What Goes Up Read online

  And he’s standing right next to her, his

  hip-bone lightly touching hers, and I was

  thinking this drink should really be called

  Pour Me Another.

  After the Kahlúa Ran Out

  I remember the heat.

  I remember the dark.

  I remember the music.

  I remember the dancing.

  I remember leaning back against his chest.

  I remember seeing Ian

  and not understanding

  how he could be all the way

  over there and still have

  his arms around my waist.

  I remember turning my head and kissing

  whose lips?

  I remember swaying, stumbling, spilling

  my vodka and milk.

  Random Flashback

  My head on

  the cool, white pillow.

  Someone

  is stroking my hair.

  So sleepy.

  I’ll feel better

  after a little rest.

  POUND

  POUND

  POUND

  FUCKING HURRY UP IN THERE!

  I’M ABOUT TO PISS ON THE FLOOR!

  Come on, Sleeping Beauty,

  let’s put you to bed.

  Random Flashback Redux

  Before we leave

  the bathroom,

  he hands me R2-D2

  and murmurs

  those sexy, sexy words

  every girl longs to hear:

  Just in case

  you have to puke

  again.

  Adaptation

  Nature has multiple ways

  of avoiding shit. There’s

  migration (Catch you later!),

  hibernation/estivation (Wake me when it’s over!),

  camouflage (Nothing to see here!),

  mimesis (You better believe we are monarchs,

  and we taste bad!).

  Three-toed sloths escape

  confrontation by living high

  in the rain forest canopy,

  out of reach of potential

  predators.

  If all else fails,

  there’s always the option

  to make like a herd of gazelle

  and run.

  I Have Sloth Envy

  If only I had

  algae

  growing in

  the cracks

  of my hair,

  turning it

  green,

  I, too, could

  blend in

  with my

  surroundings

  and never

  be seen.

  Only one

  problem:

  these sheets

  are blue.

  Unshedding

  Exuviae

  is Latin

  for

  “things

  stripped

  from the

  body,”

  and

  once

  a snake

  discards

  the layer,

  it never

  attempts

  to slither

  back in,

  but

  hang-

  ing

  over

  the rail,

  oh

  thank

  God,

  I see

  my

  jeans.

  Groveling in All Caps

  The big question before I send:

  How many “SO”s?

  Add,

  subtract,

  add,

  add,

  add.

  There.

  Now Esther knows that

  I AM

  SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO

  SO

  SORRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Her Response

  No hearts, no kissing faces, no roses,

  no cheeseburgers, no pig nose, no pandas, not even a measly

  cactus, just two plain lines,

  On the train

  Text you later,

  to tell me

  she’s not impressed.

  Kat in Shining Armor

  She’s biologically incapable

  of achieving consciousness

  before noon on weekends,

  but I might as well shoot Kat

  a text for later:

  Heyyyyyyyyyyyy! Ho Here. Hahaha

  (Apparently, alcohol activates

  alliteration)

  Also,

  Help! I’m trapped in a tower!

  It’s not likely but maybe

  the buzzing of her phone

  will wake her up, and she can

  borrow her brother’s car

  to come save the damsel

  from further distress.

  Junk Food

  Behind the custodian’s shed

  at recess, Lance Stahlman

  gagged me with his

  Dorito-crusted tongue.

  When he tried that move

  on Kat, she bit his lip

  so hard it bled. Lance cried

  and ran to the nurse’s office,

  and for the whole rest of sixth grade,

  he trash-talked us, but did we

  even care what came out of that

  garbage mouth? No.

  Ugly Slut and Lesbo Bitch were busy

  becoming best friends.

  Relationship Philosophy

  Kat loves Tinder.

  She compares it to going for frozen yogurt.

  Why buy a big lump when you can fill up

  on sample cups?

  a Vassar Lax bro,

  a Bard trust-fund anarchist,

  a New Paltz man-bun drummer,

  a Bryn Mawr psychology major

  home for her sister’s bat mitzvah.

  Whatever makes her happy,

  but I told her I don’t need variety.

  Once I find a flavor I like, I stick with it.

  The Moment of Truth

  So . . . that was quite a party.

  What time did you leave?

  Your friend Luna seems cool

  Googling hangover cures!

