gardening.
Today, we are going to learn how to
Mow the Lawn.”
He spreads the words out like a proclamation:
Mow the Lawn.
“Michael, I don’t want —”
“You don’t have to thank me. First step,
start the mower.”
He makes me turn the key and pump the red button,
press the black knob. The mower roars to life.
Mr. Martinez still watches.
Michael spreads his hands. “Begin.”
I hate him. I hate Mr. Martinez for being in his driveway,
I hate the grass for growing, and the sun for being so hot.
I hate the mower, straining to the right like a live animal.
“Put your weight to the right,” Michael calls.
My hand is cramped,
my legs rubberizing,
grass bits spatter my shorts,
sweat pours down into my underwear.
“I can’t do this,” I yell above the mower.
But Michael isn’t even watching,
he’s too busy clipping the edges,
calm as a fat cat.
I push the stupid mower around,
pretending the grass is Michael’s face,
his smirk being chewed off bit by bit.
Mr. Martinez goes back to his car washing,
smiling with white teeth.
Later,
Michael says, “See? You can do this.
Next week, I’m off to college.
Time for you to make this your job.”
Aching legs, aching back,
I shower the sweat away,
thinking he’s right.
It sucked to mow the lawn.
But it would have sucked more
to see Mom pushing that mower each week.
And maybe,
it’s kind of nice
for Michael to treat me
like old plain Jane.
Days skirting the issue.
The tangles in the comb,
that heavy dryer,
Mom’s pinchy fingers trying to help.
Shouts of impatience,
bitten back. Walking around
looking like I just rolled out of bed.
Enough.
Rachel and I slip into the bookstore,
snatch up every hair magazine made,
which is about three too many.
We see Angie with her dad
in the checkout line.
“Jane? Rache? What are you guys doing?”
Great. It all comes out.
“You’re not cutting off your hair,”
Angie states flatly.
She touches my ponytail.
“You’ve got the prettiest hair out of all of us;
you CAN’T cut it off. I forbid it.”
She’s joking, but not so much.
“Call me when you get home — we’ll discuss this!”
She’s off.
Rachel looks guilty.
Later,
I shake off the store clerk’s stare,
pore over the magazine.
Lana, the hairdresser I get at the salon,
approves the torn-out picture I’ve brought.
“That’ll bring out your eyes,” she says,
“and it’s easy to take care of.”
I am grateful when she drops
the giant smock around me, hiding everything.
She starts cutting away as she talks.
“A dab of gel, run your fingers through each side,
bam, you’re out the door. Love it.”
Locks fall to the linoleum floor,
a litter of feathered casualties.
Emerging from beneath Lana’s scissors
is a face. My face?
Too pale. Too serious. But there I am,
and I can’t help but wonder
what Angie will say at school,
what
her
face will look like
when she sees
I defied her orders.
“Be good,” my brother says. His voice
rumbles in my ear as he hugs me.
“When you go back to school,
you’ll be fine. Really.”
His chin scratches across my cheek.
“Okay,” I say, meaning to speak
loudly, but whispering instead.
I’m losing something.
Something more than Michael.
“Please call me when you get there,”
Mom says. Her knuckles are white
when she grips Michael’s shirt.
“It’s only UCLA, Mom,” he says,
but Michael doesn’t break the hug.
“I’ll be coming home a lot.”
Mom stands next to me, sniffling,
watching Michael climb into his truck.
I want to hug her,
but her shoulders say “stay away.”
As Michael drives off, we both wave,
and though we’re standing side by side,
we might as well be
on opposite sides of the world.
Found a jar of buttons
in Mom’s craft cabinet today.
I ask if I can have them.
Tiptoe into Michael’s room,
breathe in the scent;
dirty sneakers,
cologne, and empty closet.
Underneath the
Today, we are going to learn how to
Mow the Lawn.”
He spreads the words out like a proclamation:
Mow the Lawn.
“Michael, I don’t want —”
“You don’t have to thank me. First step,
start the mower.”
He makes me turn the key and pump the red button,
press the black knob. The mower roars to life.
Mr. Martinez still watches.
Michael spreads his hands. “Begin.”
I hate him. I hate Mr. Martinez for being in his driveway,
I hate the grass for growing, and the sun for being so hot.
I hate the mower, straining to the right like a live animal.
“Put your weight to the right,” Michael calls.
My hand is cramped,
my legs rubberizing,
grass bits spatter my shorts,
sweat pours down into my underwear.
“I can’t do this,” I yell above the mower.
But Michael isn’t even watching,
he’s too busy clipping the edges,
calm as a fat cat.
I push the stupid mower around,
pretending the grass is Michael’s face,
his smirk being chewed off bit by bit.
Mr. Martinez goes back to his car washing,
smiling with white teeth.
Later,
Michael says, “See? You can do this.
Next week, I’m off to college.
Time for you to make this your job.”
Aching legs, aching back,
I shower the sweat away,
thinking he’s right.
It sucked to mow the lawn.
But it would have sucked more
to see Mom pushing that mower each week.
And maybe,
it’s kind of nice
for Michael to treat me
like old plain Jane.
Days skirting the issue.
The tangles in the comb,
that heavy dryer,
Mom’s pinchy fingers trying to help.
Shouts of impatience,
bitten back. Walking around
looking like I just rolled out of bed.
Enough.
Rachel and I slip into the bookstore,
snatch up every hair magazine made,
which is about three too many.
We see Angie with her dad
in the checkout line.
“Jane? Rache? What are you guys doing?”
Great. It all comes out.
“You’re not cutting off your hair,”
Angie states flatly.
She touches my ponytail.
“You’ve got the prettiest hair out of all of us;
you CAN’T cut it off. I forbid it.”
She’s joking, but not so much.
“Call me when you get home — we’ll discuss this!”
She’s off.
Rachel looks guilty.
Later,
I shake off the store clerk’s stare,
pore over the magazine.
Lana, the hairdresser I get at the salon,
approves the torn-out picture I’ve brought.
“That’ll bring out your eyes,” she says,
“and it’s easy to take care of.”
I am grateful when she drops
the giant smock around me, hiding everything.
She starts cutting away as she talks.
“A dab of gel, run your fingers through each side,
bam, you’re out the door. Love it.”
Locks fall to the linoleum floor,
a litter of feathered casualties.
Emerging from beneath Lana’s scissors
is a face. My face?
Too pale. Too serious. But there I am,
and I can’t help but wonder
what Angie will say at school,
what
her
face will look like
when she sees
I defied her orders.
“Be good,” my brother says. His voice
rumbles in my ear as he hugs me.
“When you go back to school,
you’ll be fine. Really.”
His chin scratches across my cheek.
“Okay,” I say, meaning to speak
loudly, but whispering instead.
I’m losing something.
Something more than Michael.
“Please call me when you get there,”
Mom says. Her knuckles are white
when she grips Michael’s shirt.
“It’s only UCLA, Mom,” he says,
but Michael doesn’t break the hug.
“I’ll be coming home a lot.”
Mom stands next to me, sniffling,
watching Michael climb into his truck.
I want to hug her,
but her shoulders say “stay away.”
As Michael drives off, we both wave,
and though we’re standing side by side,
we might as well be
on opposite sides of the world.
Found a jar of buttons
in Mom’s craft cabinet today.
I ask if I can have them.
Tiptoe into Michael’s room,
breathe in the scent;
dirty sneakers,
cologne, and empty closet.
Underneath the
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