Exposed Read Online Free PDF

nearby swings.
    The beach
where Kate and I sunned and swam.
She, a graceful dolphin.
Me, splashing around like someone
in need of a lifeguard.
    I force myself to focus on the smaller picture—
the diamond pattern
in the rusting chain-link backstop
behind home plate—
the stones of the jetty,
snails clinging,
to avoid being sucked out to sea.

Ouch
     
    I’m laying on my bed, lights out,
facing the wall
when Mom comes in and sits beside me.
I feel her warm hand on my back.
    “Sweetie, I know this is hard for you.
I don’t like the idea of Mike having sex with Kate
but that’s what happened.
Mike would never force her.
Guilt can do ugly things to people
and it’s done ugly things to Kate.”
My back stiffens, but I don’t turn to face her.
“I don’t think you should talk to Kate anymore,
but if you do”—
and she says it like I should—
“tell her that it’s not too late to take it all back.
It’s not too late to make it go away.”
She kisses the back of my head before she leaves.
    My mother has pinned
all her hopes on me.
And I can’t pull out
the pins.

Monday Morning
     
    Instead of being back at Millbrook
in faded jeans and sneakers,
Mike’s got on his navy blazer.
    Dad’s wearing a dark gray suit
and Mom’s in lavender linen,
their faces tightly pressed,
as they head to the courthouse
where my brother will be charged.
    I watch them go
from my bedroom window,
in my wrinkled cotton pj’s,
skipping school because I feel like crap.
    Physical or psychological?
Who gives a shit.
    I’m staying right here.

Knowing
     
    Brian calls at noon and tells me
it’s a good thing I stayed home.
“They’re talking about it, babe.”
    I hang up the phone and cry,
because knowing they would
doesn’t make
knowing they are
any easier.

Gotcha
     
    I imagine
being downstairs that night
in my secret space,
door ajar just enough
for me to lean out
slightly to the left
and catch a glimpse
of what’s happening
on the pullout couch
camera raised
shot taken
indisputable handheld truth.

Feet
     
    I’m back in bed an hour later
looking at a photo
of the soles of Kate’s feet.
I took it last spring
for an assignment:
Take a picture that represents Work .
    Kate agreed
only after I promised
not to tell anyone the feet belonged
to her.
    There’s work in these feet.
Old work: a rough callus
on the ball of her left foot.
New work: a blister,
shiny and exposed
on the tip of her right pinky toe.
    Soft blur of the background
highlighting the hard work
of strong, solid feet.
    If I can convince Kate
to let me take pictures of her sweating,
to let me take pictures of her feet,
I can convince Kate
to do
anything.

Monday Afternoon at the Dance Express
     
    I’m in the parking lot
imagining her
trying to lose herself
in the sway of the music,
in the movement of her limbs.
    I wait a bit for the dancers to clear.
Some say, “Hi, Liz,”
thinking, I’m sure,
that I’m here, as usual,
to meet up with my best friend.
    And each simple greeting
is like the scraping of a fingernail
against a fresh scab.

Convincing Kate
     
    When Kate comes out
I beg her to talk to me,
beg her to drop the charges.
She shakes her head, tells me she can’t,
kicks a pebble with her sneaker.
    When I ask her if she can’t or she won’t
she leans against the brick wall of the building,
bites her lower lip, and tells me I should go.
    When I scream, “Mike says it was just sex!”
she throws her black nylon dance bag
onto the ground
and gets right up in my face.
    “Just sex?” she says.
“Just sex ?”
    Those two words and
the dam
breaks.

She Says
     
    She says she was sleeping on the couch
and woke up when he came in
and they talked for a while
and then he kissed her
and she didn’t mind
even though he had beer on his breath.
    She says he said,
“Hey, you’re beautiful.”
    She says he got on top of her
and she told him to get off
but he wouldn’t move
so she told him she’d yell
if he didn’t get off of her
now
and she was sure he would
but he