  Looks like I need garlic and a pound of ibuprofen

  Let’s go to the diner

  I’ll buy you a tofu scramble

  Unless you’re too ashamed to be seen with me

  Did you know that Darth Vader’s helmet looks like a black

  Amanita?

  Didn’t mean to embarrass you last night

  Really sorry

  Not Sure

  what

  I expected

  Ian’s answer

  to be

  but,

  it was definitely

  not

  that.

  8:44 a.m.

  With morels or chanterelles

  or any other highly valued species,

  don’t plan to come back for them

  later. They’ll be gone.

  Unfortunately,

  the same cannot be said for

  Ian’s text:

  You do nothing but complain

  about your dad cheating on your mom

  and then you go and hook up with

  Conor right in front of me. You’re such

  a hypocrite.

  At Least Now I Know One Thing About Last Night for Sure

  Definitely Conor.

  Invasive Species

  Often the transfer happens

  undetected.

  Brown tree snakes

  left New Guinea

  coiled under the hoods

  of surplus army jeeps.

  They slithered out in Guam

  hungry.

  Other times it happens

  where everyone can see.

  Cane toads

  were welcomed

  to Australia

  as the solution

  to a beetle infestat
ion.

  They soon became

  the problem,

  the hero that—plot

  twist!—turned out

  to be a villain.

  And sometimes

  it’s a combination.

  The organism

  quietly enters the environment,

  and by the time anyone

  truly understands

  what’s going on,

  the damage is done.

  What They Have in Common

  Here in the Hudson Valley

  we have many invasive species—

  emerald ash borers,

  zebra mussels,

  gypsy moths,

  purple loosestrife,

  common mugwort,

  giant hogweed,

  viburnum leaf beetles,

  to name a few of the most common.

  As far as I can tell,

  none of them

  show remorse.

  Classroom Visit

  Elephant. Rhino. Great blue whale.

  The standard guesses before

  the big reveal.

  In fact, the largest living organism

  is not a drab hunk of mammal

  but a humongous fungus!

  A colony of Armillaria solidipes

  that’s been growing for thousands of years

  beneath an Oregon forest.

  Dad said to think of it like a subway system.

  On the surface, mushrooms pop up

  like entrances to stations,

  but mycelial networks—the

  tracks—extend for miles underground.

  While the rest of the class

  fidgeted, doodled, chattered,

  I sat still and straight to show him

  that I was proud, that he could count on me.

  I was paying attention.

  The Nerve

  He also said

  some researchers believe

  mycelium can sense

  the vibrations

  of our footsteps.

  Does it hurt them?

  someone asked,

  and Dad said that was

  an interesting question.

  He said he didn’t think

  fungi could feel pain,

  as if it was possible

  for him to know.

  What’s in a Name

  Marjorie comes from Mom’s mom,

  who died of lung cancer a month before I was born

  and hated her name—in school, kids called her Not

  Butter, a.k.a. Margarine—so my parents promised to call me

  Jorie.

  Dad picked Jane for my middle name. He was writing

  his dissertation on Jane Goodall’s research,

  but decided to leave school and take a

  “grown-up job” at the museum to support us.

  Most wildlife researchers identify their subjects

  with numbers, but Goodall gave her chimpanzees names.

  Goliath. Flint. Tess. David Greybeard. An adult female

  named Passion once ripped an infant chimp away

  from its mother, killing it swiftly with a bite through

  the forehead. Passion shared the meal with her daughter

  Pom. Together the pair murdered and ate at least

  two more babies. Jane wondered if Passion and Pom

  knew their behavior was wrong, but of course there’s

  no way to tell for sure who does and does not have

  a conscience. Not with chimpanzees. Not with human beings

  or any other species of ape.

  The Real Reason

  By the buffet table

  at Ian’s graduation party,

  I overheard Dad telling

  some random uncle

  that he couldn’t write

  his dissertation because

  I was a toddler at the time,

  and going back and forth

  to Tanzania for research

  would have been

  impossible.

  So I guess it’s not true what

  he’s always told me about

  not finishing his PhD because

  he realized he didn’t want

  to teach.

  He must have figured

  it was better to lie,

  since the real reason

  might make me feel bad.

  A.k.a.

