I Am Here Now Read online

  a hungry snake.

  It threatens to make me

  feel something moronic:

  a belief that affection could be

  just around the corner.

  I know better than to allow

  that brief glimmer of kindness to mean anything.

  It could undo me.

  I say gruffly,

  “Davy. Put on your scarf already!

  Come on!”

  Davy hugs her.

  We ride to the lobby silently.

  Then we tumble out

  into the brisk Bronx morning

  without a word between us.

  HUNGRY LOOKS

  I form a plan.

  On the way to school

  I’ll drop the unloved me

  like an ill-fitting garment

  and embrace the other, bold, sassy me,

  who sneaks a new mascara wand

  from her pocket, who jokes and flirts,

  arches her back because she loves it

  when boys get those yearning looks

  on their nerdy, awkward baby faces.

  They’re full of devilish wonder to me.

  Even Richie sometimes radiates that magic.

  ROSY RED CHEEKS

  Outside, the furious September wind blasts

  as if it means to banish the leaves,

  newspapers, soda cans, and detritus everywhere.

  I hope it gives me rosy red cheeks, bright eyes!

  Davy and I walk together

  until we get to his school, PS 106.

  “Don’t watch me leave.

  I’m not a baby!”

  he says and trundles inside.

  Farther on, my high school’s jumping!

  Outside, there’s first-day-of-the-year excitement.

  You can almost see hormones

  leaping off people,

  making them behave like nervous mosquitoes.

  Some are smoking, some giggling.

  The cool kids hold back, watching.

  The pretty girls look one another over

  as if they’re judging

  a Miss America contest.

  GYM

  The gym is crowded and hot,

  steam rising out of the radiators

  like a dying volcano.

  It already stinks like a basketball game,

  and it’s not even 9 A.M. yet.

  There are some familiar faces

  and ones I’ve never seen before.

  What’s important right now is

  will any boys look my way?

  Or will they pretend I don’t exist?

  And if they pretend I don’t exist,

  is it because they like me,

  or is it because

  I really don’t exist for them?

  Maybe if my mother didn’t

  spit out my name like a curse

  and my father didn’t use our front door

  like the turnstile in the IRT,

  the opposite sex wouldn’t seem so intriguing

  and so absolutely necessary.

  BUT CRAZY

  It was Leslie who said

  I had an unnatural hunger

  for male attention,

  the way some girls have for chocolate

  or new clothes or ballet class.

  She even said I was famished!

  I couldn’t argue.

  I’ve been this way for as long

  as I can remember.

  I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth.

  In the sixth grade I made up a game.

  I flirted with every single boy.

  As soon as they began

  to follow me around,

  I brushed them off.

  I didn’t miss a one.

  I knew it was over the top.

  But it was fun. But too much.

  Still, it made me feel extra alive.

  I’ve studied magazines,

  learned how to smile a certain way

  sort of like a Cheshire Cat.

  It magnetizes boys.

  My little secret.

  GENIUS

  We’re waiting

  to go to homeroom.

  This year I’m in the AP.

  Advanced Placement.

  We’re the brilliant ones.

  Richie O’Neill, wearing a cobalt shirt

  that sets off his smoky blue eyes,

  finally wanders in

  and folds into the seat next to me,

  staring down at his scuffed shoes.

  I guess he could be handsome

  if he didn’t look as if an alien

  was siphoning off his energy

  like in a sci-fi story by Isaac Asimov.

  Just because Richie is Irish

  and his family doesn’t have much money,

  doesn’t mean he isn’t whip smart,

  because he is.

  I’ve known that since elementary school

  at PS 106 on St. Raymond’s Avenue.

  He was the most famous third-grader;

  we even heard about him in kindergarten.

  He had a teacher, Mrs. Sanbloom,

  who famously didn’t wear a bra,

  who drew a grid on the blackboard,

  said, “Connect all the dots.”

  Not one person could do it.

  Richie was the only one

  who realized that you could connect those dots

  only by going outside the grid.

  Until then, nobody expected

  Richie to be the genius in the bunch.

  OLD BEACH HOUSE

  I still have the letter Richie gave me.

  Does he expect me to say something?

  Here in Parkchester,

  the Irish have an attitude about Jews.

  Richie’s not like that.

  “Oops, didn’t open your envelope yet,”

  I whisper to him.

  His cellophane skin blushes.

  “No problem.”

  Richie rolls up his sleeve

  to just above the elbow.

  Twin purple bruises blaze on his arm.

  I hike up my sleeve.

  Our bruises have a silent,

  eerie conversation.

  Then with perfect timing,

  we pull our sleeves down.

