The gray fall sky
aches with dark clouds.
As we walk to Columbus,
I can still feel Silas’s hands on me.
Silas
who is creative
unique
true to himself
more like me and Ellery
than Holly and her group.
Silas
who doesn’t fit
with his family.
We enter the first store, which is
totally not my style.
But I try on
boots
fitted jeans
a willowy shirt.
I look older, sexier.
Holly, new jeans and the same style shirt,
stands beside me in the mirror.
We don’t look alike,
but in this one moment
just like
we used to love to do
we match.
PUSH/PULL
Holly starts walking into the next
fancier store—
“I don’t want to go in there.
Too high-end,”
I say.
She rolls her eyes, pulls me in.
We split up.
Me, the sales rack. Her, the dresses.
The salesperson ignores me
but follows Holly everywhere,
to the fitting room
and back.
Once when that happened in middle school,
I stuck out my tongue at the salesperson.
Held Holly’s hand.
Holly always looks so polished, put together.
Why would the salesperson—
and then I see—
after Holly tries on a dress,
the salesperson
smells it
before she puts it
back
on the rack.
INDIVIDUAL
Outside,
I say,
“That was messed up.
What the salesperson did?
After you tried on that dress?”
Holly looks at me,
says,
“Linc, seriously? That kind of thing happens all the time.”
The sky opens.
It starts to pour
sheets of rain fall between us
we put our individual umbrellas up.
MEDITATIONS
Home,
later,
Mom says my homework
was better
than usual.
But
in between sips of wine,
still a few harsh words:
“You better be working hard
on these other subjects
as much as history.
You’re barely hanging on
in that school.”
A narrow escape.
Push her words out of my mind.
Think of Silas’s kiss.
I walk by Holly’s room.
She’s cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed.
I go get a snack.
Come back.
Eyes open, legs stretching.
I go in quietly.
All her sports trophies.
Flags from Brown, Yale.
My room still filled with
old pictures of us,
posters of Celtic symbols.
Hers about the future,
mine a tribute to the past.
When she still doesn’t
acknowledge me,
I ask,
“What are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer at first,
then turns to me.
“It’s kind of private.”
Private like Silas
my photo class
IAA.
So I nod
walk back out.
NEGOTIATIONS
Ten minutes later,
our old secret knock.
3 times
quick, quick, quick
drumroll
2 taps.
I let her in.
“One for one?”
Holly says—
It’s been so long
since we’ve traded anything real.
I nod.
“One for one.”
“I’m in therapy,” says Holly.
“I’m kinda seeing someone,” I say.
DEFEATED
“You’re in therapy? Why?
You always act like everything’s fine.”
“Linc,
you think
keeping it all together
balancing everything
is easy?
It’s more like . . .
trying to block goals
from
a team
who’s never lost
a game.”
I try to picture Holly
in therapy.
Needing help.
Receiving it.
But all I see is someone
who blocks goal after goal
and hardly ever breaks a sweat.
THE WAY THE LIGHT BENDS
Holly says it was her idea,
she asked Mom if she could go,
had been feeling more anxious
than usual.
She says the therapist
suggested she meditate.
“I think it’s helping—maybe.”
Then tells me it’s my turn.
I tell her about his blue hair
his photography
how he looks at me.
“Where did you guys meet?”
I think about Holly
who I used to tell everything
who now tells her secrets to Mom.
It’s too risky now
so I
focus my eyes on the way
her shadow cuts the wall
the way the light bends
the truth
and say—just half a lie—
“I met him in the park.”
PAUSES
I.
Holly says she’s happy
for me.
I smile,
but inside
my stomach sinks
with the weight of all
she doesn’t know.
We never talked again about
Stefano—
what he said,
what I did.
But it’s as if we’ve agreed
to forget
to move on.
For a moment,
it’s almost as if we’re drifting
back to before
back when we were
younger
closer.
II.
Before she leaves my room
Holly turns and asks
if I remember how
on our trip to Ghana
we toured all over
but never went
to the orphanage.
“I remember,
why?”
She lingers in the doorway.
Half in, half out,
touches the doorframe
with one finger.
Then another.
Like she might press her whole palm down.
Like she might say.
Like she might stay.
Like maybe her stomach’s sinking too.
Then
she lifts her hand
her anchor
back up
shrugs, says,
“No reason.”
Guard back up.
Curtains drawn.
Together.
Apart.
EXPOSED
I.
We were 10.
The whole trip
Mom kept promising Holly
we would go
//but then//
she would try to distract her:
shopping
eating
touring.
On our last day there
Holly asked about the orphanage
again
Mom said she called
but there was a sickness going around,
she didn’t want us
exposed.
II.
We went back to the market,
tried to cheer Holly up.
Walked past people selling
clothing
fruit
beads.
Women with baskets of yams on their heads
another, mangoes
asking did we want any.
“Dabi,” Holly said,
shaking her head no.
As Mom & Dad bartered for a drum,
Holly’s soft dark eyes lit up.
She pointed.
A woman selling batiks.
She looked so familiar
so much like Holly.
Holly didn’t have to speak,
I followed her lead.
III.
