by Aimee Herman
“Yeah, yeah, sorry.”
“Honey, it was consensual, right?”
“Yes, I mean, I definitely wasn’t expecting anything like that happening. I barely thought we’d get past first base.”
“Oh, first base. My favorite one.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because it’s the best instrument on your body—beside your brain, of course. Where your words get all noisy and beautiful is touching someone else’s. I think it’s the most intimate we can ever get with another. But listen, and I don’t mean to get all parenty on you or anything like that, but just because you had sex doesn’t mean you need to keep at it. Take your time. You get to go at any pace you want. You can slow down, you can stop, or you can keep going. But keep checking in with yourself, okay? Can you promise me that?”
“Yeah, definitely. Thanks, Reigh.”
“Oh, honey, of course. How’s your mama?”
“Actually a lot better. She’s dating, and Flor is too. There’s love all around, I guess.”
“I guess,” Reigh said. “Not for me yet. But . . .”
“Hey, Reigh, can I ask you one more thing?”
“There’s no limit. Ask away.”
“What if I’m not done? I mean, what if like there is more I am supposed to know about myself, but—”
“Of course there’s more! But that’s the most delicious part of it all. It will never, ever get boring.”
“But like maybe I’m not supposed to be in this . . . in this body?”
“Are you asking? Because only you can answer that. Can I offer some aged words? Listen, these bodies we’re in? They are mega mysteries. We are Nancy Drew. Or I am Nancy and you are one of those sweet Hardy Boys. And we need to just keep on living in order to figure out these clues we’re given. And the clues? They are hidden in every breath and behind our rib cages and when we sleep and when we kiss and when we eat and when we cry. Just keep on collecting them. Put ‘em in your pocket or drawer that only you can access and when you’re ready, you’ll figure it out. Not all of it, of course, because the mysteries keep regenerating.”
“Wow,” I took a deep breath. Maybe the deepest one of my entire life. “Okay. That’s . . . that’s a lot to take in. But yeah, you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And Reigh? I’d definitely be one of the Hardy Boys.”
Monday, December 27
Dear James,
Last week in group, Peter talked about intentions for the new year. Since some of us are, as he put it, “walking into a new year with one less beside us,” he focused on the need to make open-ended maps. We never do stuff like this in group, but he gave all of us a piece of construction paper. Different colors were passed around—I got blue—and he asked us to draw places we’d like to venture on our map. Not nessarly necessarily physical places, he said, maybe just states of mind. I didn’t quite understand. I was sitting between Maeve and Helaine. Maeve started just writing down emotions. Helaine kept staring at her blank piece of paper. I watched her close her eyes, and when she opened them, I watched her slowly draw a flower. The flower was really big. It took up the whole paper.
When I asked her about it after group, she said, “The flower is me, Eleanor. I want to be the best person I can for James. For the past few months, I’ve watched my petals fall. Just deaden. I need to find my way back. Grow again.”
She showed me her picture. I hadn’t noticed before that she had drawn circles of different sizes beside the flowers. I asked her what the circles represented.
“Each rock is James,” she told me. “He is with me every day, leading me on this path.”
“Helaine, that is so beautiful.” I hugged her and inhaled her lavender scent.
“What does your map look like?” she asked me.
My map was full of drawers. Except I am a terrible artist, so it just looked like random rectangles. I explained to her that I am sorting through the drawers where I’ve been collecting things. I told her about what Reigh said to me. Maybe Helaine couldn’t completely understand what I’ve been feeling in my body—but I don’t really either—and I know the more that I talk about it, the closer I will get to figuring out my clues.
Tuesday, December 28
Dear James,
I wonder if there is a language inside me that isn’t English or Spanish (which I am totally failing by the way). Something else. What if I can’t translate my body’s dialect and we are unable to communicate with each other? This is madness, I am sure. But it is the only way I can fully understand why everything feels off.
I woke up with my period. Blech!!! This is month two of it and yet, it still comes like a surprise that I didn’t ask for or want, like a scar or mosquito bite. Shirley insists I start keeping track of it. I wasn’t ready and I ruined a pair of my underpants. My vagina hurts (“Not your vagina, Eleanor. Your uterus.”) and I cannot do anything but wish my body away. I talked to Flor about it. She told me to look at myself like a Jackson Polak Pollack painting. I always thought it was kind of silly that people thought he was such a genius when really, his paintings were just blobs of splattered paint. But Flor told me that it was more than that. She said that he knew where each drop of paint was going to fall and that even when he didn’t, he understood why it dripped the way it did. He was a genius, she said, because he created a relationship with the paint which became an illustration of his mind, swollen on each canvas. She said that I needed to develop a relationship with my body. Understand it, I guess. I don’t know. I want to be excited. But having my period just becomes another reminder that I’ve got mixed signals in my body.
Wrong number, I want to say. Dial again.
