Audacious, p.4
Audacious, page 4
Her
Totally gross, I know
Only that’s how we found out last time
One toothbrush
Tucked into the lining of
Her purse in a plastic
Bag. The smell was unmistakable
Right then Dad confronted her
Uprooting her
Secrets and lies
How do I do the same?
chapter five
MARTYRS
THE VIRUS
Freckle got a nasty virus
Not that kind
Although I wouldn’t be surprised.
My antivirus expired
I don’t know how to fix it
I suck at things like that
All this delivered with a sweet smile
A tilted head
Like she never called me “elephant.”
It won’t boot up properly
Everything is super unstable
I can’t even Skype
I accept the proffered pink laptop
And set about examining
The inner workings.
I’m SOOO grateful for this
I’d just DIE without “Pinky”
Can you fix her?
I think so, I say cautiously,
Taking care to look her in the eye when I ask for
Her passwords.
She surrenders them innocently
Then she and Puffy, giggling,
Scribble their phone numbers on my homework.
TWO SONNETS FOR STINK-EYE THE LIBRARIAN
I
I use my spare to point and click and search
To cleanse the pink computer of disease
Poor “Pinky” cannot function so besmirched
She’s like a cat that wriggles, rife with fleas.
It’s difficult but still I have a plan
To winkle out the bug that caused the crash.
At once I sense some disapproval and
Glance up, as I delete poor Pinky’s cache.
The despot stares behind a magazine
Her condemnation of all things plugged in
Apparent in her glare at my machine
Because to her what’s not a book is sin.
Above the sick and epileptic screen
I see Samir who smiles and mouths She’s mean.
II
Yet unperturbed I note private details
Of friends and boys and other juicy news
Dear Freckle Arms won’t know that her emails
Will reappear on an account I choose.
I’m quite the spy, I snicker to myself
Though I resist the sabotage today.
Stink-Eye still lurks in wait behind a shelf
To pounce on any kind of disarray.
Then she appears behind Samir and screams
Get out! Get out! We don’t allow that here!
Apparently well used to harsh regimes
Samir says Bitch! and storms out with a sneer.
Old Stink-Eye, paralyzed, emits a gasp
Stone-faced, like she was bitten by an asp.
EXTREMISM
She moves again
And retreats to her office
Excited murmurs follow her.
Her slamming door
An exclamation mark
Then silence.
I lean over the table
And turn Samir’s screen to face me.
I can’t read the Arabic letters
But I get the gist.
A row of black-and-white photographs
Young men
Each with the bottomless eyes
Of those
Who are already dead.
My heart blisters in my chest
My head floats away
My Samir?
GABRIEL’S BIRTHDAY
He lived for three minutes
Gurgling out his first and last breaths
In her arms too early
There was some dreadful complication
That took her womb too.
Every year this day
She carries around a tiny knitted hat
Tucked into her pocket
Like a handkerchief.
We tiptoe around her
And grieve for
Our lost angel
Imagining
That sibling
We’ll never have.
HUNGER: PART ONE
I find Samir at last
In the back corner of the lunchroom
Sitting with a dark-skinned boy I don’t know
Not eating
Both reading.
He sees me and smiles
And invites me to sit
Did you forget your lunch?
I say, and offer him half my sandwich
(I check that it’s not ham first, that much I know)
It’s cheese, I say.
I’m not hungry.
(Those words give me a chill
Mom eats nothing at breakfast
At dinner
At all.)
I chew discreetly.
What are you reading? I say.
He shows me the small book
More Arabic letters.
The Qur’an.
That’s like the Bible, right?
Your holy book?
Is it good?
(Oh my god what a stupid question!)
His friend looks up and grins.
It’s very good, he says, with an accent that Samir lacks
You should read it.
It will change your life.
I’m still trying to get through my own holy book, I say
(Though this is a lie.
I gave up ages ago
And anyway, there’s only so much
Change a girl can take.)
Actually, Samir says
I’m not that good at reading Arabic.
Me neither, I say
And we all three laugh so loud
That people turn to look at us.
