Holly and me to an exhibition
on the creation of the park.
He’s a historian,
knows all about the city’s past.
Holly & I became entranced
by the fashion of old New York,
the maps of Seneca Village—
the village that existed
1825–1857
before the Park was a park.
One map showed where African Americans,
Irish and German immigrants lived—
their schools
churches
water sources
juxtaposed with a map of the city now.
We realized
how close we lived
to where the village used to be.
In our minds
we could see people
raising goats in the park.
Washing their clothes
in the stream.
For months after, we played
“Saving Seneca Village.”
Holly was Catherine,
the African American schoolteacher,
I was Mary, an Irish girl
who begged to join Colored School Number 3.
I was always misbehaving in class,
she was always writing down the rules.
The end of the play
was always the same:
Catherine & Mary fought the wealthy buyers
and Central Park was never built,
the village stood strong,
just where it was always
meant to be.
I still go to the stream sometimes
the stream that saw the village become the park
now called Tanner’s Spring
and picture people there,
their homes,
goats,
laundry lines.
But without Holly
it’s only half a history.
DIMLY LIT
Off the bus,
walking ahead of me
Maggs & Holly
swat each other
laugh
share earbuds
take selfies.
Ellery
with her long, blond, tangled hair,
rosy white skin,
purple cowboy boots,
“That’s a Wrap!” T-shirt
greets me at the
school’s main entrance
hands me a donut.
Sprinkled.
Asks do I want to
//cut//
first period.
“Hello? Probation?” I say.
We walk inside.
Follow her ~~~~~~~~
the only **bright light**
sparkling through
the dimly lit hall.
DAYDREAM
In chemistry
Mr. Torres talks about the
periodic table
but all I see is a staircase.
Skeletons
marching
up
down
over
elements //without// groups
surrounded by things that don’t
belong.
COLLAPSING SAILS
In third grade,
I stood outside a therapist’s office,
listened as the doctor gave Mom
a “diagnosis”:
“overactive imagination.”
“That’s it?”
I could hear her through the door.
“Not ADD?”
I watched
the curtains on the windows
fly up
to meet each other, like sails.
“Well, we’ll have to get a tutor,”
she told my dad.
A few years later,
she decided
tutors were a waste of money.
“I just don’t see any improvement . . .”
She would sigh, scratch her head
as if I was
a problem she couldn’t quite solve.
By sixth grade she’d chalked it up to
laziness, carelessness.
A downed sail that
no one was strong enough
to lift back up again.
Made me promise to work harder
“like Holly,”
she said,
ignoring the true diagnosis:
that I would never be like her.
DESTRUCTION
In seventh grade,
after failing my science project,
after constant comparisons by teachers,
Holly, excellent
Linc, struggling
I stole Holly’s work.
Carried her poster to my room.
Couldn’t hear
again
how hard she’d worked,
how well she’d done.
She walked in on me
destroying her project
drawing over
her big, red
A+
with a big, black
Sharpie.
Holly screamed
until Mom came running
in too.
When I was done,
only five words
still legible on her poster:
The truth of our DNA.
PROTECTION
Once I was caught,
Holly yelled, “No more!”
I knew she meant:
No more helping me with my homework.
No more borrowing sweaters.
No more getting Mom to go easy on me.
As Holly cried, Mom held her, wiped her tears.
Mom yelled too,
said I could not,
should not
take out my own failing
on my sister.
I was grounded
for a month.
Before I went to my room
I heard Mom whisper to Holly
she would never let me
hurt her again.
She was there to protect her.
Suddenly I was someone
my sister
my twin
needed protection from.
ROSES & THORNS
It was then that
what had been Holly & me
became
Holly & Mom.
There was no more Mean Queen.
Just one sweet princess
and one evil one.
Just two roses
and me, the thorn
with a briar
//grown thick//
between us.
ENOUGH CHANGE
At the start of Ketchum,
Mom relieved when I got in,
happy for a while when I did,
Holly & I had a
new school
new beginning
together
the briar thinned out.
The week before,
we even went school shopping
just us two
practiced our new commute.
But the school year began—
Holly quickly found her group
and I found Ellery.
There was enough change
//to cut through//
the briar,
enough for us to
~~peek back in~~
at each other.
But not enough
for us to find
each other’s hands
and hold on.
Ellery & I eat lunch
with the other kids
who don’t fit in.
People stuck in the wrong picture.
I watch Holly & Stefano
sitting so close,
his tongue almost
down her throat.
She’s barely spoken to me
since I told her I forgot to vote.
When she gets up
to get a drink,
he chucks some trash
at a freshman’s tray.
Holly insists:
He’s handsome
smart
athletic and
amazingly
also kind.
She doesn’t see
how he acts differently
when she’s not there.
I’ve tried to tell her I don’t trust him but
she doesn’t seem to mind.
Ellery follows my gaze
shakes her head.
Knowing I think Stefano’s a jerk.
Knowing I think Holly deserves better.
“No way they’ll last forever,”
she says.
I feel a lump rise in my throat.
Then she says what I can’t,
“But she’ll always be your sister.”
I feel the lump grow
bigger.
I want to say
I hope that’s true.
Instead I change the subject,
ask Ellery about her project.
Before she can answer
the bell rings,
lunch is over.