  Mom works as a guidance counselor at Irving High,

  but I go to THS, a.k.a. The Hadley School,

  a.k.a. The Hippie School, which has a

  “self-directed approach to learning”

  and “comprehensive evaluations,”

  a.k.a. no grades, since, according to their website,

  they “strive to foster a pressure-free environment,”

  a.k.a. the opposite of Irving, where Mom has had

  students weeping in her office over one tiny

  minus beside an A. She likes to remind me

  how lucky I am that my teachers—of course

  we’re allowed to call them by their first names—

  are there to “facilitate, not constrain,” a.k.a. I am free

  to be that girl who makes weird mushroom art.

  The Hiking Boots

  She didn’t have the right shoes.

  That was usually Mom’s excuse.

  After we bought her hiking boots

  for her birthday, it was that she kept

  forgetting to break them in.

  Okay, okay, she would admit, she’s not

  the most outdoorsy person in the universe.

  But she didn’t mind at all

  if we went foraging for mushrooms

  without her. And if Dad wanted to invite

  the new education coordinator?

  Great idea! Show her all the best

  trails, help her get to know the area.

  She was even welcome to

  borrow Mom’s boots if they fit.

  How to Forage for Morels

  They look like alien life-forms,

  like stretched-out shrunken brains,

  like shriveled troll caps.

  But if you’ve ever tried them fried

  with butter, garlic, a little salt,

  you understand why they are

  the mushroom hunter’s biggest prize.

  On the first warm day of spring,

  you must go deep into the woods.

  Deeper.

  Concentrate.

  Slow down.

  Search under ash, aspen, elm, oak.

  Scan every inch of ground.

  Decide this just isn’t your day.

  Bring your empty basket back to the car.

  Wait, what’s that? In that weedy patch

  beside the parking lot?

  There they are!

  They found you.

  Record Haul

  I still remember

  walking into the coffee shop

  where Mom was waiting,

  how she snapped her laptop shut,

  stuck her nose over the bag,

  breathed in the earthy perfume

  of thirty-four (!) morels,

  turned to the Invasive Species,

  and said, You must be good luck.

  Sometimes I Wonder

  Exactly how long after that

  the affair started, whether it was

  years, months, weeks, days,

  or maybe it was already going on?

  Not like Dad would ever tell me.

  Not like I would ever ask.

  Signs of Toxicity

  Beware of white flesh,

  partial veils, parasol shapes,

  red stalks and caps.

  You can’t judge by scent

  or taste. (Death caps are

  delicious, survivors say.)

  Even experts have been

  fooled by specimens

  they thought were safe.

  The first time I met

  the Invasive Spec
ies,

  she showed me

  how to feed Tony,

  how she pinched

  each mealworm between

  her pale fingertips.

  Volunteering in the Discovery Den at the Museum

  Child: There’s nothing in here.

  Parent (squinting at the tank): Yes, there is. See that lizard?

  Me: Amphibian. Tony’s a tiger salamander.

  Child: He’s boring.

  Me: Actually, Tony’s a very . . .

  Parent: Honey, come check out these cool moon rocks!

  Me (silently): Meteorites.

  Teacher’s Pet

  When the Invasive Species told me

  she planned to donate Tony

  to a fourth-grade classroom,

  I was like, no way.

  He shouldn’t have to

  perform tricks to stay here.

  He’s not Shamu.

  And she agreed—she loved

  him, too—but Albert

  the hissing cockroach

  had already been ordered,

  so . . .

  I offered to take Tony home.

  He’s not exactly a party animal

  but he is more active now

  that I feed him a varied diet—

  crickets, mealworms, earthworms,

  and the occasional cockroach

  for revenge.

  Tony’s Portrait

  I made his body out of inky cap prints,

  added sulfur tuft-print spots.

  The I.S. had it framed and hung it

  in the Discovery Den as a tribute—suck it,

  Albert!—to Tony’s years of faithful service.

  After she quit, I noticed it was gone and figured

  she took it with her, wondered if she ever

  passed it on the wall of her living room/

  bedroom/kitchen and thought about me

  and felt at least a twinge of guilt for

  all the hurt she caused, but then I found it

  on a dusty shelf in the museum storage closet,

  just one more piece of junk she must have

  been happy to leave behind.

  When the Light Changed

  I couldn’t get over the feeling.