"4:00pm Date"

by Marilyn Carlin

I call her my 4:00pm date.

It's the perfect relationship -- I'm walking my dog, she's kicking up dust on her way home from school, all shiny black pigtails of irony and scuffed Docs.

Always pigtails. Always Docs. Always that Barney-purple backpack stamped with the initials "JMR." That was as much of her name as I knew.

At first, we would just walk past each other, heads turned, eyes down, protecting our egos. But we couldn't help noticing each other -- I coughed; she sidestepped. Acknowledgments of each other's presence. Teenager speak.

After a few weeks, she started asking to pet Beauregard. Her voice was rasped, lower than the voice you'd think she would have. It fit. We got to talking about school. I started calling her Punky Brewster, you know, because of the pigtails. I mean, also because she had these giant gazoombas, for her size at least -- a lot of people don't know this, but that chick who played Punky's were so big she had to get them removed partially.

My sister Amy really liked Punky -- the real one I'm talking about, not JMR who I started calling Punky. I didn't mind watching it when I was growing up because I wanted to hang out with her; that's how it is when you're younger. Meanwhile, Punky/JMR started calling me "Mike," even though my name's not Mike. She said I looked like a "Mike."

If she were a dude I would punch her for aligning me with the name of the kid who stole my markers and my lunch money every day in elementary school, but it was okay because she was a chick, plus with her the name had a different feel. It got to the point where I would wait by the front door, leash in hand, head turned, until I saw her coming up the grass-lined suburban beige cement path. I timed it perfectly so that I wouldn't miss her. Miss our date.

The other day I saw her talking with a friend, waiting for the bus. She saw me and smiled and waved and her friend tapped her shoulder (too hard!) and squawked something about me and called her Jen. Jen. Jennifer. I needed to know if it was her real name.

* * *

So now it's 4:00pm, Bo's scratching at the door and the leash is in my hand. I don't see her so I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Now Bo is lying down, whining, and my homework is remaining undone and I'm about to leave anyway when I catch a glimpse of shining dark pigtails and a flash of purple. She's here and everything makes sense. I clip Bo's leash on and push out the door.

I would run, but I don't want to seem to eager. Nobody likes an eager beaver. I catch up to her two houses down.

She waves, smiles, and throws a dazzlingly mundane: "Hey Mike, what's kickin'?"

The atmosphere is charged with hormonal goop.

"Hey Jen," I smile as she bends down to pet Bo, who is already nuzzling his nose into the denim at her knee.

"Jen?"

"I thought we could try real names for once. Like, 'Hi, I'm Jake Harper, and you're Jen Something-or-Other--'"

"Jen isn't my name."

I stare down at the hand I've extended, in mock jest, ready to shake just like I'd been taught in the "Professionalism in the Workplace" seminar my mom had made me go to when I got my first job at Subway.

"But the initials on your backpack, you know, 'JMR?' It fits."

She stares at me, squinting at the sun. She suddenly looks very tiny, like she's going to break.

"JMR: 'Joseph Mitchell Ryan.'"

I mull it over -- I mean, I've heard of gender-androgyny but this is kind of ridiculous.

"Your name is Joseph?"

"He was my brother. He was killed. Car accident. It was three years ago. Some asshole driver plowed into the side of my mom's minivan going ninety-five in a thirty-five."

She stars crying. I don't know what to do. Punky Brewster never cried.

"We walked away with cuts and bruises. He died on impact."

She's inches away from me. I can smell her strawberry lip-gloss and shampoo and all I can think about is the awkwardness radiating off of me in big, Barney-colored waves. I put my hand on her shoulder.

We stand like that for a few seconds. I whisper an apology, knowing it changes nothing but hoping that it'll make everything better anyway. Like my "sorry," my words, will un-kill her brother and un-drunk the driver like a magic trick.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I try.

She hedges: "Yeah, yeah, oh, definitely, yeah."

"Same time same place?"

She half-nods and walks away. My 4:00pm date, over.

"Hey, wait!" I call out. "If it's not Jen, what is your name?"

"Punky Brewster," she smirks, tossing a pigtail over her shoulder.

"Alright, Punky. Cool!" I yell, my attempt to save face failing.

Punky freaking Brewster. What have I gotten myself into?

"Ridiculous Hero Journeys"

by Julia Rittenberg

Sam crinkled her nose as they walked.

"I still don't see why you like butterscotch."

"Come on, Sammie, I never say anything about that Zac Efron you love so much," chided Dave.

