Page 9 of Fade into You
Every day of July,
and part of June,
and most of August, you said nice things to me
You said you liked my voice
(even though you don’t usually like poetry that doesn’t rhyme)
And I liked your stories, too, even though I usually don’t like third person
At least you had a point of view
You used it on me constantly, tried to make me fall
A couple weeks in you were brave and I was not
When you asked if it was unrequited and I said, “Yes, probably”
You laughed and I cried
Sorry for that, by the way
You thought I was a better person than I really am
But still, you sent me lines from all the bird poems you could find.
Because, you said, I’m your favorite animal. Me.
“Ode to a Nightingale”—god, all those thous and thees
And “The Raven” with its nevermores
But I liked the Emily Dickinson one the best…
the whole Hope and Feathers thing.
And I never had anyone look at me the way you did
That night in your room
when you read me her “Wild Nights—Wild Nights!”
Another favorite of yours.
A secret I forgot to tell: You were my favorite too.
I slam the notebook closed. I don’t even know who or what I’m writing about anymore. I told myself I just needed one dayback in my real life to get thembothout of my system. One day to flush this whole summer from my veins. So I pretended to sleep through Liv’s ungodly early Saturday morning cheer practice alarm, and pretended to sleep as she grunted and groaned through her Tae Bo tape to maintain her perfect body. I would’ve asked why she needed to work outbeforegoing to work out, but she’s clearly pissed at me for fucking existing.
I’ve avoided checking my email, at least not in the daylight. I’ve avoidedwritingany emails to either Silas or Kat. Instead, I got dressed in yesterday’s clothes and borrowed my mom’s car, only because I agreed to take Bailey with me to buy school supplies. We hit the public library after, where he was happy to sign out a computer and playSimCitywhile I worked on my poem for tonight. I guess sometimes even a third grader needs a break from the chaos of our house.
Sliding on the cutoffs I made for myself this summer, I try for a different kind of look. A different kind of person from the one everyone back home has always known. Someone more carefree, more confident. I dig through the suitcase I still haven’t unpacked and find the T-shirt Kat let me borrow that night I slept in her room. I bring it to my face and breathe in; it still smells like her.
I step over Liv’s line and look into her full-length mirror. Yesterday with Kayla has left me self-conscious about showing my thighs. No shorts. I step out of them and pull out my long black peasant-style skirt—I brought it with me this summer but never had a chance to wear it. Definitely goes with my hippie sandals. I call Kayla and ask if I can wear her jean jacket—the one with the frayed cuffs and holes in the elbows. I dig in my bag for mymascara and clumsily swipe my lashes, immediately regret my makeup attempt, and end up smudging it all around my eyes as I try to wipe it off. I steal the Bonne Bell Dr Pepper flavored Lip Smackers—which I know for a fact she originally stole from me even though she swore she didn’t—off Liv’s desk and tuck my growing-out bangs behind my ears.
I’m ready. Physically, anyway.
Kayla picks me up ten minutes late, but she does at least remember the jacket, so I can’t be too upset.
