Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

I already told God

I didn’t mean it,

that I hadn’t planned

to give myself away.

But just between me and you,

that’s only half true.

My mind’s a mess.

Wasn’t it yesterday

I looked for Trey around

every corner, down every hall?

Now, for the last three days

all I do

is duck whenever

he comes into view.

I need time to think,

to figure out

what I’m feeling

and why.

I switch on the computer

Mom worked overtime

to pay for,

check my IM

and click on slickwillow,

the screenname Coach

gave my best friend, Sethany,

‘cause she’s tall and willowy,

and the enemy always

counts her out,

thinking she’s a girly-girl.

But once she hits the court,

look out,

‘cause she’s a slammer,

and God help the girl

across from Sethany

when she’s at the net.

“hey! waz up?”

The words pop

on the computer screen.

“before you answer,

wat’s a 6 letter wd

for sequester?”

“wat’s sequester?” I write.

“sigh. that’s Y U cant

beat me at Scrabble.

U have heard of the dictionary?”

“whatever,” I write.

“i’ve got more important things

on my mind.”

“oooh! this is going 2 be hot,

i can tell.” ☺

“well, i was with Trey last week.”

“and?”

“i-was-with-Trey last week.”

“OMG,” Sethany writes. (:0)

“exactly.”

I didn’t tell Seth this,

but I wish I had waited.

I know, God.

You wish I had too.

How come your voice

is coming through loud and clear now?

Why couldn’t I hear you before?

Never mind. I know.

Call me Jonah.

I was too busy running

in the opposite direction.

Just one more thing

for which I have to take the blame.

The next day

Seth nods to me

across the classroom,

like always.

Except there’s something off

about her silent hello,

a look that says

I guess I don’t know you

as well as I thought.

“Waz up, girl?

Hardly seen u since-

u know.

I’m missing u.

When can we meet?

Trey.”

I hit delete.

Wish I could do the same

with that one, wrong night.

The next day

Trey meets me after class.

He leans in for a kiss.

I love those lips

and get lost in them, for a minute.

But then I come to my senses.

“Trey, we need to talk.”

He pulls back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I mean -”

My hands go clammy.

“I don’t want to talk here.”

“Let’s go to my place then.”

A siren goes off in my head.

His place? Alone? Again?

“Fine,” I tell us both,

promising myself

this time will be different.

Inside the door,

Trey drops our backpacks

on the floor,

and reaches for me

as if he’s grown

an extra pair of hands.

They’re everywhere-

at my buttons,

fiddling with my zipper.

I push him away.

“Stop it, Trey.

We can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

I’m sorry.”

Trey goes stone-still,

then drops his hands

to his sides.

His eyes go glacial.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“Whatever.

I need to hit the shower.

You know where the door is.”

“But Trey-”

“Go run hot and cold

somewhere else.”

It’s me.

I must’ve done

something wrong,

not made myself clear.

I mean, he loves me, right?

So it shouldn’t matter

if we’re not together

like that.

Maybe if I just

explain it to him right.

I’ll try again, tonight.

He won’t return

my texts, or phone calls.

It’s all I can do

not to wait for him

at the gym

after basketball practice.

I just want to ask

what happened to him loving me?

Why can’t we still be

together?

I don’t understand.

He said I was his girl.

He said he was my man.

Days disappear in a haze

of Shakespeare, career fairs,

pop quizzes, history homework,

and the white noise of teachers

calling on me

for answers I’ve suddenly forgotten

how to give.

I’m slow.

But even I know

this isn’t going to work.

Just try telling that

to my heart.

My head keeps spinning.

I need some space to think.

Later that day, I say to Trey,

“Look. I can see

you want to cool it for a while,

so let’s.”

Trey is all shrugs.

I wonder what that means,

but not for long.

“Yeah, well,” says Trey.

“Whatever.”

I suddenly shiver

in the winter

of his words.

The bathroom

seems light-years away.

I barely make it

before the flood of tears

puts my shame on display.

It’s official.

I live in regret.

That’s the black room

at the end of the hall.

Call before you come.

I may not be

in the mood for company.

These days, I wake

and look at The Book,

a familiar stranger

collecting dust

on my bedside table.

I haven’t felt the weight of it

in my hands for weeks.

How can I even

call it mine anymore?

I know the score.

It’s fragile pages

make it clear:

sex outside of marriage is sin.

Spin it any way you like,

I blew it.

One voice tells me

to search the Psalms

for forgiveness.

Another says

Don’t go crying to God now.

And so I pull away and stew

in a new kind of loneliness.

I slip into my mother’s room,

raid the small shelf by her bed

hunting for a book a little less holy,

some story about God twice removed.

I know its crazy,

but I need to feel Him here,

just not too near,

you know?

There was this one book I remember,

something Mom used to bug me to read.

What was it?

I scratch my memory

with a finger of thought.

Come on, Mister. Think!

I tell myself.

But it’s no use.

Frustrated, I take it out

on her door,

slamming it on my way out.

Good thing Mom wasn’t

home from work,

or I’d never hear

the end of it.

I collapse into Mom’s recliner

and reach for the remote,

my drug of choice.

My fingers graze the cover

of a dog-eared book

sitting face-up on the end table.

The title clicks:

Mary, Mary.

That’s it!

The book of poetry my mom

has loved forever,

a book about Christ’s mother.

I quickly scan

the first few pages,

find the language

a little old-timey.

Still, it reads like a diary,

and the mystery of that

makes it worth

trading in the remote.

I slip the slim volume

into my jeans pocket

for the short ride to my room.