Addie on the Inside (10 page)

And I want my father to fly me through the air and
I hate it when he treats me like a child, and I want DuShawn
to love me and I don't ever want to speak to him again,
and where is my grandmother when I
need
her, and why
are all my friends boys? And I wish Kennedy was here
(no offense, Johnson) and I wish I hadn't seen DuShawn
go off with Tonni after he broke up with me and I wish
I could see into the future and know that everything
will be okay, even though I'm the kind of person
who can't bring herself to look at the last page of the book
because I don't want to spoil the surprise, but right now
I don't think I can stand the suspense. So tell me, somebody,
tell me everything will be okay, and by everything I mean

me.

too tall
too loud
too pushy
too proud

too stubborn
too bright
too outspoken
too white

too bold
too bossy
too fussy
too I told
you so

are any
of these
the reasons
he broke
up with me

I don't know
I don't know
I don't know
I don't know

It's a line from a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye
that keeps playing in my head like a sad song
with a familiar melody and words I think
I am beginning to understand.

The girl on the swing calls out,
“Addie! Hey, Addie!”
I can't tell who it is. It's dusk.
It's dark. I'm on my way
home.

She is the only one on the swing set,
the only person in the playground
that I can make out. Who is she
and why is she calling
to me?

It doesn't matter. It's as much
the swing's rise and fall that calls me
as it is the girl's voice. I push open
the iron gate, drop my backpack
by the fence.

“Swing with me, Addie!” Her head's
dropped back, her hair brushes
the ground. Her feet point high
as she pumps and cries,
“To the moon!”

To the moon! To the moon! I know
now who it is, but how can it be?
Why is Becca here, and why
would she want to hang out
with me?

I start to speak, then don't.
I grab hold of the chains,
push back onto the seat,
let go, and begin to pump
my feet.

“To the moon!” I shout as higher
we fly. I know she is there
by the swish of air that sweeps
my side, and the squeak
of the swing,

the steady, reassuring rhythm,
the breathing that breaks into
laughter, the one time she cries
in answer to a question unasked,
“Who cares!”

As it grows dark we slow our
swinging, then stop. Becca drops
her feet to the ground with a gravelly
crunch, says, “That was fun,” and
is gone.

I thought that little girls grew up
and never came back. I thought
I knew who Becca was. I pick up
my backpack and say to the night,
“That was fun.”

The final project of the year.
We'll be working in pairs.
Ms. Watkins calls my name.
Bobby's hand is in the air,
but not before Becca goes,
“I'll work with Addie.
Fine, whatever.”

Everyone stares at her.
She shrugs and sighs.

I remember her
calling, “Who cares!”
as she pumped her
swing higher and higher,
and I say, to my surprise,
“Fine with me.
Whatever.”

Our private language is now extinct.
Our jokes are no longer funny.
DuShawn still has his crooked smile,
but he smiles it just for Tonni.

We meet each other only in glances.
We eat lunch at separate tables.
I see them holding hands each day.
I'll forget him when I'm able.

One morning, out of nowhere it seems,
there they are, small to be sure, but enough
that I tell my mother it's time for me to get
another bra.

“Oh my, yes,” says the woman who's stopped me
in the lingerie aisle of Awkworth & Ames, me
trying to look like I'm just passing through and not
standing with my mother directly in front of the
junior bras.

“Oh, yes,” the woman repeats, “at our house it's Addie
this and Addie that, isn't it, Clay?” The man named Clay
nods and says, “It sure is,” even while his eyes are telling us
he's never heard my name before.