"Shut up! I dont even like his movies. Just him. I can just tell that he's a good person."

"Whatever you say, vanilla-eater."

"That's not even an insult."

"It could be."

They sat down at their curb. After a few minutes, an obnoxious SUV drove up. "Say hi to your boyfriend. I won't mind," assured Dave.

Sam hurried to her young love; Dave noticed a slight limp. He stored it for later.

When Sam returned, aglow with teenage hormones, he had decided on his opening question.

"So what is the redeeming qualify of the latest model?"

"He likes that I wear the same pants everyday. American Eagle is also his favorite store."

"What a winner."

"I will disregad the sarcasm and instead agree with you."

"Has he made you conservative, or something? Where the hell did you get that sweater?" Dave pulled at the neckline and saw a flash of discolored shoulder.

Sam pulled it up quickly, hoping to bypass the possible revelation. "I borrowed it from Mom. I didn't want to get cold."

"Why are you bruised?" The normal laughter in Dave's voice was replaced with concern. "Your skin is tougher than Mom's oatmeal cookies. What happened?"

"Nothing. Matthew's dog is a little too friendly sometimes. He jumped on me kind of violently."

"You're such a liar. There's no dog."

"Yes there is!"

"There might be, but it's not the dog."

"Yes it was."

He poked her shoulder. Sam winced. "Right. A dog did that. It was Matthew, wasn't it? Did that bastard rape you?"

Sam knew the look in her brother's eyes. If she didn't tell him the truth, Dave would concoct one of his ridiculous hero journeys.

"I'll tell you! Just don't interrupt. She braced herself. Why hadn't she called the police? Or told their parents?

"On our date last week, Matthew took me to the park where we first met to be romantic. It was really cute, don't you think?"

Dave looked furious.

"Moving on. Some guys came up and tried to mug us. When they found we had no money, they were all like, 'Oh, we'll just get our money's worth some other way,' looking me up and down all creepy-like. I guess instinct took over or something when they tried to grab me, because I totally freaked and beat the crap out of them. Obviously, one cannot leave battle without some scars, so I have a shoulder bruise and my foot hurts, so I'm limping."

They sat in silence.

"Are you mad?"

"I can't say I'm not a little incredulous, but awesome job! I'm really proud of you. Mom and Dad would be too."

"You don't think it was stupid?"

"Of course it was, but you held your own and came out great. This also makes me think better of Matthew. He's not intimidated by your bad-assery?"

"No. He said it was an excellent fight." She sighed. "I think I'll tell Mom and Dad tonight."

"Great. We'll put on some Sinatra to calm 'em down, and they'll be telling this at cocktail parties withing a month."

They got up from the curb and started walking.

Sam crinkled her nose. "I hate Sinatra."

"I love him. Tolerate it." He bumped her shoulder.

"Ouch!" she complained. "I may have skin as tough as bricks, but I am a dainty child."

"I said Mom's oatmeal cookies."

"Same thing, really."

"The Phlegm-Spitter"

by Miranda von Salis

What is with this kid? I think. I stand, freezing my ass off, on the train platform. It's filling up with people watching for the train, but I'm transfixed by the boy to my left.

You get to know the people who catch the same train as you. I have a number of people to watch, so what is he doing disrupting my morning schedule? He leans over and -- PHOO -- spits down. I will name him "The Phlegm-Spitter."


*
I always like putting my feet up on the seat next to me even though every person who walks by shoots me a horrible look. It's kind of funny to see people's reactions.

I sit behind him instead of in my normal seat. I think I'll just ride until he gets off; I want to see where he's going. There isn't anything worth doing in history class anyway.

He has his iPod on way too loud and he's gonna go deaf. I want to tell him but I know I won't. I don't want to hear his voice and plus --

It ruins the fun of it if they know you're there.


*
I look out the window and see his reflection. He's staring at the trees rolling past. He looks kind of wistful and I have decided it is because his parents just told him that they are getting a divorce.

Maybe he's running away -- his backpack does look really full. Yes, he's running away because his parents fight all the time. Now I have to see where he's getting off.

He taps his leg to the music -- not well. So I know he's not a musician. He doesn't look like a musician; well, maybe a piano player, but everyone plays piano. My parents tried to make me play it but they got sick of paying the teacher when I didn't show up.


*
"NEXT STOP: TANTOWN"

Oh, wait, he's getting up. ("Tantown.") There is absolutely nothing in ("Tantown"). Where does he think he's going?

