Addie on the Inside Read online

as if her nails are drying

  and bats her doe-y eyes like

  she’s on the verge of crying.

  (Give me a break.)

  With her text message life

  and her gossip girl demeanor

  and the way there is nothing

  she allows to come between her

  and anything she wants.

  With her taunts and her sneers

  and all the little cruelties

  she sprinkles through the day.

  Where is she hiding Miss Mary

  Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in

  black, black, black, the hand-

  smacking, Double-Dutching,

  one-foot-hopping, bubble-popping girl

  who saved her mother’s back

  by never stepping on a crack?

  What ever happened

  to the girl she used to be?

  The girl who was friendly

  to other girls, like me.

  Now That She’s Back

  She was just a girl I played with sometimes.

  I never even said goodbye. I never thought about her

  in all the years she lived somewhere else. Now

  that she’s moved back, she never lets me forget.

  Because I’m with DuShawn

  Because I have a boyfriend,

  because the boyfriend is DuShawn,

  because DuShawn is popular,

  I thought things would be different.

  I thought everyone would say,

  “Look at Addie. She’s with DuShawn.”

  Instead, everyone says,

  “Look at DuShawn.

  What is he doing with her?”

  The Mysterious Order

  of the Lunchtime Table

  Zachary sits quietly, sipping through a straw.

  Kelsey averts her eyes from Bobby’s, while

  under the table their feet meet like old friends.

  Joe and I do most of the talking. Skeezie and

  DuShawn make most of the jokes. Hotheaded

  Tonni gets angry for nothing as Royal nods

  and says through a mouthful of Yoplait, “Uh-

  huh, girl, tell it, uh-huh.” Some days Amy

  and Evie squeeze in, taking up space for one,

  giggling softly at secrets they have earlier

  whispered in each other’s ears.

  Becca isn’t here, of course—too above it all

  to care. And Tonni and Royal? They’re here

  only because DuShawn is here. And DuShawn?

  He is here only because of me.

  So it goes each day from 11:52 to 12:12.

  The mysterious order of our lunchtime table,

  when for a brief moment the Popular deign to

  sit with the Un. O let us give thanks. Twenty

  minutes of pretending that We Are All One.

  An Unfortunate Conversation

  “That girl has bazoobies bigger than my head,”

  Royal says as Skeezie spits milk all over his tray

  and half of the table. “And you got one big

  head,” says Tonni, whose full name is

  “Tondayala Cherise DuPré! What are you

  sayin’, girl?” “I’m saying you got a big head

  is all. Doesn’t she got a big head, DuShawn?”

  DuShawn flashes me a help-me-out-here look,

  but I know when to keep my mouth

  shut.

  “It is true,” Joe chimes in, “that Becca’s bosoms

  are bodacious.” “Excellent use of alliteration,”

  I say because I can’t help myself, and now

  everyone is staring at me and I feel my chest

  growing flatter, which is a near mathematical

  impossibility. Earlier I’d told Joe what Becca

  had said to me about my needing a bra.

  As if reading my mind, Joe says (not reading

  the part of my mind that is screaming,

  SHUT UP, JOE!), “Androgyny is cool, Addie.

  Seriously, girls who look like boys are hot.”

  “You’re gay,” I say. “To you, anything

  that looks like a boy is hot.” Milk

  is drying in dribbles on Skeezie’s chin. His grin

  grows so wide I can see every bit of food stuck

  between his teeth and I find myself picturing

  the teeth I can’t see and imagining what is hidden

  in the recesses there. I want to say to Skeezie,

  “Close your lips,” if only to divert attention away from me,

  but it is too late. “Don’t worry, Addie,” says Tonni,

  her eyes as friendly as the first frost, “you’re just a little

  behind the curve.” “So to speak,” says Skeezie,

  which gets some laughter. Now I say it: “Skeezie,

  close your lips.” And this gets even more.

  I cannot bring myself to look at DuShawn. I try hard

  not to think the thought I have thought a million times

  since we started going out, but I can feel it rising up

  as the laughter is dying down: What is he doing with me

  when he could be with a girl like Becca or Tonni?

  Tonni says, “Addie is blessed with brains over boobs,”

  and I resist the temptation

  to praise the alliteration

  and instead pray for release

  from this purgatory of

  the middle school years

  when so many things

  that never mattered before

  and will never matter again

  matter.

  Tondayala Cherise DuPré

  may have a name like a

  puffed pastry

  but she has eyes that say,

  “I’m the hammer

  and you’re the nail.”

