1989

You are thirteen years old

in 1989:

nothing you do is right.

You don’t want to wear makeup

or date boys,

but you don’t want to be a freak.

There is absolutely no choice

but to get your thin blonde hair

spiral-permed

and to curl your bangs

and spray them liberally with Aqua Net.

The popular girls

with the bigger bangs and richer parents

have IOU sweatshirts,

purchased at Merry-Go-Round in Southlake Mall.

They wear multiple pairs of thick colored socks

and large hot pink scrunchies

and a thousand jelly bracelets.

The popular boys,

though still Neanderthals,

wear black Z. Cavaricci jeans

and Hypercolor sweatshirts

or purple plaid Skidz shorts.

Nothing you wear is right.

Everyone grins with metal braces

in their school photos.

Anywhere you go,

you are nasally assaulted by Exclamation

and Love’s Baby Soft perfume,

while the boys just smell like sweat and dirty socks and tuna sandwiches.

Birthday parties with six-foot Subway sandwiches

or sleepover pizza parties

and scavenger hunts.

You have your first crush

on a boy named Jason.

He has peroxide blonde hair.

He likes the Cure and the Smiths

and wears a leather jacket

with an enormous crucifix attached,

identical to the cross hanging on your living room wall.

He prefers your prettier best friend

and allegedly said that you were “nice but have Coke bottle glasses.”

You lie on the brown carpeted floor in the basement rec room,

listen to Depeche Mode at full volume

and just want to die.

You mom announces dinner.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” you shout.

At the parish carnival,

you ride the flying bobs and tilt-a-whirl

while Poison and Guns N’ Roses blares.

A wristband lets you ride all day.

There’s a booth where you can buy roses for a dollar.

You’re pretty sure no boy is ever going to buy a rose for you.

Nothing you do is right.

Dream of growing up

and being a better you

and living far, far away.