He is such a disappointment. I hope he knows it, too. Maybe he found something in Tantown. Maybe he's going to go and live in an abandoned warehouse and run a puppy mill.

"WATCH FOR THE CLOSING DOORS."

He's gone. I can see him walk past the windows. Where is he going?

In a second, I get up and the doors close behind me. I can see his head moving away. I shoulder my backpack. I wasn't going to learn anything at school anyway.

"She is Such a..."

by Fatima Said

I stood outside the front door, glaring at her. She stared right back at me. I intensified my gaze but it did no good. She refused to go away. I decided to ignore her, thinking that eventually she would get tired and leave me alone.

She didn't. I walked up the front steps, went into the house, and slammed the door. She stared at me through the window. After twenty minutes of trying to wish her away, I finally snapped.

I barged outside.

"You! Here you are, new in town, and you're already trying to get your paws all over David! You just can't resist trying to steal him, can you?! And now you get all stalkerish, standing outside of my house for hours!"

She sniffed at me.

"Oh-- Oh yeah?" I shouted. "Well you can't have him, you, you, you FEMALE DOG!"

I stomped back inside and slammed the door. I gave her another long glare from my window, and finally, the little wench of wenchiness turned and started back toward her house. She reached her door, turned, looked back at me, and wagged her tail.

Then she disappeared into the doggy door.

I turned to see David standing at the doorway, staring at me. I smiled at him.

"It's just me and you, hon."

We both walked into the living room and curled up on the couch in front of the TV.

I let out a sigh. It was just me and my dog again, alone at last. That's the way I had always thought it would be until she came along.

Betsy had moved in across the street with the new neighbors. She was a golden retriever, like David. On the second day, I found her in my back yard, cuddling up to David on the grass. I kicked her out, but almost every day after that, for two weeks, I found her somewhere on my property. She was either in my yard or she had somehow managed to end up INSIDE my house. After the two weeks I started to suspect she was trying to steal David. You want to know why?

BECAUSE I FOUND THEM IN MY BEDROOM!

That's right, my bedroom. This is apparently what female dogs do.

Dead Point

"Dead Point"
by Jessie Baum

The bell rings. Walking home from school, one hand on her backpack strap, one swinging. Ditch the bag. Pulse racing as she climbs the fire escape of a building not her own. Walk across the roof—sun directly overhead. Shield her eyes and clamber onto the wall on the edge of the roof.

Dead point. Exhilaration; flat somehow, feeling her heartbeat throughout her body, building to a strange high.

Panting slightly as she starts down fire escape on the other side. Stops in the middle of the fire escape. Cool shade, pressing her back against the damp cement. Crouch, then lie down on the crusty black bars. Looking up at the sky. Waiting. Sigh. Breathe even. Resting now. Maybe not. Not today…

No, they’re coming. She can hear their sneakers crunching the broken-up tar below.

She crouches up. They're rounding the corner. Getting into view.

Her breath comes faster. Heady feeling. Chest compressing.

They're joking and laughing too loud. There he is.

They walk into the alley, right under her. She can see their hair. Zoom in on him. He has terrible dandruff. Feel the perverse satisfaction. See, no one is perfect, least of all you. Watch again. Feeling the pain in her heart as he pulls that girl closer, hand staying on his waist as if glued there. They light up and the sweet smell drifts up. Resists coughing and/or holding breath. Told him to stop that stuff… he’s so stupid, then why do I want to be with him still? Still love—no. Impossible. Never. Love stopped the day I followed him here… Knew it was stupid, then why... Suspected the other girl, saw him here with her, this one’s a slut too—she doesn’t love him, better then, he doesn’t deserve you—maybe, maybe, he didn’t—no but then I loved him and made sacrafices but he—he wouldn’t give this up. He said he’d stopped, maybe he did and I saw him when he’d gone back—no. DON’T KID YOURSELF.

Rule #1—don’t lie to yourself. Why are you here?

The girl's shaggy hair moves closer to him. She whispers something.

Why do I want him? Why do we always want what’s worst for us? She presses her face to the iron.

He hit on me in class the other day. I was sure. He is so twisted. So sick. Stay away… The pain hits. His face, his gross scalp, lost forever.

Never. He could still come back… but he won’t.

Him and Slut make out. She has curly hair. Everyone else is reduced to slurring.

Her hatred churns ger stomach. He is not allowed to make her feel this way. Not allowed. The light floaty feeling that hit her even though she didn't want it is gone. She is grounded. She gets up. No one hears. She turns and takes one last look before climbing. Dead Point.