Request

"Hey. Mr. B. Do you think we could, you know, start a club?"

"Yes! Absolutely! Definitely! I would never stop you. Let me just talk to my supervisors. I'm sure they'll say yes. Well, maybe they'll say yes. They don't say yes too much. But I'm sure they will, to this. If only you agree to sign on the dotted line. In blood, please, with a platinum-plaited pen. Don't forget that you're waiving your legal rights and we'll never really give you want you want, anyway, even if you do tack onto another club. Also, pay us a million dollars."

"Okay. Sure."

Advice

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What if I did something bad for a very good reason? Would that be okay?"

"I don't think I understand. What did you do?"

"Nothing. Yet."

"What are you going to do?"

"Maybe nothing. I'm not sure."

"So this is a purely hypothetical situation?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't be that bad, if you did it for a really good reason. Is it for a really good reason?"

"Yeah."

"Then I guess it's fine."

"So you're NOT mad that I punched your boyfriend when he ran over my basketball? And that I lied that I did nothing? Because that would be really great."

Ending

We waved in the New Year with bells.
Across the street, Mr. Rochester died.
None of us knew until the morning.
He died at precisely midnight--
He'd fallen asleep.
And the bells on TV woke him so sharply
That he had a heart attack.

Happenstance

My doctor had prescribed me caffeine pills. My sister, the insomniac, had sedatives. I took the wrong one by accident.

I maintain that's the reason why I fell asleep on your shoulder that night. Sorry about that, by the way.

But it was definitely not intentional in any way. Definitely, certainly not. No chance.

You liked me anyway, by pure happenstance, though. So everything was okay, regardless.

Irony

As it turned out, I was allergic to the aromatherapy oil.
So I didn't actually have a cold.
I would never really be able to smell again.

Midnight

Sixteen seconds until the last day I lived here.
Fifteen.
Fourteen.

My best friend held my hand mitten-style. She didn't want me to leave.
I didn't want me to leave.
Thirteen.

When I had more than one day, the leaving hadn't seemed so unbearable. Having one day left was horrible. I felt miserable.
Twelve.
Eleven.
Ten.

Secret

Heart off your sleeve, ace in the hole.
Lock away the evil, Pandora.
Freemasons hiding underground.
If you want me to, I'll tell you all the things you didn't know.
Don't forget: ignorance is bliss.
So here's the key.
And here's the drawer.
Think before you open.

Success

Jennifer was angry--I knew because she wouldn't meet my eyes. She sometimes forgot that I knew how to detect these things. Everyone said I was the smart twin, but they were wrong. Jennifer had the presence of mind to hide all her behaviors from me for a full three years while I did the analyst thing. She had the gumption to research, had gone through all my textbooks and purposefully misled me. For a full three years, and we lived together.

Jennifer was goshdamn brilliant, but was getting sloppy since I'd begun the handwriting analysis. Maybe it was because all her energy was going into typing any notes she had to leave for me. I hadn't seen a scrap of Jen's writing in five months. Her level of determination was truly astonishing, even if she did sort of assume that I'd forgotten how to read her. She was too smart for even me, the academic.

If she hadn't dropped out of high school, she would have been positively unstoppable.

Generations

My great-grandmother hosted the family reunion. At nearly ninety-seven, the woman was a force of nature. She had informed every distant relative that they were coming to this party, told them nearly six months in advance and with absolute certainty, leaving no space for excuses. She was incredible like that.

I had been drafted into kitchen duty, which meant I got to chill with Gram, the chief herself. The woman was pitting cherries like there was no tomorrow, a zillion times faster than I was, and I had the cherry pitter and she had the knife.

Enter stage left: Girl about my age, fifteen, with a gigantic watermelon. "Iz," said Gram, "this is Jill." I gave her a cherry-pitter salute. Iz offered a awkwardly watermelon-bobbing nod.

Iz began chopping watermelon. I continued pitting cherries, and then moved on to cutting up the giant sub sandwiches that Gram had purchased. When Iz left to retrieve something, I asked Gram, "How am I related to Iz?" Third cousin twice removed? Niece's aunt on the paternal side?

Gram nodded for me to continue cutting. "She's your half-sister."

Replication

zip.
unzip.
zip.

i did not like that idea.
dna.
rna.

zip.
unzip.
zip.

i wanted all my parts to stay together.
and i was furious with my bio teacher.
he told me that they wouldn't.

Introversion

Happy Birthday, Beluga. I promise to whisper my wishes, so that nobody knows about today. Oh, introvert baby, welcome to the future. You are now what you were going to be. Congratulations, if you see it that way. I assume you do not.

