A Girl Named Mister (7 page)

I try on shirts

with Sethany for company.

She stares at me,

stares at my reflection

in the mirror,

eyes lingering on

my lower half.

She makes faces

at my belly

till I have to laugh.

Of course, we both know

there’s nothing funny

about my trouble.

“Time to tell Trey,” says Sethany,

catching me off guard.

I cut my eyes at her.

“Hey! That’s all I got to say

on the subject.”

Which means

she’s just getting started.

“Seth!”

I groan loud enough

for her to hear.

“It’s gonna be rough,

still, the daddy

needs to know.”

On and on she goes.

“I’m not saying

it’s gonna be easy,

but at least you know

God’ll give you the words.”

I snort. “Yeah. If he’s still

talking to me.”

“Ooooh,” says Sethany.

“I see. So, you’re telling me

God forgives murderers,

but can’t forgive you.

Well, that’s a new one.”

Sarcasm aside, she’s got a point.

“Say you’re right,”

I concede,

“so what?”

“Get up in his face

and spit it out,” says Sethany.

“Don’t go shy all of a sudden.”

I nod, whisper, “Okay.”

Then Sethany switches her attention

to new shirts I should

try on.

“Look at this one,” she says,

holding up a green number.

“It’ll bring out your eyes.”

Then, she surprises me

with a hug,

guessing how badly

I need one.

Soft as fleece,

God’s forgiveness

falls over me

like a quilt,

and this time,

I let it smother

my guilt.

The next morning,

I feel strong enough

to carry out my plan.

Today, I’ll tell Trey,
I think.

Him first, then Mom.

That settled,

I march into school

and wait by Trey’s locker.

I lean against the door,

close my eyes,

and let the combination lock

dig into my spine—

anything to keep me

from feeling numb.

“I got some treasure in there

I don’t know about?” asks Trey.

I look up, part my lips

and manage, “Hi.”

“Whoa! This mean

you talking to me again?”

Tell him. Go on!

“Trey, I—uhm, I—”

My mouth fails,

my practiced speech

becomes a heap

of dead syllables

crushed between my teeth.

“Cat got your tongue?” says Trey.

I nod, turn away,

but somehow stop myself

from running.

Do it. Do it!

I tell myself,

then turn back,

wrap my tongue

around the truth,

and throw it like a ball,

hard as I can

till it hits home.

“Trey, I’m pregnant.

And it’s yours.”

“I’m too young

to have a kid,

and so, I don’t,”

says Trey.

“You need to take

that fairy tale

to some other fool.”

His words ricochet

inside my head,

hot and deadly.

“There is no one but you,”

I say.

“Oh, yeah? And how do

I know that’s true?

Because you say it?”

Trey slams his locker door

like the period

at the end of his sentence,

and he’s gone.

The bell rings,

and I’m left gasping

in the hall.

Glad there was a wall

to lean on.

Blinded by fear

masquerading as teardrops,

I feel my way

to the school exit,

and leave, lost,

struggling to register

a new definition

of lonely:

the baby growing inside of me

the only company

I can count on.

And, maybe, if I’m lucky,

God.

Odd, that I hardly

feel my feet

as I wander the streets

pointed toward Broadway.

I turn, on automatic pilot,

pass the Audubon Ballroom

and the ghost of Malcolm X,

wishing, if only for a moment—

Lord, forgive me—

wishing I could join him,

that I could simply

disappear.

It’s Friday night.

Mom sticks her head in the door,

waving a video cassette.

I bet it’s some old-school flick

like
Casablanca.

She loves that stuff.

Not me, but I love her.

Plus, its our ritual,

huddling on the sofa

close as bone and skin,

in celebration mode,

ticking off another week gone by

and us alive and well

despite the dangers of these streets,

this world.

Just us girls.

But I can’t risk cuddling anymore.

So when Mom says, “Come here, baby”

and reaches out,

I shout, “Stop calling me baby!”

before I’m sure my mouth

is even working.

Mom leaps back from the punch.

Softer, I say, “I’m sorry. It’s just that

I’m not a baby anymore.”

“Well,” Mom says,

“I guess you’ve grown up, overnight.”

She sighs. “Alright. I stand corrected.”

I nod, wanting to hug her,

wanting to squeeze away the heap of hurt

that makes her shoulders slump,

but if I get too close,

she’ll feel the bump and know.

So I sit at one end of the sofa,

and Mom sits at the other.

For the first time

we’re together,

alone.

Mom’s twenty-nine. Again.

So I count out candles for her cake,

numbering her fake age.

I light them, one by one,

wondering why her real age

is such a mystery,

wishing she had a driver’s license

I could check.

Not that her age matters to me,

but I’m curious why

she sometimes gets furious

if I press the point.

Is there some scary story

threaded through the truth,

or have I just been

watching too many movies?

Last Communion Sunday

marked me as villain.

Never mind that I sat in the pew

with yards of blue cotton-polly

and an oversized vest billowing

out around me.

Cool camouflage, right?

But hardly good enough

for God.

