9.	poem without music
	Arianne disappeared halfway into the sixth grade, but we were never worried; I was the only one who seemed to even notice.  Her hair was shiny and red.  The way her homemade clothes hung shapeless on her frame and that hair and its halo drifted through my dreams--ah! but I wanted her to stay forever.  A sad year of rejection followed, nothing special, just bad timing; I liked Emily when she didn't like me.  I lusted for Jesse while I had a rat's nest for a haircut.  Arianne returned in eighth grade, changed.  I saw her approaching school from Conner street, leather clad, long hair strung carelessly straight down from the not-quite-center of her forehead. She looked like Mary Weiss from the Shangri-Las, ready for a motorcycle-mounted bad boy to take her away and break her heart.  Ready for the stomp-clap-stomp-clap heartbeat of girl group stand-up-and-break-your-man's-heart feminism.  "Ready to suck some dick," Brandon said. I wanted Arianne like I wanted my fist an inch deep in Brandon's face.  I took a deep, chest-puffing breath while glaring at him, and while  I exhaled, Arianne grabbed me and hugged me close and told me about Catholic school and how she just missed everyone here.  She walked away.  Brandon said, "Ready to suck your dick." I laughed but secretly feared he was right.  She had been broken, put the pieces back together wrong, and completely filled her leather jacket.  I never tried to see if Brandon was right.
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