Wednesday, December 29
Dear James,
I feel bad because I guess I should have called T’nea after our date, but I didn’t. She called me a few times and left a message with Shirley, but I was nervous about what I should say. Is she my girlfriend? Should I ask her about what we did in the movie theater and what it means? Should we pretend it didn’t happen? Did I do everything right? Ahhhhh! James, I’ve read so many books about boys and girls in relationships, but where are the books which talk about this? I guess Audre Lorde wrote about her girlfriends in Zami, but I wonder if there were more books and movies about us, would we feel less alone?
Thursday, December 30
Dear James,
Maybe it’s silly, but I like to make a list at the end of every year. Resolutions, I guess.
But I like to call them my Missions.
ELEANOR’S MISSIONS FOR 1994
1.Be bolder. I’m not really sure what that means, but I’ve got 365 days to figure it out!
2.Do better in math and Spanish. Dara used to help me with math, but
3.Go to that open mic again that I went to with Reigh. Take Aggie. I bet she’d love it.
4.Continue writing and exploring my map
5.Try capars capers. Aggie told me about them and they sound really strange, but maybe delicious.
6.Go back to NYC. Maybe Helaine and I can go together
7.Read more books
8.Forgive Shirley Mom
Friday, December 31
Dear James,
I kept something from you, from these letters. Last week, I was heading to the bus after school and saw Ms. Raimondo walking toward her car. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out of the classroom, so at first, I just waved, and then I started to walk toward her.
“Ms. Raimondo,” I said. “Can I . . . can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure, Eleanor. How’s everything going? I really enjoyed your most recent essay that you turned in. You’re really im—”
“Thanks, but actually it’s about James.”
I watched as Ms. Raimondo’s face turned a different color.
“Remember how you had us start journaling after . . . after James . . .”
“Yes, of course. I was really hoping students could get in touch with how they were feeling.
When you free-write, there is less internalized editing and—”
“Yeah, sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’ve been writing to James since the beginning and I feel like maybe I want to stop, like I want to . . . I don’t know, move on, but I’m afraid to stop writing his name. I don’t want him to disappear.”
“Oh, I . . . I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
“We weren’t. He hated me, and I pretty much felt the same way about him. He bullied me. Actually, there was a part of me that was scared of him, but I’ve learned some things. I guess . . . well, the thing is I’m gay and my family is cool with it and every time I say it out loud it creates a new shape, feels more solid or something. And I guess I realize that it’s not like that for everyone. We’re often more scared of ourselves than of each other.”
“That is extremely introspective and wise, Eleanor. I’m double your age and I still find myself walking through new doors to who I am. But you don’t want all those doors to open at once, right?
They’re meant to be walked through one at a time. Carefully. When you’re ready.”
“Ms. Raimondo, James never got to open his doors.”
“No, I guess he didn’t. But that should be a reminder of how important it is to give yourself time to do so. Is this what you wanted to talk about, dear?”
“Yeah, no. I don’t know. I feel like I have so many questions and . . .”
“And eventually, the answers will come. Be patient.”
James, I thought about telling her about your notebook. Actually, that is exactly what I wanted to talk to her about, but I didn’t want to crack that open. Your words were for me and I have them now. Always. I don’t have to write you letters just to communicate with you. I don’t know what I believe in, but I want to believe that there is a part of you swirling around. Flor would say it’s your energy. Yeah, I like that. So if I want to tell you something, I can just speak it out loud to you. Or think it. And maybe you’re watching, watching as my map grows.
1994
IT IS DIFFICULT TO KNOW HOW to start a sentence sometimes. I know what constitutes (vocab word from last year) as a run-on and a fragment. I know all of that, but sometimes it is difficult to get it out. I want to feel like the words are properly saying exactly what I intend them to say. But this so rarely happens.
THE WEEKS WEAR RUNNING SHOES AS they speed past and I wonder where these months went. I am sixteen now. I have tried capers. They are actually quite delicious. In fact, Mom made them with chicken and lemons and wow, my mouth was super happy. I went on two more dates with T’nea. I told her that I wasn’t quite ready to have sex again, though I definitely enjoyed first and second base. We’re sorta friends now, chatting on the phone every so often. Reigh is still in Minneapolis, staying until her friend gives birth which should be sometime next month. I write Reigh letters and she always sends me one back. Helaine and Burt are officially divorced. She still comes to group every Thursday. Now, she picks me up and we drive to group together. Sometimes we meet for dinner beforehand. I give her the Eleanor report and she shares with me what she’s learned in community college. Mom and Ted are still dating. Dad met him and called him a stand-up guy. I’m not really sure what that means, but they get along okay. Unfortunately, Flor and Theresa broke up. Flor was heartbroken but has since gone on a few dates. No one special yet. Greta is doing better in school. She’s purposely not dating, she told me. But she said, “That doesn’t stop me from kissing lots of boys, of course.”
Suddenly it is April and Winter is behind us, though the days still confuse me on how to dress. Winter is like the uncle you have that always overstays his welcome. Comes early and leaves late. Drinks all the beer or alcohol. Eats the last slice of cake. Doesn’t help to clean up. Just leaves his mess wherever he goes. I mentioned this to Aggie the other day. She just smiled at me. That Aggie-smirk-with-tightened lips.
