Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

A fifteen-year-old girl I know

was killed by a drunk driver.

A drunk driver!

It’s not like I knew her well,

but still.

Our volleyball team

played against her’s

last season.

I can see her now,

standing at the serving line,

alive as anything.

It’s crazy.

You could be scoring points

for your team one minute,

and the next,

suddenly not be.

That’s when it hit me:

There are worse things

than being fifteen

and pregnant.

Mom makes sure

I see the doctor

once a month.

“Are you taking your vitamins?”

“Yes.”

“Any spotting?” she asks.

“No.”

“Good! Let’s hear that heartbeat.”

It all gets to be routine,

until she suggests

a sonogram.

No biggie, I tell myself.

She spreads some jelly

on my belly,

hooks me up

to a monitor,

and-voila!

Something moves

on the screen.

Little elbows,

little hands,

little feet,

little toes,

doll-sized head,

perfect mouth,

perfect nose.

It’s a baby!

A real, live baby in there!

A baby!

And it’s mine.

Early Saturday morning,

I speedwalk to the park

bouncing the ball of my belly.

I head straight for the VB court,

then sit on the sidelines

like some old fogey,

and stare at a stranger

serving up what used to be

my game.

I raise my arms

like memory,

imagine I am helping that ball

clear the net.

I never met a volleyball

I didn’t like,

only now, it doesn’t like me.

That’s silly, I know,

but try telling that

to my heart.

At the Saturday matinee,

Sethany and I surrender our tickets

and make a beeline

for the popcorn concession.

With prying eyes sizing up

my supersized belly,

I’d just as soon skip it.

But Sethany says,

“What’s a movie

without popcorn?”

So, I stuff my shame

and feign nonchalance better

than any Oscar-winning actress.

Thankfully, we get in a line

that moves in record time,

and we’re soon enshrined

in the blessed twilight

of the theater, where

for 141 minutes,

plus previews-

I get to be

just another kid

in the dark.

I lay on the dressing table,

wrapped in a thin gown,

and yards of awe.

Obviously,

I’m no stranger

to basic biology,

or human anatomy.

I understand the work

of lung and aorta.

So explain to me

why the sound

of a simple heartbeat

suddenly seems more

like magic.

From now on,

boy or girl,

my baby’s name

is Junior.

After seeing her

busy little fingers,

his sturdy little thighs,

the word “it”

no longer applies.

Maybe it’s

something I ate,

something I drank,

something I should have.

Whatever the reason,

Junior’s got me

against the ropes,

kicking like crazy,

sparring in the dark.

My days are quiet

without Mother near

to chide me

or join me round

the grindstone,

or tempt me with a spoonful

of some savory new stew

from her cooking pot.

A lover of silence,

even I have had enough.

Come quickly, little one!

Fill this home with the music

of voices.

The life of a new wife

is too lonely.

No matter what Joseph says

there are still lentils to be found

in the marketplace,

though I have purchased

more than my share.

And who could blame me?

Is there anything better than

chopped leeks and garlic

simmering in a lentil stew?

Joseph wrinkles his nose

as he crosses our threshold,

day after day, after day.

I smile a weak apology,

wanting nothing more

than another bowl

of that delicious stew.

I trudge to the village well

in the heat of the day,

anything to avoid

those nasty gossips.

My secret joy

is cleverly hidden beneath

two layers of clothing

falling in folds, and folds,

and folds of softest wool.

Even so, at six months,

neighbors begin

to count the full moons

since my marriage.

I hear them wonder aloud

how Joseph’s seed

could so quickly

take root in me.

No one dares charge me

to my face, of course.

They simply lace their speech

with gossip about

the girl who is, perhaps,

too soon with child,

all the while

pretending piety.

God!

Please deliver me

from this vicious venom!

I wish they would widen

the spaces between market stalls.

All I seem to do anymore

is squeeze between small spaces.

I suppose I am just too-

Oh!

Leah and I bump bellies.

She is the first to laugh

and soon, I join her.

“Shalom, Mary,” she says.

“Shalom, Leah.”

She is a neighbor

I have scarce shared

ten words with before.

I suppose it is because

she is a few years older,

though that hardly matters,

now that we are both

mothers-to-be.

We have much in common.

We interrupt our shopping

to trade notes on midwives,

and whose expected one has

the strongest kick.

I love Hadassah,

but I long to have a friend

who truly understands

what I am going through.

And now, thank God,

I do!

Three days running,

Joseph has missed

the evening meal.

I ask why,

but all I get for an answer

is “busy.”

Enough!

Even a strong man

grows weak without food.

I waddle about the house

throwing together a basket

of bread and cheese,

figs and grapes,

and a skin of wine.

I make my way

to his carpentry shop

out back.

Heavy as I am,

I manage to slip in

without drawing his attention.

Yet I am the one in for

a surprise.

Joseph, brows knit

in concentration,

bends over a handcrafted

baby bed.

I gasp at its beauty,

and Joseph, startled, looks up.

“Well, now you see,” he says.

“The sanding is almost done.

All that remains

is a bit of carving.”

I find it impossible to speak.

“Now that you have taken a peek,

what do you think?” asks Joseph.

I lay a hand over my heart

and let the love in my eyes

say all.

a♦dopt , v.t . 1.to choose for or take to oneself; make one’s own by selection or assent: to adopt a name or idea. 2.to take as one’s own child, specif. by a formal legal act.

– The American College Dictionary

Mom mentions the A word

and I shiver from heart

to heel,

asking why my own mother

would advise me

to throw Junior away.

“It’s not like that,” she says.

“It’s love giving life a chance.

It’s giving the gift of joy,

girl or boy,