Chuckling
(I love his chuckle)
Samir returns to his pages.
I eat, and through the corner of my eye
Watch Samir
Not eating.
HISTORY
Samir’s friend heads off to the library
Ma’a salama, he says to us as he leaves
Khalid is from Somalia, Samir explains
And tucks his little book away.
Where are you from? I ask
(Why haven’t I asked before?)
Palestine, he says
Searching my eyes for a moment
Do you think of it as Israel?
I’m not sure what I mean to say but
“I try not to think of it at all”
Is what comes out.
Samir nods
Good answer, he says, then searches again
Those eyes, behind the prison-bar lashes,
Unravel me.
You don’t have to tell me more, I say
(I watch the news)
But I get the feeling anyway
That he’s about to change the subject.
He leans forward
You’re beautiful, he says
And takes a moment to enjoy my reaction
Before leaving me
To knit myself back together.
THE MIRROR
The girls’ room on the bottom floor
Smells bad
Of cigarettes and worse
Broken rules
Sometimes broken hearts
I once found Freckle crying in here.
But in a school full of crowds and open plans
It’s private enough.
I gaze in the spit-flecked mirror
Trying to see
What he sees
In me.
Tells me it’s Ramadan
Wherein Muslims don’t eat or drink
During daylight hours at least
Kind of like Lent
But not.
Lucky it’s nearly winter here
Daylight hours are short
I can’t help worrying though
About the Muslims in Tasmania
Or Argentina
It seems unfair
But when it comes to faith
What doesn’t?
FACEBOOK: PART ONE
Finally I can no longer resist
I log into Freckle’s Facebook
Just for a minute.
UR back. LA fxd Pinky? Yay!
Writes Puffy Blond
Reducing me to two letters.
LA, like the smog-drowned megalopolis
I can relate I suppose
To the smog.
Then later: Is LA w Sam now? Freckle writes.
Jealous? writes Puffy.
To which Freckle responds
with a series of barficons.
:-0~
:-O=
%O<
And that sort of thing.
It’s a bit disappointing.
I expected something scandalous
Or libelous
Or at the very least
Useful.
FACEBOOK: PART TWO
And I guess
Since I’m disguised
As someone else
I feel brave
For a reckless moment
I look up a name
And another name
From the past
And another
And another
Until they are lined up
Like crime suspects.
Feigning innocence
Behind their racoon eyes
Claiming they never
Locked that door
Their cool beauty
Their witty comments
So close and immediate
It’s easy to forget
I unfriended them
In the dark
In the cold
Because they only
Pretended.
AFTER ART
Ms. Sagal asks me and Samir to stay
We linger by the door
His arms are crossed
Tightly
As though he’s afraid
His heart might jump out of his chest
Like I am.
Are you all right Ella?
Ms. Sagal says to me
You look flushed.
God God God
I want to die.
Samir pretends to cough.
The winter art show is coming up
She tells us
Taking care not to say “Christmas art show”
She needs another piece from each of us
To fill up some empty walls
I’m asking all my best students to help out.
Samir says something about time
Can you use your spare?
He says he can
And so do I
The art room is empty in that period
So you can work here.
Alone
With Samir.
AFTERMATH
Then she just, like, leaves!
She even closes the door.
Samir uncrosses his arms.
Well, he says, this is awkward.
Then we both laugh until we have to sit down.
I like how you laugh all the time.
You mean even though I’m miserable?
Are you miserable?
Isn’t everyone?
Not me, not right now, he says
And asks me to help him stretch a canvas.
I want to do a huge acrylic
Something eye-popping
Like Lichtenstein or Warhol.
What are you going to do?
Something controversial, I say
(Without really knowing why).
I like to agitate, I add.
It’s working, says Samir, I’m pretty agitated.
RULES
I’m not really allowed to have a girlfriend
I mean my parents would not approve
I know you probably think that’s dumb
But it means a lot to me.
I really like you though
I meant what I said in the lunchroom
I probably shouldn’t have said it
You’re right, I am miserable
Do you know what it feels like
To be pulled in two different directions
When neither of them feel completely right?
