I'M A SLAVE 4 U I know that Britney Spears likes chili pies-that's she's still a virgin. I wish that Mom would understand that. She calls Britney a bad influence, and that's a lie. It's Christina Aguilera who sleeps around. I start school-on a hot, lemon-colored day-and I listen on the radio in the gym. Math, unfortunately, is my first class. A plane crashes into the World Trade Center. "Cool!" says Michael, a boy I used to have a crush on (he prefers blondes). "I hope that everybody gets out," I say, as I sip my breakfast-diet Dr. Pepper. We all want to listen to Blink 182, Incubus, 3LW, and my favorite, Britney. But a plane crashes into the Pentagon. Another plane crashes into the World Trade Center. Rebecca, the Jehovah's Witness girl, cheerfully says that she's going to meet her maker. The rest of us cry. Our thoughts sound like the Twin Towers crashing to Earth. Michael, the boy I used to have a crush on, now wants to kill all the Arabs. At lunch, I don't eat my sandwich. Tomato juice seeps like blood into my white bread. Stella, sometimes my friend, sits next to me. She smells like gardenia soap. I wonder where she shops at. "Hello," I say. She says hello back, her face pale, and her eyes too red. "Is your dad coming to the parent-teacher meeting?" I ask. I don't believe that Stella's dad works at the World Trade Center. Stella breaks down into tears. Her daddy was a broker-at some place called Cantor Fitzgerald. He wore Brooks Brothers and bought a new Mercedes every year, bragged about his trips to Bermuda and Tuscany and Tahiti. My father delivered mail, and called Stella's father yuppie scum. But I thought that he was okay. Every year, he gave me gift certificates for Sam Goody and the Virgin Megastore. Stella continues to cry. I start to eat my soggy sandwich. After school, my mom sits in the living room-she stares at the TV. Tears cover her face too. "Cantor Fitzgerald," I asked. "Is that at the World Trade Center?" Mom sighs. "Honey," she says. "Don't mention that company right now." The house is silent-it's reminds me of a big freezer you walk into. I walk upstairs, into my room. No homework today-I wished that I had something to do. I touch my phone. I could call Stella, and act like those close friends on TV. Soothe her, tell her that things are okay. "Your daddy probably had a day off. He's at Saint Vincent's. Have faith in God." But I remember Stella's tears, and Mom's tears, and the screams down in Manhattan. I couldn't cry. I was too hard. I was worse than Britney. I remember a lyric: from the bottom of my broken heart, there are some I feel I'll like you to know. Stella's dad wouldn't give me any more gift certificates. I couldn't be Stella's true friend. I take my hand from the receiver. For now on, I'll have to buy my CDs on my own. BABY LOVE Sweet as fresh milk, plump, gurgling- I want you. The hospital air is made sweeter by your existence, child (even as they zip me in this bodybag, cold as soda, nine months after your father touched me). Sweet baby, still unkissed and uncircumcised, ask the world to comfort you. MICHAEL MANLEY Do you want turkey or ham? Do you want your bread whole-wheat or white? We sit in this café, the weather gray as a cat, and we talk about sandwiches. We can't talk about anything more important. I sip my water-and I watch you sip your water. Let's talk about something else, I think. I know, Michael Norman Manley, the late Prime Minister of Jamaica. Joshua. He was quite ugly, from the one picture I've saw of him in Caribbean Studies class. His father was a rich lawyer, and his mother was an English sculptor. They were first cousins. He served in the Canadian Army during WWII, studied at the London School of Economics, and worked for the BBC in the early fifties. Befriended Fidel Castro. Was married several times, had five children, and tried to make Jamaica socialist. But, of course, making a third-world country successful is like making a 747 from dirt. I smile at you-I wanted to set aside lunch and kiss you, feeling your warm tongue deep inside my mouth. But you continue to talk about turkey and ham. I think about Manley again-a fair-skinned man who liked to dress like an African. I say that I want turkey with lettuce and white bread. I'm connected only to my thoughts. BOOK SENSE Books are easy to write. Completing them is like pulling a folio up to your forehead. Books, many times,  don't give you undiluted joy. They smell like dead trees, and clutter up your bookcases, and often get praised by critics with intentions as white as David Duke. I guess that some people are right. Writing books could be considered selfish. It's better, perhaps, to play Sunday soccer or to eat junk food. The world has too many books. But aren't we all selfish? Who wouldn't want a best-seller? The Nobel, the National Book Award, Oprah's Book Club, or just a paperback that shoplifters love to lift? Creating books often give us joy. Often, they look good, give us a good story. We're justified in our arrogance. But even if our books end up in the remainder bin. 75 percent off.. You can't help praising your creation. You'll forget how painful that folio felt on your forehead. You'll spend the royalties. (c) Behlor Santi 2002

Behlor Santi Is twenty-one. A female. Living in New York City. Has been published before, mostly in ezines. And is working on some book.