“It's so nice to have you back in town,” my mother says,
and the conversation is sidetracked into where-
have-you-been and what-have-you-been-up-to and
how-long-have-you-two-been-married, giving me plenty of time
to picture the scene when Becca hears from her mom,
You'll never guess who I bumped into in the
junior bra
department
at Awkworth & Ames
and I just know
how that's going to play out at school on Monday so of course
I'm already planning on being sick that day and maybe
all week

when I realize her mom is speaking to me again:

“I think it's gutsy of you to stand up for what you believe,
wearing that duct tape over your mouth and all. And that time
you told the whole class what you thought about domestic abuse,
or whatever it was, well, Becca says you were just brilliant,

that's all. She only wishes she had your nerve. But I'm sure
she's told you all this herself, she certainly talks about it enough
at home, doesn't she, Clay?” Clay's eyes have strayed to the next aisle
where there's a lot of lingerie involving lace, and I wish I could press
an eject button and be rocketed out of here, but I am riveted
to the spot. How could I not be, when I'm hearing
what I'm hearing?

“That's nice” is all I can think of in response, but it's enough
for Mrs. Wrightsman, or whatever her name is now, to say,
“You should come over sometime, Addie.”

“Okay,” I mutter as my mother lifts up something involving daisies
and turns to Becca's mom and asks with a laugh, “What
is
the point of underwire in a junior bra?” And I wonder if there
is such a thing as temporary death, because I have just died
and I can only hope it's temporary.

Who knows if she'll remember?
Who knows why I'm doing it?
But when she opens the door,
sees the plate of butterscotch
cookies in my hands and goes,
“Omigod, I haven't had those
cookies in, like, years!” I have
my answer to both questions.

I can't believe I am sitting
on Becca Wrightsman's bed,
eating butterscotch cookies,
discussing books we've read.

I can't believe she is wearing
a shapeless shirt and jeans
and not an ounce of makeup
and not once acting mean.

I can't believe she is saying
it's been hard for her at school,
trying to fit in again,
trying to be cool.

I can't believe she is crying
when I say I understand,
then telling me she's sorry
for the gossip she began.

I can't believe she is asking
if I still have the board game
we always played at my house,
she can't recall its name.

I can't believe she is laughing
at something I just said.
I can't believe I am sitting
on Becca Wrightsman's bed.

“On the day you wore that tape,” Becca says
just before I leave for home, “things were getting
out of hand, the teasing and the gossiping. I
told my friends I wouldn't do it anymore, and
that's when they cut me out, told me I was a loser
too, told me the same things could happen to
me that were happening to you. That's why I
was crying in the bathroom. I just, well, I guess
I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you,” I say. We are standing on her front steps,
waiting for my dad to show up, looking down at our feet
or out at the street. When I spot his car I turn to Becca.
“We have
so
much work to do on this project. Want
to meet tomorrow? My house?”

“Totally,” she says. “And, hey, maybe you can find
that game we used to play. Omigod, wouldn't that be
so
much fun?”

“Totally,” I say. And the funny thing is, I mean it.

Like when you go to put your CD in the player
and Joni Mitchell's in the slot, not because you
put her there but because Grandma left her
behind. Or you call Johnson “Kennedy” for the
third time in one day. Or your hand in the dark
touches the box by your bed and you can't help
yourself, you have to trace its outline with your
fingers and think the word
heart.

It's those times that surprise you with how much
you can miss a grandmother, a cat, a boy.

Oh, I know I could have e-mailed,
but I wanted to hear your voice.

No, you keep that CD. Absolutely.
You love Joni as much as I do.

When are you coming for a visit?
The guest room is waiting. I call it

Addie's Room. What? No, I don't
change the name for other people!

Yes, I did see that Op-Ed piece in
the
Times
, and I couldn't agree more.

How's Johnson doing? And how
are
you
, sweet pea? I hope

you're not still moping over that
dreadful boy. No, he
was
nice,

just immature, that's all. I'm
sorry he broke your heart.

When is school done for the year?
Well, you should have a party.

You can
too
dance! Just let the
music carry you, sweetheart.

Remember what I always say:
They're all love songs.

You don't have to have a boyfriend
or a girlfriend to know love.

Just open up your heart and
let the world in. Your heart

is bigger than you can imagine,
and so is the world, and so,

granddaughter, are you.

