Read Online Criss Cross by Lynne Rae Perkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynne Rae Perkins
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could wear whatever they wanted. A tuxedo, a football uniform, a leather jacket. A beautiful evening gown. A T-shirt and jeans. They could use props: a motorcycle, a guitar, a rose.
A committee of students had chosen a quote, from literature or history, to accompany each person’s photograph in the yearbook. They picked them from a book of quotations that was divided into categories like Music, Art, Sports, Intelligence, Friendship, Beauty, Sincerity, Humor, Courage. There were even literature-y ways of saying Headed for Trouble.
You had to wonder how some people felt when they saw the quotes that had been chosen for them:
“Strength lies not in defense but in attack.”
—Hitler
This was because he was an offensive lineman on the football team.
“But still,” said Debbie. “Hitler?”
Or
“He is happiest of whom the world says least, good or bad.” —Jefferson
and
“A nice, unparticular man.” —Hardy
“You can tell they didn’t know what to say about him,” said Patty.
“I think they should do haikus,” said Debbie. Maybe because of the gazebo and the plum blossoms and the sparkling water. “Then it can be about nothing but sound like it’s about something. Like
The page is empty.
Who knows what mystery will
be written there?”
“It still sounds like there’s nothing to say about him.”
“Empty
isn’t a good word. It should be more like, ‘The page is waiting.’
The page is waiting.
Will anything be written?
It waits and it waits.”
“The page gets bored and falls asleep.”
“Go to our class.”
“Okay. Here.”
“Is that how I look?”
“No.” “But it’s a photograph.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Jeff White is handsome,
but his hair is so greasy.
If he would wash it—”
“Look, here’s Dan Persik …
I could look at him all day.”
“Too bad he’s a jerk.”
“He has hidden depths.”
“You think that about everyone.”
“Because it’s true.
“Like Sara Stavor.
She seems kind of boring, but
then she makes you laugh.”
“What about Pam Burke?
She doesn’t have hidden depths.”
“Her depths are shallow.
She has hidden shallows.”
They fell silent, perusing the familiar faces:
all those necklaces and bracelets,
she jingles
When I think of him,
I feel sorry for him, but
look: he looks happy.
roly-poly, but graceful, how does she do that?
maybe he’s brilliant
sometimes friendly and funny
sometimes sarcastic
you have to check his mood before speaking
like putting your head out the door to see how cold
That sleepover in sixth grade.
The dance when she
The thoughts were that quick. But each thought could hold a story. Like
I went to a sleepover at her house when we were in sixth grade. Somehow I was cooler then, I think. (What happened?) Other people were there—it was a pajama party—but I was the chosen friend of the evening. I don’t know why.
She said, “Come with me while I shave my legs. “ We went into the bathroom and I sat on the edge of the tub while she shaved her legs with an electric razor.
“I have to shave them every other night,” she said. Wow, I thought. I had never shaved my legs at all and felt suddenly how golden and furry they were, like a bumblebee. I was wearing shortie pajamas that were my favorites, but now I wished that they were long ones, or a nightgown. Or one of those exercise tents that your whole body fits inside so you can sweat.
She looked so elegant, shaving her long, tanned legs. Expertly. You could tell that she really did do it a lot.
Later on, a year or so, we went to one of the dances together. There was a boy there, older, who liked her. She was so pretty, and she looked older, too. Mature or sophisticated or something. They danced together a
A committee of students had chosen a quote, from literature or history, to accompany each person’s photograph in the yearbook. They picked them from a book of quotations that was divided into categories like Music, Art, Sports, Intelligence, Friendship, Beauty, Sincerity, Humor, Courage. There were even literature-y ways of saying Headed for Trouble.
You had to wonder how some people felt when they saw the quotes that had been chosen for them:
“Strength lies not in defense but in attack.”
—Hitler
This was because he was an offensive lineman on the football team.
“But still,” said Debbie. “Hitler?”
Or
“He is happiest of whom the world says least, good or bad.” —Jefferson
and
“A nice, unparticular man.” —Hardy
“You can tell they didn’t know what to say about him,” said Patty.
“I think they should do haikus,” said Debbie. Maybe because of the gazebo and the plum blossoms and the sparkling water. “Then it can be about nothing but sound like it’s about something. Like
The page is empty.
Who knows what mystery will
be written there?”
“It still sounds like there’s nothing to say about him.”
“Empty
isn’t a good word. It should be more like, ‘The page is waiting.’
The page is waiting.
Will anything be written?
It waits and it waits.”
“The page gets bored and falls asleep.”
“Go to our class.”
“Okay. Here.”
“Is that how I look?”
“No.” “But it’s a photograph.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Jeff White is handsome,
but his hair is so greasy.
If he would wash it—”
“Look, here’s Dan Persik …
I could look at him all day.”
“Too bad he’s a jerk.”
“He has hidden depths.”
“You think that about everyone.”
“Because it’s true.
“Like Sara Stavor.
She seems kind of boring, but
then she makes you laugh.”
“What about Pam Burke?
She doesn’t have hidden depths.”
“Her depths are shallow.
She has hidden shallows.”
They fell silent, perusing the familiar faces:
all those necklaces and bracelets,
she jingles
When I think of him,
I feel sorry for him, but
look: he looks happy.
roly-poly, but graceful, how does she do that?
maybe he’s brilliant
sometimes friendly and funny
sometimes sarcastic
you have to check his mood before speaking
like putting your head out the door to see how cold
That sleepover in sixth grade.
The dance when she
The thoughts were that quick. But each thought could hold a story. Like
I went to a sleepover at her house when we were in sixth grade. Somehow I was cooler then, I think. (What happened?) Other people were there—it was a pajama party—but I was the chosen friend of the evening. I don’t know why.
She said, “Come with me while I shave my legs. “ We went into the bathroom and I sat on the edge of the tub while she shaved her legs with an electric razor.
“I have to shave them every other night,” she said. Wow, I thought. I had never shaved my legs at all and felt suddenly how golden and furry they were, like a bumblebee. I was wearing shortie pajamas that were my favorites, but now I wished that they were long ones, or a nightgown. Or one of those exercise tents that your whole body fits inside so you can sweat.
She looked so elegant, shaving her long, tanned legs. Expertly. You could tell that she really did do it a lot.
Later on, a year or so, we went to one of the dances together. There was a boy there, older, who liked her. She was so pretty, and she looked older, too. Mature or sophisticated or something. They danced together a
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