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Authors: David Levithan
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to ask her when she last had fun.
But that would be too mean.
There is nothing honorable about Honors Society.
We meet once a month and talk about what
We're going to put on our transcripts, always
Leaving off one or two things, so we'll be underestimated.
I'm sure nobody misses me when I don't show up.
They probably assume I am at home studying.
Or volunteering with the elderly. Or doing something prodigal
With a violin. I doubt they think I am heading to Toby's
To buy some pot with the money I was saving
For a prom dress that's seven months and one boyfriend away.
I look in Toby's garage to see if his parents are home,
Although maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe they know.
Their industrious son answers the door in his boxer shorts
And an unmarked T-shirt. He asks me in and offers me
Something to drink. I decline. I am so nervous
But I realize he's not the one making me nervous.
He is so casual. So sure of himself. I would buy
A nickel of that, a dime, a hundred-dollar bill.
He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a baggie of pot.
And I think it's remarkable that he trusts me
To keep quiet, to never give the principal his name.
He trusts me as easily as he trusts the bag to keep from breaking.
“It's really good stuff,” he says. “I promise.”
I wonder if it's enough and figure it probably is,
At least for now. I ask him how much, and he names a figure
That's more than nickels and dimes but still less than I'd imagined.
My hand is shaking as I reach into my purse
For my wallet the size of a filing cabinet.
“Coupons?” he asks. I nod. He smiles.
“I always forget to use them, too.”
I pay him. He doesn't bother to count it.
My hand won't stop shaking and now my body
Is chiming in. “Are you okay?” he asks.
And I say what I swore I wouldn't say, which is,
“It's not really for me.”
He doesn't question this. He just closes the drawer And I know our conversation—our transaction—is Complete. I thank him too much and he says, “Anytime.” And the way he says it is so gentle So sweet that I'm afraid I am going to cry right there In his foyer. His parents will come home and find This sobbing girl with a baggie of pot in her purse. I don't think he understands me at all, and I admire him for not even trying. For letting me Take a moment to make myself presentable For an outside world that will remain outside Even when I'm in it.
I wonder when my mother last had a joint. I wonder If those nights when I'm hanging at friends', watching videos, She's been toking up in the backyard, or even in her bedroom, Turning on the fan so I won't notice the telltale smell. Or maybe it was something she gave up, Like my father, or their marriage, or my delinquency. Should I have checked her eyes when she picked me up From Quiz Bowl? Does it matter? That was a while ago.
I go straight home and don't have to look in the garage To know she's around. There's a light on in her bedroom That I see at all hours of the day. I throw down my bag, Kick off my shoes, unravel myself from school.
I have drugs,
I think, and smile at myself goofily in the mirror. I can see the thrill of the sneaking, the stashing, the subterfuge. But that's not my plan. I have five minutes to relish it, Because I can hear my mother stirring upstairs, Which means she hears me footstepping downstairs. I pick up my bag, pick up my shoes, and head to her. The door is open. There is nothing in the silence of the house To disturb her.
And even though I am used to this
Even though I should be used to this
For a second I think this is not
My mother just lying here like a body
Barely a person, almost a ghost
Strength as thin as paper
Breathing harbored underneath
Labored, saddened, closed
Eyes that speak for all the senses.
This is not my mother
It is who my mother becomes
When the treatment doesn't work
When the future's eyes are closed.
But then she senses I'm in the room
And she opens her eyes and sits up against
The throne of pillows I've left her
But that would be too mean.
There is nothing honorable about Honors Society.
We meet once a month and talk about what
We're going to put on our transcripts, always
Leaving off one or two things, so we'll be underestimated.
I'm sure nobody misses me when I don't show up.
They probably assume I am at home studying.
Or volunteering with the elderly. Or doing something prodigal
With a violin. I doubt they think I am heading to Toby's
To buy some pot with the money I was saving
For a prom dress that's seven months and one boyfriend away.
I look in Toby's garage to see if his parents are home,
Although maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe they know.
Their industrious son answers the door in his boxer shorts
And an unmarked T-shirt. He asks me in and offers me
Something to drink. I decline. I am so nervous
But I realize he's not the one making me nervous.
He is so casual. So sure of himself. I would buy
A nickel of that, a dime, a hundred-dollar bill.
He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a baggie of pot.
And I think it's remarkable that he trusts me
To keep quiet, to never give the principal his name.
He trusts me as easily as he trusts the bag to keep from breaking.
“It's really good stuff,” he says. “I promise.”
I wonder if it's enough and figure it probably is,
At least for now. I ask him how much, and he names a figure
That's more than nickels and dimes but still less than I'd imagined.
My hand is shaking as I reach into my purse
For my wallet the size of a filing cabinet.
“Coupons?” he asks. I nod. He smiles.
“I always forget to use them, too.”
I pay him. He doesn't bother to count it.
My hand won't stop shaking and now my body
Is chiming in. “Are you okay?” he asks.
And I say what I swore I wouldn't say, which is,
“It's not really for me.”
He doesn't question this. He just closes the drawer And I know our conversation—our transaction—is Complete. I thank him too much and he says, “Anytime.” And the way he says it is so gentle So sweet that I'm afraid I am going to cry right there In his foyer. His parents will come home and find This sobbing girl with a baggie of pot in her purse. I don't think he understands me at all, and I admire him for not even trying. For letting me Take a moment to make myself presentable For an outside world that will remain outside Even when I'm in it.
I wonder when my mother last had a joint. I wonder If those nights when I'm hanging at friends', watching videos, She's been toking up in the backyard, or even in her bedroom, Turning on the fan so I won't notice the telltale smell. Or maybe it was something she gave up, Like my father, or their marriage, or my delinquency. Should I have checked her eyes when she picked me up From Quiz Bowl? Does it matter? That was a while ago.
I go straight home and don't have to look in the garage To know she's around. There's a light on in her bedroom That I see at all hours of the day. I throw down my bag, Kick off my shoes, unravel myself from school.
I have drugs,
I think, and smile at myself goofily in the mirror. I can see the thrill of the sneaking, the stashing, the subterfuge. But that's not my plan. I have five minutes to relish it, Because I can hear my mother stirring upstairs, Which means she hears me footstepping downstairs. I pick up my bag, pick up my shoes, and head to her. The door is open. There is nothing in the silence of the house To disturb her.
And even though I am used to this
Even though I should be used to this
For a second I think this is not
My mother just lying here like a body
Barely a person, almost a ghost
Strength as thin as paper
Breathing harbored underneath
Labored, saddened, closed
Eyes that speak for all the senses.
This is not my mother
It is who my mother becomes
When the treatment doesn't work
When the future's eyes are closed.
But then she senses I'm in the room
And she opens her eyes and sits up against
The throne of pillows I've left her
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