Watch Us Rise(66)

There are moans and grumblings because it’s cold outside. “I checked the weather; this is going to be the warmest day of the week. And at least it’s dry,” Mrs. Curtis says. “No rain today. Let’s go.”

This is why she told us to bring our coats to class.

I put my coat on, zip it, and walk with James outside. We’ve been partners all year, and Chelsea loves it. She is always asking me what happened in class and if James talked about her. I usually don’t like being a spy, but today I am all about questioning James.

The first question on our worksheet is to count the number of liquor stores and bodegas within the nearest four blocks of our school. We walk down the block. I make tally marks on the paper while James counts out loud. “One liquor store, one bodega. Two bodegas, another bodega. One more liquor store.”

“Do you like Chelsea or not?” I ask. There really isn’t another way to say it. I just want to know, and we’ll only be out for a short time, so I have to jump right in.

“She’s, yeah. I guess you could say I like her,” James says. “Are you happy now? I admitted it. One more corner store . . . ?one more for liquor.”

“Am I happy? Am I supposed to be happy that you reluctantly, halfheartedly said you liked my best friend? No, I’m not happy, James.”

“Does that count? It’s a convenience store, but it’s attached to the gas station. Technically it’s not a bodega.”

“It’s not a grocery store,” I tell him and add another mark. “You need to leave her alone. You’re using her, for, well, I don’t know what you’re using her for—attention? Whatever it is, you can’t keep doing this. You know how much she likes you, and it’s not right—”

“Chelsea can’t talk for herself?” James asks. “Two more for bodegas.”

We head back to school, walking slow so we can continue our conversation. The wind pushes through my coat, chills all of me, the weather not deciding if it’s truly ready to be spring just yet. “Chelsea can absolutely speak for herself. She didn’t ask me to say any of this. I’m saying it because I am her friend and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. We pass another pair from our class, and James waits till we are far enough away from them before he says, “I don’t want to hurt her. I just, I don’t think I’m, I don’t know. Chelsea is too serious for me. I mean, I know this is a school all about social justice, but you and Chelsea—she’s just—”

“You can’t seriously be saying that you don’t like her because she’s passionate—”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me. To put it on what’s wrong with her instead of what’s wrong with you. You like her. You just admitted that, so whatever it is that is keeping you with Meg has nothing to do with Chelsea.”

When we get back to the school, we go in, pass Ms. Sanchez at the security desk, and head back to Mrs. Curtis’s class. Before we go inside, I say to James, “You don’t deserve Chelsea. She deserves someone who isn’t afraid of who she is.”





I’m still thinking about how I almost kissed James Bradford—almost felt his beautiful mouth on mine, could almost say we made out in the park on the first sunny day of spring, and there were birds out and the sky was shining, and it was perfect. Almost. But just the fact that I am still calling his mouth beautiful is a major sign that I am not over it. I want to be—I want to stop thinking about the way he made me laugh, and the way he’d put his hand on the lower part of my back a little longer than he had to if he was passing me in the hall. I want to stop imagining going to prom together and getting married—having kids, a dog, and trips to the Caribbean. I know I’ve gone too far when I can see us as an old married couple sitting on the stoop of our brownstone in the Heights. As Mia would say—join us back on planet Earth, Chelsea.

So I pretend he doesn’t exist—or at least I try to. Ignoring James Bradford—and yes, I still say his whole name, which Jasmine has told me I really need to stop doing—ignoring him is nearly impossible. I send him a note that says: James—It’s Meg or me. You decide.

It feels simple enough, and in my mind—which is a very dangerous place to be lately—I imagine him responding immediately—You, you, you. But every day he walks past me, and every day I think more and more about how I fell for someone who didn’t much care about my feelings at all, or did but couldn’t admit it. I fill my journal with enough crap love poems to make a whole book.

Potential Titles for My Upcoming Poetry Collection

by Chelsea Spencer

1.Love in the Time of Feminism

2.Womanist Uprising: No Time for Your Fake Trash Existence (feels like too much, maybe) 3.Love Like a Girl

4.Men Always Come Back

5.Devastation Station

6.James Bradford Sucks and Other Poems

7.Teenage Love Supreme

8.Why?

9.Boys Lie

10.Don’t Want You Back—Even If You Ask



And I write endless haiku poems, since I’m on a kick. I keep starting poems I think I will send to James, but they stay tucked inside my drawer. I can’t bring myself to do it.