We each bought a shirt from the woman,
Adinkra symbols on them—
Holly’s, the symbol for loyalty.
Mine, creativity.
The woman looked closer at Holly.
“Wofiri hene?” (“Where are you from?”)
I looked at Holly too,
uncertain what she would say.
She opened her mouth
closed it
opened it again
like a fish who’d been hooked.
Her eyes darted
down to her shirt
over at me.
Then
voice barely above
a whisper
she looked up and said:
“We’re from New York City.”
ALMOSTS
Monday,
on the way to school,
Holly doesn’t talk to me
about Ghana
but she does talk
student council drama.
The fall leaves glisten
turn pink
as she chats & walks
close
next to me.
In chem,
Ellery sits beside me.
Her straw hair in braids woven
into other braids.
We get our tests back.
A 79! Almost a B!
The highest science grade
I’ve gotten all year.
I poke Ellery, show her,
she applauds silently.
After class, she asks
if she can talk to me about
something.
“Sure, what’s up?”
She says,
“Silas . . .
He was a little weird
on that double date.
Taryn thought so too.”
I feel hot.
Tell her she just doesn’t get him.
“He’s really cool, I promise.”
She nods,
asks if I like Taryn.
“Of course,” I say.
Though she’s never taken time
to get to know me.
Look back down at my grade.
Tell Ellery I need to go.
Wade through
the current of students,
look for Holly
to show her the test—
spot Stefano first.
His arm around her.
I shift
with the current
go back the other way.
POINT OF VIEW
Ellery’s words
wind around my ribs.
I almost text her—to explain—
instead—
remind myself
she doesn’t know him
the way I do.
True
he shouldn’t have said
what he did,
but how many times have I
said
done something
I shouldn’t?
Can she judge his whole personality
based on one moment?
We are all right.
We are all wrong.
It just depends on
who’s behind the camera
who’s in front
whose point of view
is looking.
LOOKING UP AT ME
Home after school,
Holly & Mom
are cooking black-eyed pea curry.
I read over my Artist’s Statement again.
Knowing it needs more
but not sure what to add.
At least I’m on my way to a 2.7.
Over dinner Holly says she won a writing contest.
My turn to brag:
“I almost got a B on my chem test.”
Holly smiles at me.
Dad tells me to say it louder.
“I got a 79!
My best test in science maybe ever?
An almost B!”
Mom says, “That’s an improvement,”
then nothing more.
We finish our stew quickly.
Dad, Holly & I go out for Emack & Bolio’s.
Holly & I get Deep Purple Chip.
No matter what’s happening between us,
we always agree
it’s the best ice cream flavor
in all of New York City.
QUESTION MARKS
Next day, in English,
we get our essays back.
Mine on defending Regan & Goneril’s positions
in King Lear.
Maybe they betrayed King Lear for a reason.
Cordelia, always the favored sister.
Instead of my usual B, a C+.
My teacher says
my outside-the-box thinking was original like always.
But—
it seemed like I was in a rush.
I didn’t have enough evidence.
My few text examples didn’t quite fit
my point.
I reread my essay.
It all makes sense to me.
How do people do it?
Balance all these subjects equally?
Was I in a rush?
Too focused on science? History?
I trace a line of question marks
with my finger
from hip to knee.
ATTENTION
That afternoon,
in my meeting with Mr. Chapman,
he congratulates me on my chem test.
But is less impressed
with my latest English essay—
says the teacher reported
my ideas were original
but my execution was sloppy.
“Success is all about
being exact,
being careful.”
He squints his eyes at me.
A stack of books land on his desk,
wobble.
Then stand perfectly still.
In formation.
He asks about my history pro
ject.
I tell him how hard I’ve been working,
how I’m actually excited about it.
He says he’s glad to see me excited
about my education.
That today my GPA’s at a 2.5,
tells me to keep it up.
Books fly around the room
in celebration.
FACES
In the school lobby,
Silas FaceTimes me,
says
he can’t stop
thinking
about us
about me.
Says he wants to hang
again
soon.
His words mirror
my thoughts.
After,
I look at myself
through my phone’s screen
look at
what he sees.
Smile,
flip my hair
at my reflection.
GHOSTS #2 & #3
Walk home from school
through the park.
Try to
forget about
my English paper,
Ellery’s words about Silas.
Focus on the B+
I need in history.
Pull my camera out,
zoom in
on my project,
rough draft due in 6 days
portfolio due in 16.
In the days of Seneca Village
NYC was a “city of contrasts.”
Downtown:
buildings
metal
cobblestone.
Uptown:
streams
boulders
pastures.
Where I stand now was once
more country
than city.
Below me a puddle reflects
the light beaming off the sun
onto a can of soda.
Click &
capture
in one image:
the can
a building’s edge
an apple core
a stump
a stone.
Then walk south—
The Great Lawn’s haunted
by the ghost
of the Old Croton Aqueduct,
the first dependable
water source
in all of New York City.
I get an idea.
Collect every empty
water bottle
I can find.
e e
k a v
a w a
M
of plastic
now
overflowing grass.
Click/click/
contrast/
compare.
A PORTRAIT OF ME
The Way the Light Bends Page 9