  He opens his notebook,

  briefly looks up, shrugs, then ignores me.

  He gets this way sometimes,

  shuttered up like an old beach house

  that hasn’t been used for years.

  WISE GUY

  The bell rings.

  We’re off to our homerooms.

  Inevitably my big ears, small breasts

  will slink inside,

  find a seat in the second row.

  As we shuffle through the hallways,

  the principal welcomes us

  over the intercom.

  I warn myself: Do not be a wise guy

  on the first day of school, Maisie!

  Because if you’re going to be a wise guy,

  you shouldn’t look all knock-kneed and weird.

  You have to be like Nancy O’Malley:

  cheerleader-cute; straight, white,

  slightly buck teeth; oozing confidence

  like she’s leader of the free world.

  Or Florence de La Cruz: breasts;

  heavy-lidded movie-star eyes;

  a sexy mole near her upper lip;

  and so much shiny hair,

  like a Clairol model

  whose life will be a dream

  even though she comes from the Bronx.

  Merilee Stabiner and Jessica Levin

  huddle together, naturally.

  Both have ponytails,

  perfect profiles, new clothes.

  I bet their apartments are like a TV sitcom.

  No slamming doors … or hot rage …

  FOCUS!

  Focus, Maisie!

  Find an actual friend!

  You need
one since your bestie

  moved to Long Island.

  Lucky Leslie Loeb,

  two-story house,

  lush green lawn, motorboat, fast car,

  climbing up the social ladder

  in her brand-new patent leather flats.

  I miss her.

  I call her Leslie of Long Island now.

  I write her, but lately she hardly writes back.

  Maisie, I remind myself,

  come back to this moment.

  Do not get kicked out of class

  or called into the principal’s office

  like last year.

  Do not get how you get when you hurt inside.

  So out comes that phony

  jack-in-the-box personality

  that blurts out things you imagine are hilarious

  (and generally aren’t).

  I LOVE LUCY–FUNNY

  My teacher, Miss Morgan—

  Matisse-blue eyes,

  Renoir-pink cheeks, pretty,

  and not just Bronx pretty, either—

  takes attendance.

  When she calls his name,

  Nathan Trialas whistles,

  says “Kiss my ass”

  under his breath.

  I say “Kiss my tonsils”

  with my mouth clamped shut,

  so it comes out a Jimmy Durante whisper.

  I’m out of control and it’s only 9:30!

  The girl next to me

  slaps her hand on the desk, cracking up.

  It wasn’t that funny.

  I sure hope Miss Morgan didn’t hear.

  Mercifully, she keeps taking roll.

  The girl, kind face with sly,

  witty eyes, and curly, dark hair

  springing off her head in all directions,

  is giving me the thumbs-up

  and still giggling,

  like I’m I Love Lucy–funny.

  ROMANTIC

  Over lunch—institutional lasagna,

  cardboard noodles, gray meat—

  I find out her name is Rachel.

  She says Mrs. Noble,

  who was supposed to be

  our homeroom teacher,

  was already married when she fell in love

  with Mr. Zeitler and ran off with him.

  Isn’t that romantic?

  And terrible, of course, awful!

  We sit there dreamily,

  imagining the drama in our midst.

  I love that two chunky,

  middle-aged teachers,

  who wore wrinkled clothes

  and scuffed shoes,

  were having amorous interludes

  that disrupted so many lives

  because of their passionate love.

  “I’m thinking,” says Rachel,

  “that they went to Bali.”

  “From Bronx to Bali,” I say

  in a radio announcer’s voice.

  I suddenly realize:

  “Before summer break,

  Mrs. Noble had been getting dolled up.”

  “I noticed that, too!

  But can you imagine feeling lust

  for Mr. Zeitler?” asks Rachel.

  “I remember him,” I say.

  “He was shy, had light-brownish fuzz

  on his upper lip.

  He often hummed show tunes in class.

  His big curious eyes rested on us

  as if we had the answer to something.

  I loved him for that.”

  “Me too!”

  Her toothy smile is like

  the bright headlights of a car.

  NOT THE TUBA

  “I hope when I feel lust,”

  says Rachel,

  “it’s with someone cute and sexy.

  Maybe a musician.”

  I admit: “I already feel lust.

  Sometimes it happens

  in the middle of doing homework.

  Very uncomfortable!

  Or sometimes when I’m doing nothing,

  a fire rises inside of my solar plexus.

  It happens a lot!”

  “Wow!” says Rachel. “You’re so honest!”

  Even if I wanted to stop,

  the words just keep bursting out.

  “And when I see myself naked,

  I imagine someone else

  seeing me that way.

