Mom and Claude the Interloper

leave as soon as I get home.

Courtney’s still up

twirling around

in a purple dance outfit.

                    “Brendy, Brendy, Brendy!”

I’m exhausted.

“Not now.”

                    “Now, now, now!”

“Later, squirt.”

                    “Brendy, Brendy, Brendy!”

She’s hanging on me.

“I said later.”

                    “Come see, come see!”

It’s all too much

she’s too much and

my patience

snaps like a

balsa-wood glider.

“Leave me the hell alone!

I’m not your frigging jungle gym!”

                                Her face puckers.

But I keep yelling.

Because I’ve had it with everything.

Slow buses. Needy girlfriends.

Sadist coaches. Demanding teachers.

And little sisters who

dress like ballerinas

floating along

while I clump.

I’m unbelievably sick of

everybody and everything.

I shout it all out.

Her face goes from puckered

to screwed-tight eyes

to openmouthed wailing.

And I keep shouting.

She runs to her room.

I go into mine

throw my half-open backpack

against the wall,

          a paper avalanche,

try to ignore hiccupy sobs.

I flip on my Mac and

she’s still sobbing.

My gut twists again.

I need to get a grip.

I’ve shouted down Courtney,

who adores me

and in spite

of the sick feeling that

I’m letting her

adore an impostor,

I know I need her love.

Icons come up

against wallpaper—

a screen shot

of my avatar.

I stare at it

until Larissa blends

with the rest

of my virtual world.

I get up and follow

intermittent sobs

like bread crumbs

to Courtney

in her room.

“I’m sorry, squirt.”

                                  “You were mean!”

“I know and I’m sorry.”

Stroke her hair

rub her back.

                                Her crying, already

                                slower, stops.

                                “Be nice?”

“I’ll be nice.”

Smooth the back of her

purple dance outfit.

“I’ll read to you.”

She picks Rapunzel

and I want to groan

not just because I’m sick

of her favorite (I am)

but because it reminds me of

just how short my own hair is.

We settle in on her

comfy, cozy, pink bedspread

to read that tired tale

of the princess fair

with golden hair.

Still, she leans against me

and for a few minutes

my life forgets to suck.