“Prepare your hearts for the feast,”

said Pastor Grant.

“All are welcome at the Lord’s Table.”

I sat up straight to wait

for the holy tray.

I’ve always loved Communion.

“But take heed,” Pastor warned.

“Do not eat the bread, or drink the cup

unworthily.

For some, doing so,

have died.”

I fell back against the pew

as my secret sin gave me two

swift kicks, and sent my heart racing.

Did anybody see?

Mom sat right next to me.

I snuck a peek

but found her lost in prayer.

Eyes closed, she sent the tray my way.

The silver rim all but singed my fingertips.

I quickly passed it on

without taking my share,

too scared to even dare

a look.

At long last,

I crack my Bible open,

finger the fragile pages

of Luke, chapter two,

and review the old story of Mary.

Jealous, I read how Joseph

stood by her

even though the kid

wasn’t his.

But the Spirit whispered

Reread the passage,

so I did.

And there it was:

a reminder that God

gave Joseph

a giant push

in the right direction,

sent him a dream,

and an angel, no less.

Details.

I look in the mirror,

but don’t recognize

the girl I see.

Suddenly, she’s some

scared-crazy kid

entertaining fleeting notions

of throwing herself

down a long flight of stairs,

or lingering over thoughts

of abortion.

Like I don’t know

how God feels about that.

Like I could forget

for more than two seconds.

But Lord, you tell me:

What, exactly,

am I supposed to do

with a baby?

I sit at the computer,

volleyball between my legs.

(Never thought I’d miss those drills!)

To hold the ball still,

I squeeze my thighs.

Someone told me

it’s a good exercise, but who?

Anyway, Seth’s latest IM

says the VB club misses me,

especially after tanking

three games in a row.

“Ouch!” Seth types,

and I reply,

“Maybe I should come back,

baby bump and all.”

LOL pops up on the screen,

and I almost do.

Almost.

I tell Mom I’m quitting

the volleyball club, for now,

so she can save

all the slave wages

she pays out for dues.

Of course, she asks why.

I only half lie,

telling her I’m just too tired

this season.

Tired or not, nothing stops me

from dreaming of a future.

When I graduate,

I want to be a teacher.

At least, that’s what I thought

when I was ten.

Then again,

I could be a librarian.

That way, I would spend my days

swimming in a sea of books.

Before I sign on

for desk duty, though,

I’d like to make

the U.S. volleyball team,

go to the Olympics

and kick some butt.

Truth is,

I haven’t settled on

a profession yet.

All I know for sure is,

when I grow up,

I (still) want to be

a girl with options.

“Nothing moves faster than gossip.”

—Virgil,
Aeneid,
IV, 174

I walk the school halls

behind an invisible wall,

cut off from the rest of the world.

It doesn’t matter

that I carry small.

I’m Pregnant Girl,

not supergeek, not freak,

not girl-jock, or even

plain old Mister.

I’m just a girl in trouble.

Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you

no other identity applies.

And if you’re wise,

you’ll keep your distance.

If I see one more

young and giddy

mother-to-be,

I’m slamming that remote

right down the TV’s throat.

After homework,

I hurry online,

surf my way to

my picture gallery

and scroll through

last year’s photos

of me and the team.

I sure looked wicked

in my volleyball uniform.

I sure was having

a sweet time.

I sure wish I knew

if either thing

will ever be true

again.

I waited for her

on the sofa,

let winter’s darkness

sweep into the room

and swallow me whole.

Home, at last, Mom

switches on the light,

notices me fighting

back tears,

and rushes to my side.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

she asks,

her mom-o-meter

off the charts.

Here I am

about to break her heart,

and all she’s worried about

is me.

Wordlessly, I take her hand,

place it on my belly,

and cry until

my eyes run dry.

She holds me whispering,

“It’s okay, baby.

I think I already knew.

I just refused

to believe.”

After hours of bathing,

I cover myself to keep

my swollen belly secret,

then let Hadassah anoint

my head and shoulders

with Rose of Sharon, and other

favorite sweet oils

before I dress.

Less than five minutes later,

a flicker of torchlights

brighten my window

to let me know the procession

is about to begin.

In sweep Joseph’s friends, and mine

ready to spirit me away

to Joseph’s house—

my home to be.

According to tradition, we

form a happy parade

dancing through

the night-drenched streets

of Nazareth

until we reach Joseph’s door.

The crowd pushes us together

so the feasting can begin.

The tables are laden

with many tasty dishes,

but I have no appetite.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses

of his mouth,” quotes one friend.

“Your love is sweeter than wine,”

recites another.

“Arise my love, my fair one,

and come away.”

All the night long,

as wine flows,

psalms and poems,

sweet stories and love songs

swirl about us,

the strains of pipe

and lyre filling the spaces

in between.

This marriage merrymaking

is all I had ever imagined,

except for the awkward glances

between Joseph and me,

or that my right hand

would so often leave his left

to rub my belly

when no one was looking.

Then, to my surprise,

Joseph places his hand over mine,

looks deep into my eyes,

and smiles.