It won’t take long for me
To tell you who I am.
Well you hear this voice right now
Well that’s pretty much all I am.
—THE AVETT BROTHERS,
“GIMMEAKISS”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I’M PICKING OUT WHAT TO WEAR but can’t seem to locate any clean, weather-appropriate clothing. I don’t own many winter shirts besides what I’ve already worn this week. I choose a purple long-sleeved shirt and smell it, deciding it’s clean enough. I spray some perfume, though, just in case it isn’t. I brush my teeth, touch up my makeup, brush my teeth again, and let down my ponytail. I curl a few sections of my hair and pull some silver earrings out of my drawer, when I hear a knock on the bathroom door.
My mother enters with a handful of towels. She opens the cabinet next to the shower and places them inside.
“Going somewhere?” she says. She sits down on the edge of the bathtub while I continue to get ready.
“Yeah, somewhere.” I try to hide my smile as I put in my earrings. “Honestly, I’m not sure what we’re doing. I really never even agreed to the date.”
She stands up and walks to the door, leaning up against the frame. She watches me in the mirror. She has aged so much in the short time since my dad’s death. Her bright green eyes against her smooth porcelain skin used to be breathtaking. Now, her cheekbones stand out above the hollowed shadows in her cheeks. The dark circles under her eyes overpower their emerald hue. She looks tired. And sad.
“Well, you’re eighteen now. You’ve had enough of my dating advice for a lifetime,” she says. “But I’ll provide you with a quick recap just in case. Don’t order anything with onion or garlic, never leave your drink unattended, and always use protection.”
“Ugh, Mom!” I roll my eyes. “You know I know the rules, and you know I don’t have to worry about the last one. Please don’t give Will a recap of your rules. Promise?” I make her promise.
“So . . . tell me about Will. Does he work? Is he in college? What’s his major? Is he a serial killer?” She says this with such sincerity.
I walk the short distance from the bathroom to my bedroom and bend down to search through my shoes. She follows me and sits on the bed.
“Honestly, Mom, I don’t know anything about him. I didn’t even know how old he was until he told you.”
“That’s good,” she says.
“Good?” I glance back at her. “How is not knowing anything about him good? I’m about to be alone with him for hours. He could be a serial killer.” I grab my boots and walk over to the bed to slip them on.
“It’ll give you plenty to talk about. That’s what rst dates are for.”
“Good point,” I say.
Growing up, my mother did give great advice. She always knew what I wanted to hear but would tell me what I needed to hear. My dad was her rst boyfriend, so I have always wondered how she knows so much about dating, boys, and relationships. She’s only been with one person, and it seems most knowledge would have to come from life experiences. She’s the exception, I guess.
“Mom?” I say as I slip on my boots. “I know you were only eighteen when you met Dad. I mean, that’s really young to meet the person you spend the rest of your life with. Do you ever regret it?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lies back on my bed and clasps her hands behind her head, pondering my question.
“I’ve never regretted it. Questioned it? Sure. But never regretted.”
“Is there a difference?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Regret is counterproductive. It’s looking back on a past that you can’t change. Questioning things as they occur can prevent regret in the future. I questioned a lot about my relationship with your father. People make spontaneous decisions based on their hearts all the time. There’s so much more to relationships than just love.”
“Is that why you always tell me to follow my head, not my heart?”
My mother sits up on the bed and takes my hands in hers. “Lake, do you want some real advice that doesn’t include a list of foods you should avoid?”
Has she been holding out on me? “Of course,” I reply.
She’s lost the authoritative, parental edge to her voice, which makes me aware that this conversation is less mother-daughter and more woman to woman. She pulls her legs up Indian-style on the bed and faces me.
“There are three questions every woman should be able to answer yes to before she commits to a man. If you answer no to any of the three questions, run like hell.”
“It’s just a date,” I laugh. “I doubt we’ll be doing any committing.”
“I know you’re not, Lake. I’m serious. If you can’t answer yes to these three questions, don’t even waste your time on a relationship.”
When I open my mouth, I feel like I’m just reinforcing the fact that I’m her child. I don’t interrupt her again.
