smooth surface
and imagine subduing Al
by wrapping him in
copious amounts of
hockey tape.
* * *
It might not be the strategy
Ms. Rogers would recommend
* * *
but it gives me the pause I need.
The principal picks Harjit
* * *
and I pull myself out of my shell.
As Harjit winds his way
between students who tip
one way or the other
on the bleachers, making room,
Rose leans in, nods toward the stone
in my hand. What’s that?
* * *
My heart trips.
Nothing, I say
jamming my hand
and the stone
into my pocket.
* * *
A hint of hurt flashes
across her face
and is gone. She hums
a few notes, barely audible
and I remember
when she told me her truth.
* * *
I pull out the stone again
flip it over so the gold
Sharpie lines are faceup
on my palm.
* * *
Ms. Rogers gave it to me
I say. For when my anxiety
gets bad.
* * *
Does it help?
* * *
I may not have managed
to focus on what is
but maybe just holding
the stone will remind me
that calm is possible. Depending
on the day
that might be enough
to settle my mind, enough
to convince Al to give it a rest
for a while.
* * *
Yeah, I say. I think it does.
* * *
Ty shifts behind me, and the movement
catches my eye. He’s staring at me
with a look I can’t read.
Does it mean
he can’t believe
I told someone other than him
about my anxiety?
* * *
Conflicting messages
tangle together
in my mind.
* * *
Should I not have told her?
But I didn’t — she read my poem.
And why would Ty care anyway?
Is he jealous? Mad?
Does he still want to be friends?
Does he have something against Rose?
But he likes Rose.
Does he not like
that I’m sitting
so close to her?
* * *
Principal Ewing’s voice
sneaks into my brain, and I
force myself to focus
up front, where she and Harjit
are unrolling a long banner
s t r e t c h i n g it between them
until the message
unfurls:
Welcome Back, Tyrell!
* * *
Everyone claps, and Ty
stands
waves
grins.
* * *
I tumble the stone
over and over
in my hand.
Crunch
At my locker, minding
my own business, triple-checking
my bag for the needed books
don’t see it coming:
* * *
Dylan hits me from behind
sends me crashing against
the lockers.
* * *
By the time I’m upright again, Dylan
is halfway down the hall
with Bennett
laughing.
Jerk
Dylan Babinsky has been my nemesis
since the middle of sixth grade
since the day he caught me crying
in the boys’ bathroom.
* * *
It was my first day back at school
After.
Root
I’m not the biggest player
on my team, but I’m no shrimp.
