My closest friend
goes to my church where we
“youths” meet every Wednesday night
to play icebreakers
practice flirting
and pray.
Samantha is cute and petite,
the Shirley Feeney to my
gangly, poor-postured Laverne.
We spend hours
tethered
by curlicued phone cords
that conduct
gossip about what the bad kids are doing.
Marveling
that people our age
drink and smoke pot and presumably
don’t care about brain cells functioning.
And sex!
Risk pregnancy?
Why tempt wreckage like that?
How do they not care what anyone thinks?
What everyone thinks.
We theorize bra stuffing
by a showy, singing girl,
skinny everywhere but her boobs.
Our rumor busted by a youth trip
to the water park.
Worse, all must wait as
red-faced, I wrestle jeans vs. damp legs.
I bring my boom box to Samantha’s
for sleepovers.
We choreograph dance moves to
mixtapes featuring
Madonna and Michael and Cyndi,
practice Valley Girl impressions,
whispering the word bitchin’
laughing at ourselves
until our stomach muscles ache.
Fully aware
of what huge nerds we each are.
But together, we’re,
like, totally fer sure awesome.