“Does he treat you with respect at all times? That’s the rst question. The second question is, if he is the exact same person twenty years from now that he is today, would you still want to marry him? And nally, does he inspire you to want to be a better person? You nd someone you can answer yes about to all three, then you’ve found a good man.”
I take a deep breath as I soak in even more sage advice from her. “Wow, those are some intense questions,” I say. “Were you able to answer yes to all of them? When you were with Dad?”
“Absolutely,” she says, without hesitation. “Every second I was with him.”
A sadness enters her eyes as she nishes her sentence. She loved my dad. I immediately regret bringing it up. I put my arms around her and embrace her. It’s been so long since I’ve hugged her, a twinge of guilt rises up inside me. She kisses my hair, then pulls away and smiles.
I stand up and run my hands down my shirt, smoothing out the folds.
“Well? How do I look?”
“Like a woman,” she sighs.
It’s seven thirty sharp, so I go to the living room, grab the jacket Will insisted I borrow the day before, and head to the window. He’s coming out of his house, so I walk outside and stand in my driveway. He looks up and notices me as he’s opening his car door.
“You ready?” he yells.
“Yes!”
“Well, come on then!”
I don’t move. I just stand there and fold my arms across my chest.
“What are you doing?” He throws his hand up in defeat and laughs.
“You said you would pick me up at seven thirty! I’m waiting for you to pick me up!”
He grins and gets in the car. He backs straight out of his driveway and into mine so that the passenger door is closest to me. He hops out of the car and runs around to open it. Before I get in I give him the once-over. He’s wearing loose- tted jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt that outlines his arms. It’s the de ned arms that prompt me to return his jacket to him.
“That reminds me,” I say, handing him his jacket. “I bought this for you.”
He smiles when he takes it and slides his arms inside. “Wow, thanks,” he says. “It even smells like me.”
He waits until I’ve buckled up before he shuts the door. As he’s walking around to his side, I notice the car smells like . . . cheese. Not old, stale cheese, but fresh cheese. Cheddar, maybe. My stomach growls. I’m curious where we’re going to eat.
When Will gets in, he reaches into the backseat and grabs a sack. “We don’t have time to eat, so I made us grilled cheese.” He hands me a sandwich and a bottle of soda.
“Wow. This is a rst,” I say, staring at the items in my hands. “And where exactly are we going in such a hurry?” I twist open the lid. “It’s obviously not a restaurant.”
He unwraps his sandwich and takes a bite. “It’s a surprise,” he says with a mouthful of bread. He navigates the steering wheel with his free hand as he simultaneously drives and eats. “I know a lot more about you than you know about me, so tonight I want to show you what I’m all about.”
“Well, I’m intrigued,” I say. I really am intrigued.
We both nish our sandwiches, and I put the trash back in the bag and place it in the backseat. I try to think of something to say to break the silence, so I ask him about his family.
“What are your parents like?”
He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, almost like I’ve asked the wrong thing. “I’m not big on small talk, Lake. We can gure all that out later. Let’s make this drive interesting.” He winks at me and relaxes further into his seat.
Driving, no talking, keeping it interesting. I’m repeating what he said in my head and hope I’m misunderstanding his intent. He laughs when he sees the hesitation on my face and it dawns on him that I’ve misinterpreted what he said.
“Lake, no!” he says. “I just meant let’s talk about something besides what we’re expected to talk about.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I thought I had found his aw. “Good.”
“I know a game we can play,” he says. “It’s called ‘would you rather.’ Have you played it before?”
I shake my head. “No, but I know I would rather you go rst.”
“Okay.” He clears his throat and pauses for a few seconds. “Okay, would you rather spend the rest of your life with no arms, or would you rather spend the rest of your life with arms you couldn’t control?”
What the hell? I can honestly say this date is not going the way any of my previous dates have gone. It’s pleasantly unexpected, though.
“Well . . .” I hesitate. “I guess I would rather spend the rest of my life with arms I couldn’t control?”
“What? Seriously? But you wouldn’t be controlling them!” he says,
apping his arms around in the car. “They could be ailing around and
you’d be constantly punching yourself in the face! Or worse, you might grab a knife and stab yourself!”
