Snapshot
We fold out the couch,
tuck in the sheets,
while I search
for a more convincing argument.
Kate’s cell phone rings
and she leans over,
fishes for her bag
hidden under crumpled jeans.
“Hey! We’re just hangin’.
Yeah, Saturday Night Slumber.”
She rolls her eyes, then says,
“Love you, too.”
I pretend to yawn,
rest my head on the throw pillow
as if Trevor has put me to sleep.
She comes around the couch
and rips the pillow
out of my hand.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says to him,
“as soon as I get up.”
She rolls her eyes again
and flips the phone shut.
“How’s Mr. Whatever-You-Want?” I ask,
having settled on my latest nickname.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s whipped,” I say.
“He does whatever you want to do.”
“That’s not true.”
Everyone knows and loves Trevor—
solid basketball player,
funny, all-around great guy.
But not everyone knows
that Trevor
is pretty much a doormat
when it comes to Kate.
“Why don’t you just break up with him?”
She tells me, “He’s a nice guy. And he loves me.”
“Yeah, and there are no other
nice guys in the world.
That’s it! Stop dancing!
Marry Mr. Whatever!”
I’m half joking, but she glares at me.
“You know what?
I hate when you make up
stupid little names for people.
It’s not funny.”
She used to think it was funny.
I throw a blanket over the sheets.
“I can’t believe you’re mad at me,
especially when you’re the one
who rolls your eyes at everything he says.”
“I do not!”
She puts the phone in her bag,
clenches the pillow
with both hands.
“Yes, you do, Kate.
So what do you expect me to do?
Say nothing? Be like Trevor?
‘Whatever you say goes, sweetie.’
Take a chance for once!”
“Just because he might not be your idea of Prince Charming,
just because I don’t want to dance professionally,
just because my plan for my life isn’t your plan for my life—
that doesn’t mean I’m afraid to take a chance.”
“Well, I would never let anything
get in the way of me taking pictures.”
“Yeah,” she says.
“That’s because you can hide behind your camera.”
Her words are like a jab to my gut,
and I want to hurt her.
“That’s funny coming from someone
who wants to major in the past
because she’s afraid of the future.”
She looks like she’s about to whip the pillow at me
but then she relaxes her grip and exhales,
tells me I’ll never understand.
I’ve gone too far and I know it,
but she pushed me there.
“Listen—” I say, about to apologize.
She says, “I don’t want to hear it,”
puts down the pillow.
I’m mad that she cut me off
and I don’t want to say I’m sorry
anymore.
So I tell her I’m going to my room to read.
She gets into bed,
says, “Fine by me,”
leans over
and turns out the light.
Sticks and Stones
I’m in my room
by myself.
I left her downstairs
to mope alone,
to sleep
alone.
Why should I always
apologize first?
I throw my book on the floor,
flip my pillow to the cool side,
and wonder how she can get mad at me
for calling people names.
She always said
she loved the way
I could sum someone up
in a snapshot
or just a few words.
She asked me to come up with a name
for Kevin Foster last year (Boycreep #1)
when I saw him kissing some skank
the day after he dumped her.
She loves it
when I call her the Mistress
and whenever I tell her
she’s my forever-best.
Okay, calling her boyfriend
Mr. Whatever
was going a bit too far.
But I call ’em
like I see ’em.
Morning
I look for Kate, but she’s gone.
She left, taking my nasty words with her.
I didn’t mean to hurt her.
I didn’t want her to leave
without giving me a chance
to take the words back.
The Call
There’s a lump in my throat
the size of Cape Cod Bay.
I know I’ve got a big mouth,
but nothing I’ve said before
ever made her leave.
“I’m sorry, call me,”
I say to the machine.
Then I call Brian.
“I’ll pick you up after my
We fold out the couch,
tuck in the sheets,
while I search
for a more convincing argument.
Kate’s cell phone rings
and she leans over,
fishes for her bag
hidden under crumpled jeans.
“Hey! We’re just hangin’.
Yeah, Saturday Night Slumber.”
She rolls her eyes, then says,
“Love you, too.”
I pretend to yawn,
rest my head on the throw pillow
as if Trevor has put me to sleep.
She comes around the couch
and rips the pillow
out of my hand.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says to him,
“as soon as I get up.”
She rolls her eyes again
and flips the phone shut.
“How’s Mr. Whatever-You-Want?” I ask,
having settled on my latest nickname.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s whipped,” I say.
“He does whatever you want to do.”
“That’s not true.”
Everyone knows and loves Trevor—
solid basketball player,
funny, all-around great guy.
But not everyone knows
that Trevor
is pretty much a doormat
when it comes to Kate.
“Why don’t you just break up with him?”
She tells me, “He’s a nice guy. And he loves me.”
“Yeah, and there are no other
nice guys in the world.
That’s it! Stop dancing!
Marry Mr. Whatever!”
I’m half joking, but she glares at me.
“You know what?
I hate when you make up
stupid little names for people.
It’s not funny.”
She used to think it was funny.
I throw a blanket over the sheets.
“I can’t believe you’re mad at me,
especially when you’re the one
who rolls your eyes at everything he says.”
“I do not!”
She puts the phone in her bag,
clenches the pillow
with both hands.
“Yes, you do, Kate.
So what do you expect me to do?
Say nothing? Be like Trevor?
‘Whatever you say goes, sweetie.’
Take a chance for once!”
“Just because he might not be your idea of Prince Charming,
just because I don’t want to dance professionally,
just because my plan for my life isn’t your plan for my life—
that doesn’t mean I’m afraid to take a chance.”
“Well, I would never let anything
get in the way of me taking pictures.”
“Yeah,” she says.
“That’s because you can hide behind your camera.”
Her words are like a jab to my gut,
and I want to hurt her.
“That’s funny coming from someone
who wants to major in the past
because she’s afraid of the future.”
She looks like she’s about to whip the pillow at me
but then she relaxes her grip and exhales,
tells me I’ll never understand.
I’ve gone too far and I know it,
but she pushed me there.
“Listen—” I say, about to apologize.
She says, “I don’t want to hear it,”
puts down the pillow.
I’m mad that she cut me off
and I don’t want to say I’m sorry
anymore.
So I tell her I’m going to my room to read.
She gets into bed,
says, “Fine by me,”
leans over
and turns out the light.
Sticks and Stones
I’m in my room
by myself.
I left her downstairs
to mope alone,
to sleep
alone.
Why should I always
apologize first?
I throw my book on the floor,
flip my pillow to the cool side,
and wonder how she can get mad at me
for calling people names.
She always said
she loved the way
I could sum someone up
in a snapshot
or just a few words.
She asked me to come up with a name
for Kevin Foster last year (Boycreep #1)
when I saw him kissing some skank
the day after he dumped her.
She loves it
when I call her the Mistress
and whenever I tell her
she’s my forever-best.
Okay, calling her boyfriend
Mr. Whatever
was going a bit too far.
But I call ’em
like I see ’em.
Morning
I look for Kate, but she’s gone.
She left, taking my nasty words with her.
I didn’t mean to hurt her.
I didn’t want her to leave
without giving me a chance
to take the words back.
The Call
There’s a lump in my throat
the size of Cape Cod Bay.
I know I’ve got a big mouth,
but nothing I’ve said before
ever made her leave.
“I’m sorry, call me,”
I say to the machine.
Then I call Brian.
“I’ll pick you up after my
Similar Books