Then, she said, “You know, Eleanor, Winter is actually my favorite season.”
“Why?” I said, flabbergasted (not vocab word, but heard it on a television show the other day.)
“I don’t know. It’s cold and icy, but the white is so beautiful. It’s like this magical bleached shell covering the world. Or New Jersey. Or the east coast. Or wherever it hits.” She laughed, and her shoulders shook a little.
“I definitely don’t mind the layering, but I just hate always shivering and being so cold,” I said. “I love to be outside and climb trees.”
Even though it’s April and springtime, we are still many weeks away from short sleeves and the comfortable settling in of heat and sun. So I still have my layers, though there are moments I can walk without a jacket; these are the moments I savor.
ON TUESDAY, THE FIFTH DAY OF April, it happened again. I heard whispers in the hallway that Kurt Cobain had committed suicide.
“Yo, he was the only one making music actually not suck!”
“They have to be wrong. It can’t be him.”
“He did always seem depressed.”
“It’s totally because of Courtney.”
“I think it’s a hoax.”
Everyone was talking about it, far more than when James died. Maybe it’s easier to openly talk about someone who didn’t exist in these hallways, who just lived inside of radios and illustrated our walls. Maybe it’s easier to mourn strangers than one of us.
In the days which followed, the school was a sea of flannel. Forget ribbons and grief counselors. It seemed everyone had taken on the grunge garb of Kurt. People were sharing lyrics of their favorite songs, humming them between classes and making trips to the local music stores to pick up any albums, cassette singles, and Nirvana paraphernalia they could find.
I had a few flannels in my closet, but I couldn’t convince myself to wear them. Aggie was distraught. Nirvana wasn’t her favorite band, but she said Kurt was a true poet who never got his due. So, we wore black and we wrote our favorite lines on each other’s’ notebooks. She told me that Kurt was too much for this world.
“But isn’t he the one who chose to be famous?” I asked.
“He didn’t choose fame, Eleanor. It flooded him. He just wanted to make music. And share it with people. I don’t think he ever really liked what came with being famous.”
Of course, it was impossible not to think of James. He wrote about Kurt all over his notebook. How would James have responded? Would this have been James’s trampoline moment? To remind him how fleeting life can be? I guess I’ll never know.
There was a letter James wrote to me in his notebook. He had written it after listening to the Bleach album on repeat. I think he said he stopped at five times, only because his dad had come home, and he hated any kind of rock music. James wrote about the drums digging into his eardrums as he listened to “Negative Creep.” And this was before Dave Grohl joined. He said Kurt’s constant repetition created something new each time. He said that each time he sang, “I am a negative creep,” it was like it grew wings. It became a different animal, he said.
“People are creating vigils all over the country for Kurt,” Aggie said. “Want to do something? He’s played here before. I mean, not here, but Asbury Park for sure.”
“Stone Pony, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, we don’t have to go there. We can just do something to honor him. Like read a bunch of his lyrics somewhere. I wish we could just get on the loud speaker and repeat his words so everyone in school could hear them.”
“Why do you . . . why do you think he did it?” I asked.
Aggie looked at me and crinkled her forehead like the most delicious potato chip.
“I don’t know, El. I mean, I think that sometimes it just gets to be too much.”
“What, though? What is too much?”
“This.” She pointed in all directions. “This air, this school, this state, this country. These laws and these rules. This government. This—”
“Life,” I interrupted.
“Yeah, this life,” she repeated.
> OVER THE WEEKEND, I WENT TO Westfield to stay at my Dad’s. When we’re together, there’s always a lot of cooking and eating involved. Usually, we try to choose new recipes to try out or even make up.
“Do you want more?” Dad asked, taunting me with a bowl full of his delicious homemade fried rice. “And there’s still some chow mein left in the wok. Did you eat enough?”
I patted my belly. “Yeah, I’m full. I think I ate too fast probably.”
“Well, you know it’s just as good the next day, so . . .”
“Hey, Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Do you ever wonder why more of us don’t do it?”
“Do it?”
“Yeah, umm . . . commit suicide. Sorry, I know this is really dark for after-dinner talk, but it’s on my mind and I can just leave it there or—”
“Eleanor, it’s fine. We can talk about this. Did someone else . . .”
“Kurt,” I said.
“Kurt? Is that another person in your school?”
“Cobain, Dad. From Nirvana! Didn’t you know he killed himself?”
“I didn’t. You liked him?
“Yeah, I mean, Nirvana was awesome and James really liked them. Aggie too. She’s been pretty sad about it.”
“Well, to answer your question, I think more people don’t do it because of the impact. It’s more than just ending things. There’s a lot that one leaves behind. And thinking about that . . . about abandoning family members and loved ones, that is often what keeps people here. And,” Dad paused, “hoping it will improve.”
“But does it? I mean, all these things that overwhelm us, they may go away, but then they get replaced by other things. Bigger things.”
“Quite possibly they do. But Eleanor, as you get older, you learn ways to get through them.”
“Then what about Mom?”
“Sometimes people forget. Going into the hospital, getting on medication and having time to work on remembering can help.”