I laugh. “I didn’t realize there were right and wrong answers.”
“You suck at this,” he teases. “Your turn.”
“Okay, let me think.”
“You have to have one ready!” he says.
“Jeez, Will! I barely heard of this game for the rst time thirty seconds ago. Give me a second to think of one.”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m teasing.”
He repositions his hand underneath mine, and our ngers interlock. I like how easy the transition is, like we’ve been holding hands for years. So far, everything about this date has been easy. I like Will’s sense of humor. I like that I nd it so easy to laugh around him after having gone so many months without laughing. I like that we’re holding hands. I really like that we’re holding hands.
“Okay, I’ve got one,” I say. “Would you rather pee on yourself once a day at random, unknown times? Or would you rather have to pee on someone else?”
“It depends on who I’d have to pee on. Can I pee on people I don’t like? Or is it random people?”
“Random people.”
“Pee on myself,” he says, without hesitation. “My turn now. Would you rather be four feet tall or seven feet tall?”
“Seven feet tall,” I reply.
“Why?”
“You aren’t allowed to ask why,” I say. “Okay, let’s see. Would you rather drink an entire gallon of bacon grease for breakfast every day? Or would you rather have to eat ve pounds of popcorn for supper every night?”
“Five pounds of popcorn.”
I like the game we’re playing. I like that he didn’t worry about impressing me with dinner. I like that I have no idea where we’re headed. I even like that he didn’t compliment what I was wearing, which seems to be the standard opening line for dates. So far, I like everything about tonight. As far as I’m concerned, we could drive around for another two hours just playing “would you rather,” and it would be the most fun I’ve ever had on a date.
But we don’t. We eventually reach our destination, and I immediately tense up when I see the sign on the building.
Club N9NE
“Uh, Will? I don’t dance.” I’m hoping he’ll be empathetic.
“Uh, neither do I.”
We exit the vehicle and meet at the front of the car. I’m not sure who reaches out rst, but once again our ngers nd each other in the dark and he holds my hand and guides me toward the entrance. As we get closer, I notice a sign posted on the door.
Closed for Slam
Thursdays
8:00–Whenever
Admission: Free
Fee to slam: $3
Will opens the door without reading the sign. I start to inform him the club is closed, but he seems like he knows what he’s doing. The silence is interrupted by the noise of a crowd as I follow him through the entryway and into the room. There is an empty stage to the right of us and tables and chairs set up all over the dance oor. The place is packed. I see what looks like a group of younger kids, around age fourteen or so, at a table toward the front. Will turns to the left and heads to an empty booth in the back of the room.
“It’s quieter back here,” he says.
“How old do you have to be to get into clubs here?” I say, still observing the group of out-of-place children.
“Well, tonight it’s not a club,” he says as we scoot into the booth. It’s a half-circle booth facing the stage, so I scoot all the way to the middle to get the best view. He moves in right beside me. “It’s slam night,” he says. “Every Thursday they shut the club down and people come here to compete in the slam.”
“And what’s a slam?” I ask.
“It’s poetry.” He smiles at me. “It’s what I’m all about.”
Is he for real? A hot guy who makes me laugh and loves poetry? Someone pinch me. Or not—I’d rather not wake up.
“Poetry, huh?” I say. “Do people write their own or do they recite it from other authors?”
He leans back in the booth and looks up at the stage. I see the passion in his eyes when he talks about it. “People get up there and pour their hearts out just using their words and the movement of their bodies,” he says. “It’s amazing. You aren’t going to hear any Dickinson or Frost here.”
“Is it like a competition?”
“It’s complicated,” he says. “It differs between every club. Normally during a slam, the judges are picked at random from the audience and they assign points to each performance. The one with the most points at the end of the night wins. That’s how they do it here, anyway.”
“So do you slam?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I judge; sometimes I just watch.”
“Are you performing tonight?”
“Nah. Just an observer tonight. I don’t really have anything ready.”
I’m disappointed. It would be amazing to see him perform onstage. I still have no idea what slam poetry is, but I’m really curious to see him do anything that requires a performance.
“Bummer,” I say.