Happy Birthday, Beluga. Blow out the candles with bubbles before anyone sees. Pop the balloons and throw them away or you'll choke. Stutter over questions meant to dictate who you are, and then pleasantly close the door in their faces. You never needed them, anyway. How useless they are to you.

Happy Birthday, Beluga. Celebrate tomorrow, when it's too late for the damage to occur. You didn't want to grow up. You loved who you were, baby. A year gone, a year past, and you're not the baby anymore. Hide your face in the shallows as someone takes your place. No longer special, no longer the baby, Happy Birthday.

Happy Birthday, Beluga.

Domino Effect

If only you hadn't.

The idea was, perhaps, incomplete, but it was the root, the source of this entire situation, this irritation that plagued us both. At the time, it had seemed trivial, but these things always do. Pushing the first domino never takes much energy, but the next thing you know a thousand of them have been knocked over, a Herculean effort you never could have accomplished by yourself.

Things snowball out of control, sometimes. We couldn't really help it. And, if you think about it, you were being a good person. A bit over-chivalrous, perhaps, considering how badly both of us needed to get back to the band. They waited with tapping toes while we left, with shocked expressions as we were led away by the police. They couldn't understand that we weren't in trouble.

We did miss Homecoming, though. My parents were bitterly disappointed that they didn't get to walk across the field with a little bouquet pinned to my shirt, didn't get to watch me conduct my band for the last time. I suppose there are things more important, but it seemed important at the time.

If only you hadn't.

If only you hadn't let that crying lady go into the bathroom before we did.

Color

I kissed the boy as he meditated. He pretended not to notice, but I knew the truth from the color in his face.

Honesty

There were seven things I wanted to tell you; one of them was significant. And now I can't tell you even the stupid stuff, like how you needed a haircut and that NO3- was always soluble in water and that was why you got that problem wrong on the Chemistry test.

I told you that motorcycle was a bad idea. What annoys me the most is that it's almost cliched, how it all happened. And I don't give a damn about what everyone else is saying, about how you've "gone to a better place" and all of that. I'm pissed off. You can't even begin to understand how pissed off I am. Even if you were around, you wouldn't be able to comprehend the magnitude of my irritation.

It's huge. Freaking huge. I'm so mad. And everyone keeps tiptoeing around me like I'm some stupid glass figurine that can break with the slightest tremor. Even my hard-core Physics teacher is cutting me a break. I don't want anyone to cut me breaks. But I know I'll seem callous if I tell everyone how I really feel.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not even really that sad. I'm not. But your mom keeps calling me, looking for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. I feel bad for her, I really do. I wish she would stop calling me, though.

Because that's what everyone expects: for me to never move on, for me to be sad forever, to be mopey and weepy and held back by the past, just because I was the girlfriend.

What they never knew (significant thing number one) was that I was breaking up with you on Monday, anyway.

Waffles

remember when we chose this one?
----no.
you: i'm choosing so many. you get complete discretion over the next one.
me: waffles.
you: done
----I do remember this now. I almost want to leave this as the post, though. It's funny. For me.
okay.

Bedridden

I had three living, growing parasites in my stomach. Even as they made me grow, they sucked the nutrients from my blood, squished the urine from my bladder, and made me only want to only eat cold macaroni and cheese with spicy sauce, they puffed up my hands, my feet, everything.

Back in the day (the day when I would have just died because of this, not suffered through it) they called my situation "poisoned", because of the bloating. The word came from "weighty". I had never been "weighty" in my life. But now I was.

And now these three living, growing parasites had me bedridden for six weeks.

Renovation

Nothing was good anymore. I wanted to fix everything, but I couldn't. There was never just one thing to be done--there was always a job more important. Something astronomical always waited just around the corner, waited for me to do it.

And so I never got anything done.

Being Broken

I felt like my wrists were going to fall off, to snap at the joints and fly into the stratosphere never to be seen again. Still, I chucked that rifle into the air again and again, never minding that it bruised my hands and my ego, and even, on one occassion, my face.

But still the worst was at my wrists, with their bumps and lumps caused from thumps of wood against flesh. Involuntary tears leaked from my eyes. I kept going and going, until the end of practice, never minding that it hurt. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.

When we walked back up, though, to pack up and put our things away, you saw and came over to me. You wrapped your fingers, cool from clutching a trumpet, around my wrist, careful for the bits that were purple. They felt good--better than good.

"Next time," you scolded, "be more careful."

Laziness

When the alarm rang
briller, briller--
beep beep beep
in the morning
(rise and shine, sleepyhead)
I pulled out the plug,
rolled over,
and went back to sleep
for no good reason at all.