I’m coming apart. Fragmenting. Like cubism.
Please don’t cry.
ABOUT THAT WEBSITE
And then I ask him:
What were you looking at
That day in the library?
The staple gun punctuates the silence
Bang!
He has beautiful eyes
Bang!
He has cara-melt-in-your-mouth skin
Bang!
All just out of reach.
I fold my hands in my lap
Kneeling there on the floor
The giant canvas we’ve made
An altar
To something
Unfinished.
My cousin, he whispers
He was one of them
They call him
Martyr
But to me
He was just
My cousin.
HIS LIES
No one notices
When I disappear
After dinner.
No one can hear me
Sobbing
Above the garage.
No mother to rock me
She’s lying down
With a “stomachache”
No father’s pep talk
“Plenty more fish in the sea” etc.
He’s grading papers
No sister to conspire with
Or plot revenge
She’s giggling on the phone in her room
No one here
But me
And his silent lies.
Palestinian
Muslim
Conservative
To me
He is just
Samir.
SIXTEEN
And never been kissed
Not on purpose anyway
A drunk boy once engulfed me
At a party
In a narrow dark passage between
Beer and vomit
He pressed me against a lurid orange wall
Tongue and hands exploring
Like a surgeon
Looking for lumps.
You’re not Rebecca, he slurred
Eventually
Like I didn’t know
I watched him stumble and
Pinball down the hall
Thinking
Poor Rebecca.
MIDNIGHT: PART ONE
I miss my old friends
Kayli says
Then cries in my arms
Like a little girl
I’m so worried about Mom
She sobs
And seconds later she’s wheezing.
The inhaler appears
Hisses medicinally
And disappears
In practiced motion.
I hate it here
This house is so big
I feel like I’m a million miles away
From you
From everything
Dad’s never home
The weather sucks
The girls at school are dumb
Superficial pointless Barbie dolls
My classes are way hard
I’ll never understand algebra
Finally she looks at me
Seeing my red eyes
My snotty nose
What’s going on with you?
FOUR THINGS I NEVER SAY TO
MY SISTER
One:
Every time I look at your perfect body
Dancer’s legs
Pitcher’s arm
Every time I look at how perfectly
Perfect
You are
I want to disappear.
Two:
Once when Mom was sick
She got so angry at me
(And at you
But you had already run off)
That she screamed at me
I would trade both you girls
For Gabriel!
Three:
There’s a dark black hole in the past
Somewhere in junior high.
A cold place where nothing can escape
Don’t fall in
And if you do fall in, look for me
Because that something dark and cold
Won’t let me go.
Four:
At my worst moments
I blame you for your cloud
Of giggling friends and confidence
Because I was trying to be you
Observing and emulating so intently
I lost my footing in the fog
And nearly died for it.
WHAT I DO SAY
Is it about the thing?
Kayli says
The “thing” I don’t quite
Want to remember or discuss.
It’s about a boy, I say
A boy? Really?
Don’t act so surprised
Sorry. What’s his name?
Samir
What kind of name is that?
It’s a Muslim name
You rebel! How exotic
Nothing has happened
So why are you crying?
Because nothing has happened
So make it happen
It’s not that easy
Sure it is. Men are all alike
Not Samir.
(I don’t bother wondering
How my fourteen-year-old sister
Knows so much about men.)
He likes me
But he can’t have a girlfriend.
So he just wants to…
No! Nothing like that.
It’s his religion or something.
Religion, Kayli says with a sniff.
It screws everything up.
Especially sex.
chapter six
ANGELS
SPARE
We prep canvases
Painting gesso in silence.
Samir sighs
And sits back on his heels
(He’s painting on the floor)
Like Jackson Pollock, he says.
Are you going to dribble snot all over it? I ask
He laughs explosively
And knocks over his water.
We rush around with paper towels.
I’m kidding, I say, I love Pollock.
So audacious.
Audacious, he says
That should be your middle name.
Then he sighs again and shakes his head