  I Wonder If She’s Jealous

  The way she says his name like

  it’s their little secret. The way

  her hammer eyes watch me like

  I’m a mystery she can’t solve.

  Me,

  this plain-Jane white girl,

  walking through the halls hand

  in hand with the boy I think

  she’d like for herself, black like her,

  popular.

  Is it possible? Could I be a girl

  who makes other girls

  jealous?

  Well, if

  that’s the case,

  I might just grow

  to like it.

  Skin

  DuShawn once told me I have skin

  the color of the inside of almonds,

  then changed it to

  peach

  ice

  cream.

  DuShawn has skin the color

  of a moonless night.

  Holding hands,

  folding black on white,

  white on black,

  we don’t feel the color.

  We feel the skin.

  The Way It Happened

  “So you want to go to the dance with me?”

  back in September DuShawn boldly asked.

  I was so clueless I had no idea he liked me.

  So what if Skeezie had insisted DuShawn’s

  poking me all through pre-Columbian America,

  spitballing me in the hall, and slipping that

  whoopee cushion under me in homeroom

  were clear declarations of love. How very

  poetic. How very “How do I love thee?

  Let me count the ways.”

  1. Poke

  2. Spit

  3. Fart

  How very seventh-grade boy, and, really,

  how is a girl supposed to know? But then

  when he said, “So you want to go to the dance

  with me?” and looked at me with guileless eyes,

  well, I was surprised but not unpleasantly so.

  “I would love to go to the dance with you,” />
  I told him. And he said, “Okay, then.” And

  I said, “Okay.” And that’s the way

  it happened.

  These Lips

  I’m not a girl who kisses

  or would ever be kissed

  or so I thought. I mean,

  look at me. These lips

  are made for talking.

  But one time DuShawn

  said, “Shut up for once,

  Addie.” And he leaned

  in and before I could say

  “What are you doing?”

  he did it.

  Now I’m a girl who kisses

  and secretly wishes

  for more. These lips

  keep talking but they get

  lonelier than before.

  Caught in the Act

  “It is not like you to be staring out the window,

  Addie Carle. It is not like you not to hear.

  Come here, Addie, come to the board and solve

  this equation.”

  I look at her with thinly

  veiled contempt. Ms. Wyman, I want

  to say as I make my way to the board,

  have your lips never been kissed?

  The thought of it almost makes me laugh,

  almost until I remember that I am more

  than a girl who has been kissed and stares

  off into space remembering it. I am a girl

  with a memory for numbers and a hunger

  for words, a girl whose brain once mattered

  more than her lips.

  I slip past Ms. Wyman,

  ashamed to have been caught in the act

  of being normal.

  I pick up the chalk.

  “Love makes fools

  of us all,” somebody once said. I set to work

  on the numbers on the board, wishing

  I could disprove the words in my head.

  Ms. Wyman Never Answers My Questions

  The other morning in homeroom I asked Ms. Wyman,

  “Do you believe in God?” She gave me an odd look,

  then looked away as if she hadn’t heard or at best

  thought my question absurd, so I asked it again:

  “Ms. Wyman, do you believe in—”

  “I heard you

  the first time, Addie, and your question has no

  place in school.” “Exactly my point,” I replied

  as she brushed me aside with a sigh and “Please rise

  for the pledge.” I waited, then asked, “If my question

  has no place in school, then why do we say ‘under

  God’ in the pledge?” Her voice had an edge as she

  glared and said, “Addie, you do try my patience.”

  Unsolvable Equation

  “Ms. Wyman hates me,”

  I told my mother when I got

  home from school that day.

  We were lifting bags of

  groceries from the trunk

  of the Volvo. “It’s because

  I question her authority,

  even though I don’t really.

  I just stick up for myself.

  For heaven’s sake, it was only

  a question about God.”

  My mother pointed to one

  of the many bumper stickers

  on the back of our car.

  “‘LORD, HELP ME BE THE PERSON

  MY CAT THINKS I AM’?” I read,

  perplexed. “The one above it,”

  my mother replied. “‘WELL-BEHAVED

  WOMEN SELDOM MAKE HISTORY.’

  That is why she hates you,”

  she said, grabbing for the jar

  of pickles about to topple

  from the top of the overstuffed

  bag dangling from her left

  arm. “I don’t want to make

  history. I just want to get

  through homeroom and do well

  in math,” I answered, even though

  I secretly do want to make

  history.

