My heart clicks like a roller-coaster car,
going up
up
up.
INNOVATION
That night, Mom spot-checks my homework,
says she’s glad I answered every chem question
but some of them look incorrect.
Tells me to double-check
redo my work.
When she leaves,
I click back into IAA’s website.
Photo 1: four kids collaborating on a hallway mural.
Photo 2: a green-haired girl taking a close-up of a violet.
Photo 3: kids in red-and-white-striped costumes bowing
on a stage.
Is this really a school?
Click on Admissions.
To apply:
GPA requirements
2.7 preferred (exceptions made for outstanding portfolios)
Teacher Recommendation
Art teacher preferred
Artist Portfolio
12 complete, thematically connected pieces
Application deadline
11/15 for following fall semester start
Less than two months from now.
And then
below
I see:
Applicants must write an Artist’s Statement.
What is your vision?
What truth are you trying to capture with your art?
Colors brighten.
My mind spins.
I look back at the IAA students,
see myself
next to the green-haired girl,
with my own camera
taking close-ups
of the petals’ shadows.
CONTRASTING
Next morning,
Holly, up ahead of me,
walking toward the bus stop.
It’s warm for October.
Yell to her,
“Wait up!”
We have time—
suggest we walk to school
through the park
for a change.
“Sure, I could use the exercise.”
I laugh but she just looks at me.
The light’s red
but there’s no traffic,
we cross.
I ask her if she’s ever heard of
Innovative Arts Academy.
We enter through Mariners’ Gates,
“I’m not sure,” she says.
I take a picture:
the tip of an orange leaf in blue sky.
Contrasting colors in celebration.
POWER DYNAMICS
Holly and I walk by the Seneca Village sign.
If we went down the hill, made a right,
we’d find the stream
where we used to play.
I point out the sign to her
ask when’s the last time she read it.
We stop and do.
“It seems pretty silly we used to pretend that the villagers could’ve ever stopped the park from being built,”
Holly says.
She’s right
I know she is—
the nature of urban development plus
the power dynamics of
the white population versus
the African Americans and immigrants
basically made Central Park inevitable—
but in that sign
I can’t help but see
us:
side by side,
stronger together,
holding hands.
STUCK
Fake my way
through first period
Chem.
Next up,
gym.
The teacher makes us do laps.
As I jog,
the rest of the class
Holly’s friends
Ellery’s crush, Taryn
other kids I don’t know
run
ahead
ahead
ahead
their bodies
start to
fly
fly
fly
up, instead of around
and I lap
lap
lap
on a track by myself.
“Linc, move!
I said running not walking!”
the teacher yells
snaps me out of my vision
and everyone speeds in front, ahead
until I am circles and circles behind.
BEAM OF LIGHT
After gym, US History.
My teacher,
Ms. Marshall, strictest in the school,
knows Dad.
Did an internship with him.
She was one of the people
who helped get me into Ketchum.
Today, she says we need to pick a topic
for our sophomore research project.
It will count for 25 percent of our semester grade.
A 6-week-long study.
A paper that must include primary source material.
Found objects, documents, photographs.
My mind //whirls// and clicks.
The erasers clap.
The door bursts open.
An idea doesn’t just flutter in—
it f l i e s.
I don’t have to think twice.
After class I run up to her,
name my topic easily.
Ms. Marshall’s eyes
light up
when I do.
QUICKENING HEART
That night
Holly
says her history project topic
is the suffragettes.
(“How interesting!” Mom says.)
I tell her
mine’s
Seneca Village.
Holly looks at me,
then down.
(“Great choice,” says Dad.)
I explain that I’m going to do a photographic essay.
Mom looks at Dad.
Holly defends me,
“She did say we could use photographs.”
I give her my most grateful smile.
But then my heart quickens—
for something this important
I should take pictures
on something besides my phone.
I cough.
Deep breaths.
Will she say yes?
DUST OFF
I dare myself.
Ask Mom
if I can use
Uncle Roy’s
old Nikon.
“Just for the project.
Please?”
She sighs, goes
into the front hall closet
pulls out the camera from a box.
She wipes off the lens.
Dusts off the strap.
Dabs her eye much too quickly.
“Be careful with it, Linc.”
FALLEN CASTLE
There’s a photo Mom keeps
on her nightstand
her brother
her mother
herself
smiling over
a sand castle.
Freckly faces, Irish like mine.
Roy died
a long time ago.
It was an accident, Mom told us.
He fell down stairs,
concussed,
never woke up.
She once told me
he could have been an architect.
&nbs
p; Roy would design their castles,
she would help him build.
She said their summers
were always the happiest
at the beach
//without// her father.
When I asked why
she didn’t answer,
just kept washing
spotless dishes.
WATCHING
My hand itches for
Roy’s Nikon
as I set the table.
During dinner,
utensils clank,
cups clink,
plates empty,
but all I want to do is photograph
the cabinet’s edge
the way it cuts into
the ceiling
Mom’s shoulders
the way they tense
and rise to meet her ears
Dad’s hand
the way it lingers, reaches
for Mom
Holly’s smile
the way it shines under
a crown of trophies, awards
my own eyes
the way they capture
the detail of a moment.