It happens so quietly I almost miss it. I am
standing in a doorway with a plate of nachos
in my hands, my dad behind me in the kitchen
calling out, “Don't fill up on those, there are
enchiladas coming!” My mother going, “Oh,
Graham,” in a voice that says they have known
each other for a million years. And here,
here, in the living room before me, my friends
are dancing in their funny, awkward way,
Bobby with Kelsey, Zachary with Joe, all trying
to find the beat and not trip over Skeezie's
enormous, outstretched feet.

My own feet begin to move, my knees begin
to dip, my thrift store skirt starts to swirl,
and this is when it happens so quietly I almost
miss it.

My heart opens

and the world comes rushing in.

I am who I say I am,
I'm not some fantasy
of how you think you think you know me
or who I ought to be.

I am a girl who is growing up
in my own sweet time,
I am a girl who knows enough
to know this life is mine.

I am this and I am that and
I am everything in-between,
I'm a dreamer, I'm a dancer,
I'm a part-time drama queen.

I'm a worrier, I'm a warrior,
I'm a loner and a friend,
I'm an outspoken defender
of justice to the end.

I'm the girl in the mirror
who likes the girl she sees,
I'm the girl in the gypsy shawl
with music in her knees.

I'm a singer and a scholar,
I'm a girl who has been kissed.
I'm a solver of equations
wearing bangles on my wrist.

I am bigger than I ever knew,
I am stronger than before,
I am every girl I have ever been,
and all that are in store.

I am who I say I am.
I'm not some fantasy.
I am the me I am inside.
I am who

I choose

to be.

 

In one way or another, many voices contributed to the making of this book.

In poetry: Alan Shapiro and my fellow students in Alan's poetry workshop at the Fine Arts Work Center, Provincetown, Massachusetts. In addition to these fine poets, I am indebted to the work of Billy Collins, Donald Hall, Marie Howe, Ted Kooser, Dorianne Laux, W. S. Merwin, Naomi Shihab Nye, Sharon Olds, Mary Oliver, and Linda Pastan.

In song: Leonard Cohen, Ani DiFranco, Thea Gilmore, Patty Griffin, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell, Tom Waits, Dar Williams, and Lucinda Williams.

In inspiration: Maureen Ryan Griffin, friend and poet, for reigniting my love of poetry. Shari Conradson and her eighth-grade students in Sebastopol, California, for their many letters and insights over the years, with special thanks to Shari for her friendship and to Hannah Maschwitz, who wrote in a letter about
The Misfits
, “I love Addie's character! She's got a strong personality, but sometimes I think that the readers don't actually know what her soft side is.” These words were the key that enabled me to open the door to this book after two years of trying.

In Addie-tude: In addition to Shari: Cathryn Berger Kaye, C. J. Bott, Lucy Calkins, Lisa de Mauro, Lisa Duquette, Helise Harrington, Sue Hagadorn, Deborah Holmes, Mary Jane Karger, Connie Kirk, Lisa McGilloway, Jane Roberts, Janet Trumble, and Kate Walton.

In support and friendship: My colleagues, friends, and family. There are too many individuals to mention without fear of leaving someone out, but I must acknowledge my special debt of gratitude to my very supportive family, Sy Bucholz, Dan Darigan, Arielle Ferrell,
Donald Ferrell and Joanna Mintzer, Donald R. Gallo, Robin Jilton, Judy Leipzig and John Gallagher, Tom Owens and Diana Helmer, Richie Partington, Kristy Raffensberger, Richard and Roni Schotter, Ginee Seo, Melissa Whitcraft and Steven Mintz, and Richard Wilson.

In words: John Cavallero, my fellow teachers, and the students in the Coming of Age classes I've taught at the First Unitarian Society of Westchester in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York. The openness with which the seventh- and eighth-graders in these classes talked about their lives had a direct impact on how I thought about Addie's life. Also, the many readers of
The Misfits
and
Totally Joe
who have written to tell me their responses to those books and to share their stories.