  Just then the over-

  stuffed bag ripped open

  and the jar of pickles

  crashed to the floor

  of the porch, exploding

  on contact. The cats went

  ballistic. “Lousy plastic,”

  my mother growled.

  “That’s it! From now on

  we’re bringing our own

  bags. And they’re going

  to be hemp!” The only

  thing that surprised me

  about this statement was

  that it had taken so long.

  The bumper sticker above

  WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN reads,

  LESS PLASTIC IS FANTASTIC.

  We have since

  switched to hemp so at least

  one problem has been solved.

  I am still, however, working

  on the solution to this

  equation:

  If Addie = Smart Student,

  and Ms. Wyman = Teacher Who

  Likes Smart Students,

  why does Ms. Wyman

  hate Addie?

  But Then There’s Ms. Watkins

  If I must suffer Ms. Wyman’s ways

  all through period seven,

  at least Ms. Watkins in period eight

  provides a bit of heaven.

  She has this halo of frizzy hair

  and wears these retro glasses.

  (Not that it matters what she wears,

  I’m talking about her classes.)

  She tells us teaching is her life.

  I’ve never seen such passion.

  O how I love her fire, her mind,

  her awesome sense of fashion.

  (Not that I notice what she wears,

  it’s hardly worth the mention;

  it’s social studies taught with flair

  that rivets my attention.)

  Ms. Watkins actually likes the fact

  that I’m smart and so outspoken.

  She doesn’t think it’s all an act

  or treat me like I’m broken.

  “Well done, Addie!” she says with a smile

  when I offer an observation

  or a clever rebuttal or fresh insight

  on a stale interpretation.

  She said it today when I pointed out

  how women are often cheated

  of their rightful place in history books, how

  their names are simply deleted.

  Some boys laughed, and some girls, too,

  one even called me mental.

  But Ms. Watkins told me, “Good for you,”

  and the rest was inconsequential.

  After class she pulled me aside

  to ask how my project was going.

  Maybe it was just the light from behind

  but I swear her hair was glowing.

  “I love your hair,” I blurted out.

  I didn’t mean to flatter.

  I couldn’t believe I’d said it aloud;

  I mean, looks don’t really matter.

  Or maybe they do, I’m no longer clear.

  I just know I’ve reasons myriad

  to think Ms. Watkins the best teacher here

  and to be grateful for eighth period.

  The Real Reason People Think I’m Weird

  It’s not because I’m tall

  or skinny as a board.

  It’s not my hair as limp

  as seaweed washed ashore.

  It’s not even that I’m bright,

  though that provides a clue,

  or that I talk too much,

  using words like hitherto.

  It’s mostly that I’ve broken

  an unspoken rule.

  I even dare to say it:

  I love school.

  NO ONE IS FREE WHEN OTHERS

  ARE OPPRESSED

  (A Button on My Backpack)

  Do you believe it to be true?

  I
do.

  No one is free when others are oppressed.

  So this spring I addressed it by starting a GSA.

  Translation:

  An alliance for the straight and the gay.

  I did it for Joe, who is out, and for Colin,

  who is not, and for all those who haven’t got

  the same rights as you and I

  (if you and I happen to be straight).

  But wait.

  Here’s what happened after school today:

  We were having a meeting,

  there were six of us there

  (including Joe but not Colin,

  who doesn’t dare),

  when some boys ran past the room

  and banged on the door, shouting:

  LEZZIES! FAGGOTS! FREAKS!

  Mr. Daly rushed to see who it was

  but they were too fast, they were gone.

  “What makes them think,” he said,

  his voice shaking, his face burning red,

  “what makes them think,

  whoever they were at the door,

  that they are more than anyone else,

  that they are not different

  in some way, too?”

  Mr. Daly is my hero for agreeing to be

  the faculty advisor for the GSA. Some say

  it’s because he has a son who’s gay, but

  I say it’s because it’s who he is.

  “To thine own self be true,” his favorite quote,

  were the words he wrote on the board

  the first day of English class last fall. Mr. D

  helps us all see through the words we read

  to the people we are.

  He is full of quotes. He wrote this one

  on the board after those bullies (cowards)

  ran past the door:

  “You must be the change you wish to see

  in the world.” —Mahatma Gandhi

  And then one more:

  “If we cannot end now our differences, at least

  we can make the world safe for diversity.”

  It was John F. Kennedy who said that.

  It is Mr. Daly who says:

  “And now let us get to work.”

  Did I mention he’s my hero?