Maybe
if I pursued it more seriously—
if I wasn’t just good at photography
but exceptional
maybe
my images would have a place
among Holly’s trophies, awards.
Maybe
Mom would be able to say
she’s proud of her
two successful daughters.
I decide then.
I will do this.
I will make her proud.
Even without their help.
I look down at the groundnut stew,
like it might encourage me.
Mom never got good
at doing Holly’s hair,
but she did get good
at cooking Ghanaian food.
I breathe in
the heavy sauce.
And dream.
THEM/NOT US
I.
When we were ten, we took a family trip to Ghana.
Mom & Dad thought it would be good for all of us
to learn more about where Holly came from.
We learned some Twi phrases,
a common Ghanaian language.
We went to an exhibit
on West African art.
When we went out, the Ghanaian children
would call to all of us, “Oburoni, bra!”
(“Foreigner, come!”)
It made Holly cry.
Said they weren’t supposed
to think of her as a foreigner.
But her American clothes
her accent
her holding my hand
gave her away.
I cried too—
wanting her
to want
to be like me.
Dad tried to explain to me
how confusing this trip was for Holly.
How as an internationally adopted kid,
she might always also identify
with the country
where she was born.
How that is healthy
but complicated.
I tried my best to understand.
But every time we went somewhere
a museum
a market
a ceremony
I felt sad, knowing
there was a part of Holly
I could never really have.
I felt guilty knowing
I should
be happy
that she had us both.
II.
Toward the end of our trip,
some Ghanaian women
taught us how to pound fufuo
a sticky ball of cassava mixed with plantain.
Holly took a turn with the huge pestle
as one woman held the mortar.
She showed me how
to add plantain and cassava,
then we would switch,
until we formed the fufuo.
After,
under the dusty red skies
we ate mangos
juice dripping down our chins
smiling.
Dad told us the Twi version
of how are you literally means
how is your body.
And when you say
I am fine you are saying
my body is strong.
Holly and I kept saying the expressions
over & over
“We hon te sεn?”
“Me hon yε!”
Like we were cheering.
We held each other’s hands.
Sticky.
Strong.
III.
Before we left,
Mom bought us identical
red-orange dresses.
We wore them
matching
the whole plane ride home.
And even though Holly had Ghana
and I didn’t,
I felt better knowing,
no matter what,
I still had Holly.
TWINKLING
Thursday,
Dad gives me money
to get film
for my history project.
Ellery & I go downtown to B&H,
aisles upon aisles
of sparkling cameras and film,
I never want to leave—
I still have money left over.
After, we go to a diner.
I listen as Ellery tells me
about Taryn,
the senior girl she’s crushed on
for a year.
Ellery listens
as I tell her
the latest
with Mom and Dad,
how they want me to focus on
school and nothing else
with Holly,
how she was mad I didn’t vote
but is speaking to me again
how even though everything is different now
things feel a bit better than
they did
with my history project,
how I want to make my mom proud.
She smiles, says she can’t wait to see my photos.
Someday, she knows
they’ll all realize how talented I am.
I smile back,
the lights in the
diner twinkle.
HOLD TIGHT
The next night,
home,
hold tight to
the extra money from Dad.
With some more instruction,
I could ace this project for history
use the same pictures
for my IAA application.
Maybe even ask the photo teacher
to write a recommendation.
Use their
darkroom,
scanners,
printers.
Click through the Westside Center’s website again,
scroll through the classes—
Intermediate Photography
would expose me to new techniques,
match my interests—
until
Holly comes in.
Would she take my side? If she knew?
I close the browser,
click away.
The computer powers itself off.
SOMETHING BIG
Holly’s sweaty.
Back from class at Planet Fitness.
“What are you up to?” she asks.
“Homework,” I lie.
She nods her head
sits at the edge
of my bed.
Her voice gets small
says she wants
to tell me “something big.”
Her lips move to the side.
She cracks her knuckles
shakes her knee.
Then—
her eyes brighten.
Says she & Stefano plan
to have //sex//
tomorrow night
first time.
“You scared?” I ask.
Her mouth opens.
Then closes.
Opens again.
“No,” she says,
but her eyes say yes.
TURN AROUND
Holly & I used to share a room.
A bed.
A blanket even.
We would sleep
head to feet
share our dreams
as soon as we woke up.
Sometimes, she had nightmares
and I’d wake up to find
her scarf-wrapped hair
next to me
her hand on mine.
Now
I can still tell when she’s scared
but she no longer reaches
for my hand.
MESSY
Saturday morning chores.
Mom orders me to clean my room.
Reorganize my desk.
Again.
“Tidy surfaces make tidy brains.”
After Mom leaves,
I text Ellery a photo
of my desk covered
with papers and books
and write
drowning.
She writes me back,
same here.
And then sends me a smiley tree
with a slogan
that says, “I beleaf in you.”
I text her a best friend heart, then
I order and sort.
Mom approved Holly’s room an hour ago,
but I wonder
if she would approve
of what her precious daughter
is about to do.
A pigeon appears outside my window
bobbing his head
in answer.
GHOSTS #1
Once my room is finished,
with my new film
my old Nikon
my Seneca Village map
I head to the park.
On the map, I see:
Near where there once was a church,
there is now a playground.
The Way the Light Bends Page 4