  Touching me, looking into my eyes,

  murmuring all kinds of sexy things.

  I kiss myself in the mirror

  and end up having to take a shower.”

  I look at this girl I just met,

  thinking what an idiot I am

  to spill out these secrets.

  “Maisie, you’re one hot tamale!”

  She laughs.

  “What instrument would your musician play?”

  I ask, trying to return to

  a safe conversation.

  “Me?” asks Rachel.

  “I can hardly think after what you just said.”

  “Don’t you feel lust, Rachel?”

  She’s quiet.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want a tuba player,”

  she says finally.

  “That wouldn’t do it for me.”

  “Okay. No tuba players,”

  I say, relieved.

  “Accordion?”

  She squeals, “No!”

  I make a motion of crossing them off

  an imaginary list.

  She laughs.

  So I’m thinking, this might not be

  the worst year in human history.

  High school might be my big break,

  when I find a real girlfriend,

  someone in this universe who gets me.

  TEETH

  Rachel and I have Language Arts

  and Social Studies together!

  I scribble notes during class,

  but I also covertly sketch her

  when she’s not looking.

  At lunch I open my notebook

  to show her my drawings, blurt out:

  “You have the best teeth!”

  “Like teeth are a big beauty item?”

  she asks.

  “Large teeth are a beauty item!

  Look in the magazines.

  The best-looking people

  have giant, oversize teeth.”

  “You’re weird, Maisie.

  What about my knees, huh?”

  She tugs on her skirt.

  “Did I ever show you these perfect knees?”

  “Your knees are bony,” I say.

  “Shut up, Maisie.”

  “But, Rachel, you more than

  make up for it with your great teeth.”

  “I’m a good chewer,”

  she says drolly. “But you can really draw, Maisie.

  I’m impressed!”

  Good! I want her to be impressed.

  THE WORLD SORT OF YAWNS

  After school, Rachel and I walk home.

  Richie appears and saunters behind us,

  squishing dead leaves with his sad, old

  but newly polished loafers.

  A breeze wafts our hair,

  birds flutter onto a branch together

  and squawk about important matters.

  In that moment, time stretches out

  and the world sort of yawns,

  and the dark cloud

  that I take with me everywhere

  drifts off.

  PACK A DAY

  Rachel tells me about her brothers,

  Jake and Jonathan.

  And she says casually,

  “My mom is an oil painter.”

  “She must be amazing,” I say,

  wanting to jump up and down

  on the street like a toddler getting a toy.

  “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  Rachel shrugs, says her mom, Kiki,

  smokes a pack a day.

  Acts too girlish, is kind of a hippy.

  “Sounds good to
me,” I say.

  “Pas fantastique, Maisie.”

  “You speak French?” I gasp.

  Rachel explains that one summer,

  when she was nine,

  she lived in Toulouse.

  Her father worked there as a journalist

  after the war and likes to visit.

  “Je parle Français un petit peu, aussi,”

  I squeak.

  “Fantastique, cherie!

  Nous parleronsen Français ensemble,

  n’est-ce pas?”

  She sounds fluent

  and has a convincing French accent.

  Now I’m impressed.

  PARCE QUE

  Catching up, Richie O’Neill groans,

  “Ooh la la!” Says, “That’s all I learned

  in French from Mrs. Moreau.

  Elle m’embête. Elle est une monstre.”

  “She’s a monster?” Rachel asks.

  “But you pronounce French

  so well, Richie!” I tease.

  Richie turns crimson,

  which makes him look handsome,

  not even older-brother handsome.

  Then he cuts out in front of us.

  “He’s cute!”

  Rachel whispers.

  “Boyfriend material?”

  “Friends!” I say. “Friends only!”

  I don’t mention the reason

  that Richie and I are bound together.

  For a moment, I wish he and I

  came from a crisp, normal family like Rachel’s.

  “Do you think maybe you could go for him?”

  I ask.

  “Me? No, no! I already have a crush,”

  Rachel murmurs.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I am all not saying more.”

  She laughs, then invites me over.

  In this nano-moment

  comes an understanding:

  Rachel and I are going to be

  lifelong friends.

  I can taste something sweet,

  as if it were dessert.

  I close my eyes and release Leslie Loeb.

  I see her fly away into her new life.

  WOUNDED

  Rachel points to her building,

  says “Au revoir,” waves.

  “À bientôt.”

  Richie waits for me.

  We walk the rest of the way together,

  discussing school, curricula,

  the new kids, the best teachers.

  Then Richie says, “You know our principal,

  Mrs. Heffernan, is famous for running a tight ship.

  When she defected from Erasmus Hall

  in the means streets of Brooklyn