It’s quiet for a moment while we both observe the crowd in front of us. Will nudges me with his elbow and I turn to look at him. “You want something to drink?” he says.
“Sure. I’ll take some chocolate milk.”
He cocks and eyebrow and grins. “Chocolate milk? Really?”
I nod. “With ice.”
“Okay,” he says as he slides out of the booth. “One chocolate milk on the rocks coming right up.”
While he’s gone, the emcee comes to the stage and attempts to pump up the crowd. No one is in the back of the room where we’re seated, so I feel a little silly when I yell “Yeah!” with the rest of the crowd. I sink further into my seat and decide to just be a spectator for the remainder of the night.
The emcee announces it’s time to pick the judges and the entire crowd roars, almost everyone wanting to be chosen. They pick ve people at random and move them to the judging table. As Will walks toward our booth with our drinks, the emcee announces it’s time for the “sac” and chooses someone at random.
“What’s the sac?” I ask him.
“Sacri ce. It’s what they use to prepare the judges.” He slides back into the booth. Somehow, he slides even closer this time. “Someone performs something that isn’t part of the competition so the judges can calibrate their scoring.”
“So they can call on anyone? What if they had called on me?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
He smiles at me. “Well, I guess you should have had something ready.”
He takes a sip from his drink then leans back against the booth,
nding my hand in the dark. Our ngers don’t interlock this time,
though. Instead, he places my hand on his leg and his ngertips start to trace the outline of my wrist. He gently traces each of my ngers, following the lines and curves of my entire hand. His ngertips feel like electric pulses penetrating my skin.
“Lake,” he says quietly as he continues tracing up my wrist and back to my ngertips with a uid motion. “I don’t know what it is about you . . . but I like you.”
His ngers slide between mine and he takes my hand in his, turning his attention back to the stage. I inhale and reach for my chocolate milk with my free hand, downing the entire glass. The ice feels good against my lips. It cools me off.
They call on a young woman who looks to be around twenty- ve. She announces she is performing a piece she wrote titled “Blue Sweater.” The lights are lowered as a spotlight is positioned on her. She raises the microphone and steps forward, staring down at the oor. A hush sweeps over the audience, and the only sound in the entire room is the sound of her breath, ampli ed through the speakers.
She raises her hand to the microphone, still staring down to the oor. She begins to tap her nger against it in a repetitive motion, resonating the sound of a heartbeat. I realize I’m holding my own breath as she begins her piece.
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that?
(Her voice lingering on the word hear.)
That’s the sound of my heart beating.
(She taps the microphone again.)
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that?
That’s the sound of your heart beating.
(She begins to speak faster, much louder than before.)
It was the rst day of October. I was wearing my blue
sweater, you know the one I bought at Dillard’s? The
one with a double-knitted hem and holes in the ends
of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through
when it was cold but I didn’t feel like wearing gloves?
It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look
like re ections of the stars on the ocean.
You promised to love me forever that night . . .
and boy
did you
ever.
It was the rst day of December this time. I was
wearing my blue sweater, you know the one I bought
at Dillard’s? The one with a double-knitted hem and
holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my
thumbs through when it was cold but I didn’t feel like
wearing gloves? It was the same sweater you said made
my eyes look like re ections of the stars on the ocean.
I told you I was three weeks late.
You said it was fate.
You promised to love me forever that night . . .
and boy
did you
ever !
It was the rst day of May. I was wearing my blue
sweater, although this time the double-stitched hem
was worn and the strength of each thread tested as
they were pulled tight against my growing belly. You
know the one. The same one I bought at Dillard’s?
The one with holes in the ends of the sleeves that I
could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but I
didn’t feel like wearing gloves? It was the same sweater
you said made my eyes look like re ections of the
stars on the ocean.
The SAME sweater you RIPPED off of my body as
you shoved me to the oor,
calling me a whore,
telling me
you didn’t love me
anymore.
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my heart
beating.
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that? That’s the sound of your heart
beating.
(There is a long silence as she clasps her hands to her stomach, tears streaming down her face.)
Do you hear that? Of course you don’t. That’s the
silence of my womb.
Because you
RIPPED
OFF