Decision

But on the other hand, I really, really like cookies.

Might as Well

: my thought when I decided to kiss you instead of shun you; when I decided to take AP Chem instead of AP Bio; when I decided to drop out of high school to become a mime.

Planning

It was when we got to the micromanaging that we knew we were in trouble. If it was anal-retentive touch-and-go things were still fine; we strove for perfection, and corrected details, but never quite knew where we were going next. When things were relaxed we never got much of anything done, but we enjoyed getting nothing done to its fullest.

But it was when we got to the micromanaging that we knew it was time for the AP tests.

Calculation

If you will, please calculate the number of molecules of PbNO3 that it will take to fully react with 17.34 grams of KI. Use the correct number of significant figures. Don't use a calculator or the AP Test will come back to eat you. I hope you love chemistry, because if you don't, you shouldn't even attempt.

Best of luck.

Opposites Attract

He latched his smallest finger around mine.

And here was the hilarious bit:
I didn't even like him anymore. Not that way. If I thought about it too hard, I almost exploded with laughter.

We were nothing alike, not in the way we used to be. Not when I could recommend books and know he'd love them, not when I watched every movie he said he was watching. When we could talk for hours and never get bored of each others' company.

Before the blowup, things were great. In six months, we'd come full circle.

I was different now:
I liked Stephen King novels, and painted my nails instead of bit them. I had a car and a license and hung out with my sister and my best friend and her sister.

I liked the new me; he liked the new me.

And he was exactly the same. He still played soccer and hated math and wanted to become a German teacher. He was awkward with girls that weren't me, and his favorite book was The Catcher in the Rye. There had been absolutely no growth.

And now that we were different, as polar as Palin and Clinton--it was now that he loved me.

Sleep

my eyes were bloodshot, and I was more tired than I'd ever been. this was the best day of my life. and if not going to sleep meant the day was never going to end, so be it. I could last forever, in this state. thirty-six hours and counting.

I was exhausted, and summer was running out on me. going to school in three days would be absolute torture, but I could do it. after all, it wasn't as if I had to get up. I was never going to sleep again.

it was possible, you know, as long as you stayed here with me.

Innovation

For the science fair, they called my experiment "unconventional." Try "innovative", you morons. They gave the award to the morons that tested cleaners. Freaking cleaners! So you dripped some hydrogen peroxide on a keyboard. Big freaking deal. I built a freaking power generator out of the crap in my kitchen and the freaking sun.

Bite me, Mr. Conway. Bite me and enjoy it.

It's called freaking innovation, people. Look it up. I'll buy you a freaking Oxford English Dictionary if you'll realize the difference between unconventional (a.k.a. total crap) and innovative (my project).

Take the prize away from the cleaning morons. They can eat the hydrogen peroxide. I hope they pee bleach for a week. I hope it ruins all their pants. And that it hurts.

I can't believe I lost points for being freaking unconventional. I made a generator out of forks and tinfoil and some wires and crap. And they gave me second place. The power of the freaking sun, morons. And you turned it down for two girls that told you that the best cleaner is the one you already use.

This is how I live now. My life sucks.

Ennui

tick. tock.
tick.
tock.
ticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick---

...

...

...

:french class

Relief

The test felt like maybe, just maybe, I wasn't a complete failure. That was a relief. I was beginning to get a complex.

I was a complete failure in band because I couldn't hit that stupid high C. I felt like I deserved something of a break for that: I played the baritone, for God's sake.

I was a complete failure at work because I always forgot to ask if customers wanted dessert. If someone wanted their stupid dessert, they'd ask for it. That whiny mother was awfully bitter for complaining to my manager.

Mostly, though, I was a failure at math because I'd gotten a D on my last test. Screw math, anyway.

I hated math.

Time (travel)

If I had a time machine, I'd go back and correct things; I've never done well with change. I would whisper secrets in the ears of the little past me, prodding and poking in directions I wouldn't have gone before. You and I probably would never have met, you know. I wouldn't have been crying in that corner because I broke up with my boyfriend. But we would have been okay, you and I. We would be static. I might even miss you, even though I didn't know. Things might have been strange, if I had a time machine. But even without, I'm happy with our uncorrected mistakes.

Cleaning

"When you've spent a night with your books in your bed even though it's still summer, then we can talk."

Recently, I'd become a philosophy minor. I wasn't sure how it had happened (the whole thing was sort of like a bad dream, with fuzzy details), but I had a feeling it had something to do with my parents and student adviser.

Christ, but I hated them all.

I was lying on the bed. Sean was sitting in the corner polishing his trumpet. Only nine in the morning, and this was the third instrument of the day he'd cleaned.