Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

numbering her fake age.

I light them, one by one,

wondering why her real age

is such a mystery,

wishing she had a driver’s license

I could check.

Not that her age matters to me,

but I’m curious why

she sometimes gets furious

if I press the point.

Is there some scary story

threaded through the truth,

or have I just been

watching too many movies?

Last Communion Sunday

marked me as villain.

Never mind that I sat in the pew

with yards of blue cotton-polly

and an oversized vest billowing

out around me.

Cool camouflage, right?

But hardly good enough

for God.

“Prepare your hearts for the feast,”

said Pastor Grant.

“All are welcome at the Lord’s Table.”

I sat up straight to wait

for the holy tray.

I’ve always loved Communion.

“But take heed,” Pastor warned.

“Do not eat the bread, or drink the cup

unworthily.

For some, doing so,

have died.”

I fell back against the pew

as my secret sin gave me two

swift kicks, and sent my heart racing.

Did anybody see?

Mom sat right next to me.

I snuck a peek

but found her lost in prayer.

Eyes closed, she sent the tray my way.

The silver rim all but singed my fingertips.

I quickly passed it on

without taking my share,

too scared to even dare

a look.

At long last,

I crack my Bible open,

finger the fragile pages

of Luke, chapter two,

and review the old story of Mary.

Jealous, I read how Joseph

stood by her

even though the kid

wasn’t his.

But the Spirit whispered

Reread the passage,

so I did.

And there it was:

a reminder that God

gave Joseph

a giant push

in the right direction,

sent him a dream,

and an angel, no less.

Details.

I look in the mirror,

but don’t recognize

the girl I see.

Suddenly, she’s some

scared-crazy kid

entertaining fleeting notions

of throwing herself

down a long flight of stairs,

or lingering over thoughts

of abortion.

Like I don’t know

how God feels about that.

Like I could forget

for more than two seconds.

But Lord, you tell me:

What, exactly,

am I supposed to do

with a baby?

I sit at the computer,

volleyball between my legs.

(Never thought I’d miss those drills!)

To hold the ball still,

I squeeze my thighs.

Someone told me

it’s a good exercise, but who?

Anyway, Seth’s latest IM

says the VB club misses me,

especially after tanking

three games in a row.

“Ouch!” Seth types,

and I reply,

“Maybe I should come back,

baby bump and all.”

LOL pops up on the screen,

and I almost do.

Almost.

I tell Mom I’m quitting

the volleyball club, for now,

so she can save

all the slave wages

she pays out for dues.

Of course, she asks why.

I only half lie,

telling her I’m just too tired

this season.

Tired or not, nothing stops me

from dreaming of a future.

When I graduate,

I want to be a teacher.

At least, that’s what I thought

when I was ten.

Then again,

I could be a librarian.

That way, I would spend my days

swimming in a sea of books.

Before I sign on

for desk duty, though,

I’d like to make

the U.S. volleyball team,

go to the Olympics

and kick some butt.

Truth is,

I haven’t settled on

a profession yet.

All I know for sure is,

when I grow up,

I (still) want to be

a girl with options.

I walk the school halls

behind an invisible wall,

cut off from the rest of the world.

It doesn’t matter

that I carry small.

I’m Pregnant Girl,

not supergeek, not freak,

not girl-jock, or even

plain old Mister.

I’m just a girl in trouble.

Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you

no other identity applies.

And if you’re wise,

you’ll keep your distance.

If I see one more

young and giddy

mother-to-be,

I’m slamming that remote

right down the TV’s throat.

After homework,

I hurry online,

surf my way to

my picture gallery

and scroll through

last year’s photos

of me and the team.

I sure looked wicked

in my volleyball uniform.

I sure was having

a sweet time.

I sure wish I knew

if either thing

will ever be true

again.

I waited for her

on the sofa,

let winter’s darkness

sweep into the room

and swallow me whole.

Home, at last, Mom

switches on the light,

notices me fighting

back tears,

and rushes to my side.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

she asks,

her mom-o-meter

off the charts.

Here I am

about to break her heart,

and all she’s worried about

is me.

Wordlessly, I take her hand,

place it on my belly,

and cry until

my eyes run dry.

She holds me whispering,

“It’s okay, baby.

I think I already knew.

I just refused

to believe.”

After hours of bathing,

I cover myself to keep

my swollen belly secret,

then let Hadassah anoint

my head and shoulders

with Rose of Sharon, and other

favorite sweet oils

before I dress.

Less than five minutes later,

a flicker of torchlights

brighten my window

to let me know the procession

is about to begin.

In sweep Joseph’s friends, and mine

ready to spirit me away

to Joseph’s house-

my home to be.

According to tradition, we

form a happy parade

dancing through

the night-drenched streets

of Nazareth

until we reach Joseph’s door.

The crowd pushes us together

so the feasting can begin.

The tables are laden

with many tasty dishes,

but I have no appetite.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses

of his mouth,” quotes one friend.

“Your love is sweeter than wine,”

recites another.

“Arise my love, my fair one,

and come away.”

All the night long,

as wine flows,

psalms and poems,

sweet stories and love songs

swirl about us,

the strains of pipe

and lyre filling the spaces

in between.

This marriage merrymaking

is all I had ever imagined,

except for the awkward glances

between Joseph and me,

or that my right hand

would so often leave his left

to rub my belly

when no one was looking.

Then, to my surprise,

Joseph places his hand over mine,

looks deep into my eyes,

and smiles.

Two years of engagement

and preparation

are now rolled up

like a scroll.

A night of feasting

is finished, and finally

Joseph and I are led