“Talk later?”
I nod, watch
as Ellery goes to art
as Holly goes the other way—
as “kind” Stefano slaps a freshman on the head,
passes by me
without even saying hi.
With just a snap & a click
I capture him,
then Photoshop him
right
out.
TRANSPORT
I walk to Mr. Chapman’s office.
Weekly meeting with my advisor.
He used to be an engineer
but now he sits
constructing words
shaping them
into unfortunate news.
When he sees me,
he waves me in.
“Sit down, Ms. Malone.”
I do.
“So, we’re a month into the school year, and I’m not hearing great things from your science teacher so far.
Or from math.
Being on academic probation means you need
a C or above in each class.
Your English grade is the strongest, a solid B.
From these reports, it seems like you are managing a 2.4, but—
There’s little room for error. Capiche?”
He balances a pencil
on a mug.
Then, as usual:
“So many kids would love to have your spot, Linc.
I’d hate to see you waste this opportunity.”
“What about the B in English? Pretty good!”
I pretend to be cheery.
He just looks at me,
frowns.
I tell him I’ll do better,
but we both know
that’s not true.
Some people are good
students,
some aren’t.
I turn the knob
on the door,
feel it
transport me
someplace else.
THE LONG WAY HOME
Alone, I
take the long way home from school.
Try to push Mr. Chapman’s words down.
Peer in the window of the
Westside Center for the Arts.
The scanners,
the printers,
the easels.
This time though, I’m spotted.
The door opens.
“Can I help you?”
asks a woman.
I pause.
When Holly & I were young,
I was always the one brave enough to
Take. The. Dare.
One deep breath and go:
“Do you have photography classes?”
Her face lights up,
tells me to come inside.
The woman hands me class brochures
digital,
landscape,
black & white.
“You can register online or use this form.”
Maybe my parents would let me
take a Saturday class
if I got the bulk of my homework done on Friday?
Glance at the class prices.
I could offer to pay for half?
Walking home,
I focus on
the way the sun
lights up
the reddening leaves
sparked
bright and changing.
BALANCING
Home to a quiet house,
Holly at soccer practice,
I try to balance formulas.
I hear the
door open,
then close.
Before I even say hello
I hand him
the brochure.
“Just Saturdays? Please? I know it’s expensive
but I could use my allowance for some
and pay the rest back.”
Dad shifts his weight.
Foot to foot.
He smiles, then sighs,
says we’ll talk about it
when Mom gets home.
PRIORITIES
Later, she enters in her scrubs, eyes puffy.
Dad brings her up to speed.
She says this is only the beginning of the year.
My grades need to be top priority.
“But what if I did all my homework on Fridays.
Work really hard.
Get off academic probation?”
Mom shakes her head, yawning,
“You should be trying to get off probation, class or no class.”
“Dad?”
“We’re just asking that you try to make academics
your focus, honey. Get through this rough patch,”
he says, pouring Mom some tea.
As always,
their message is the same:
art, photography
pull me out
away
from what’s important—
How can I make them see
they are the only things
that pull me back in?
PLAYING ALONG
Mom heads upstairs
as I page through
description after description
of classes
I’ll never be allowed to take.
When Holly gets home,
she eyes my brochure.
“Are they going to let you take a class?”
I shake my head no,
surprised she’s decided to speak to me.
“Those pictures you took last year?”
(One of Holly running, fists to the sky)
(Another, Ellery, painting her shoe)
(An iced-over stream upstate in winter)
“They were good.”
She stretches,
limbs long and lean.
Warmth radiates through me.
I tell her thanks.
“Hey, congratu
lations on the election, by the way.
Sorry again I forgot to vote.”
She turns her head to me then,
her straightened hair flopping over to the side,
says it’s okay
and gives me half a smile.
My mind freezes the moment,
frames her face
in a picture.
STATUES
People always looked at us //always//
when we were little.
We tried to laugh them off,
play “museum”
//pretend//
freeze-frame.
We were statues.
On display.
I’d yell:
“She’s my sister! We’re twins!”
Holly would giggle.
Grab my hand.
Mom would try to shush me up.
Embarrassed by the //attention.//
But Holly would turn to me anyway.
We’d make our “identical face,”
the one where we rolled our eyes back,
stuck our tongues out to the side.
“Don’t we look alike now?” she’d say, laughing.
“Can’t you tell we’re twins?” I’d giggle.
As we got older
people no longer stared
but I would still
yell out
anyway,
“We’re sisters!”
Holly would shush me,
//look away//
as if by turning her head
she could pretend
all the questions weren’t there,
make them disappear.
And my heart became a statue then.
Wondering //if she wished//
I would vanish too.
IMAGINE ANYTHING
In the kitchen
I hear Mom
celebrating Holly’s student council win,
asking about her soccer practice,
discussing dominant and recessive genes.
I go to my room,
click into the Westside Center for the Arts website.
Look at student work.
Scroll down to “Events.”
The Center has a gallery showcasing
not just Westside student work
but prominent neighborhood artists’
work from NYC-based art schools.
Saturday, 8 p.m.
Innovative Arts Academy
student showcase
I click the link.
Words flash:
Innovative Arts Academy
Where We Are Artists First.
Imagine Anything.
Then Make It Real.
The Way the Light Bends Page 3
