by Monroe, Anya
“Let’s go for a walk,” I say as soon as we get back to the house.
Ms. Francine’s looking
for the decorations.
And even though
their tradition seems fun
to me,
I know Benji’s too angry
to participate
and not willing to fake
his enjoyment
any longer.
The street’s empty.
The November air
turns my breath white
my hands clasp tight
ly
to one another.
“Benji, are you having a good time here? You like Ms. Francine’s?”
“Yeah, she’s cool, Lou-Lou. I mean, you know, for someone getting paid to take care of you.”
“Well, yeah, it’s better than Jodie’s house.”
“No shit. I hated being there.”
Benji speaks with such authority,
like, over me.
This sense of superiority.
“Yeah, I like Ms. F a lot better. She has nice friends and seems, you know, put together. Like a grownup.”
I say that because I mean it.
Ms. F is different from anything
I’ve ever known before.
But saying it out loud
makes me feel like a whore.
You know, someone who’s been going around
looking for the best opportunity.
Possibility.
“She’s fine and all, Lou-Lou, but we have to get out of here. The place I’m at–– you’ve been there. It sucks.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I saw mom the other day. She looked good. Better.”
“So? Why are you telling me this?”
His eyes go black,
like he was expecting
or hoping
wishing
or wanting
me to say something
different.
“Benji, she’s getting her shit together. She’s going to get us back. We can be a family again.”
“Did you tell her you wanted that?”
“Well, yeah. I told her we both did.”
Benji takes out a cigarette.
Lights it up with a yellow flame.
The air suddenly charged with
blame.
“Where did you get that? I thought Ms. F took them away?”
Why is my baby boy,
my little Benji Boy,
acting so big and tough?
Where’s my
chubby
fingers
kiss
me goodnight
as I wipe his wet
tear-stained
cheeks lullaby
boy?
“You gonna start telling me what do, Lou-Lou? What’s your problem?”
“I thought you’d be happy. Excited or something. What’s your problem?”
He storms off
cuts through the neighbor’s yard.
Jumps over a fence
and then I can’t trace
him against
the gray
backdrop
anymore.
Calling out
his name
to the night sky
makes no difference.
He can’t hear anything
over his decided
ignorance
to the fact
I tried so hard
to make him happy.
46.
Ms. F is pissed.
And rightfully so.
It was on her watch that
he ran
away
from me on the street
away
from her house
and that means
she’s the one
deemed
responsible for
the paperwork and
the phone calls.
As the social worker
and caseworker
and who the hell
knows what else kind of worker
goes to find
Benji.
The evening
becomes middle of the night
becomes morning.
47.
“So you really have no clue why he just up and left like that?”
Margot asks as she cooks me breakfast.
Ms. F left to take Benji’s
bag of clothes
to his new
temporary home.
Back to the place they took him
after the cops found him at
4:30 am
on the side of the road
after everyone spent the night
stressed out
put out
bent out
of shape
because a twelve-year-old boy
in the custody
of the state
is not the kind
they want missing.
“I don’t wanna talk about it okay?”
And I don’t.
I know I have an appointment
with Terry on Monday
and I know that will be bad enough.
Relaying the facts of the
conversation
giving a good enough
explanation.
I wasn’t about to say
anymore than I needed to.
“Okay, we can talk about something else.” Margot shrugs, easily. “Do you think I should dye my hair black?”
She smiles at me.
I have no clue
how to read this girl woman.
I smile anyway.
“It’d look cool. I mean, especially with your green eyes.”
“I’m pretty sick of bleaching it out so much. Black seems easier.”
“My friend, Jess, she’s super good at dying hair. She’s the one who does mine.”
“Does she live nearby?” Margot asks with a sly grin.
Like we’re doing something
we shouldn’t.
Committing a sin.
But we all know
coloring your hair
is not what hell-bent girls are made of.
At least not entirely.
48.
By the time the color is bought
and Jess comes over
and a dripping wet Margot is
laughing in the bathroom,
Ms. F returns.
She comes up with her phone
and takes pictures
of us as we strike
our best
glamour girl poses.
We sit around waiting
for the minutes to pass
for the color to set.
Jess becomes enamored
by everything Margot.
Like her job at the 6-Spot
the only record
store in town.
Asking questions about her
sleeve of tattoos.
Jess showing off her own
hoping to hear something
new
about how awesome it is
and how she picked something cool
for a girl so young.
But Margot
doesn’t do any of that.
Margot is almost too
cool
to
say something
so
typical.
Margot asks Jess questions about
Markus
and why she likes him.
Jess squirms a bit in her chair
while I laugh
knowing the truth behind the no-good answer.
That it mostly starts with a booty
and ends with a call.
Just when I start to regret
having Jess come over
because I’m scared it’s going to be
all about her
and never about me
(just thinking that way makes me feel gross)
that’s wh
en Margot stops
and grabs a brush
and she starts smoothing out
my hair.
I don’t know why
the moment she
pulls my hair up with her hands
and starts brushing through
the strands
as we stand looking in the mirror
at one another
why it’s that moment
that makes my
heart
feel
seen?
But it does.
And by the time Margot dries her hair
and Jess cuts her bangs
a little crooked on purpose
so that they look just right
it’s like
last night never happened
and that
these two
have been a part of my life
since
day one.
49.
Terry’s looking at me
waiting for me
to talk.
I’ve been down this road with her
for so many weeks.
Her waiting for me to
speak
some truth about what
made the visit end the way
it did.
Truth about why he
fled.
Everyone’s frustrated,
confused.
Terry’s telling me
that Benji won’t say a word.
I guess he won’t say what he
heard
from me.
About Mom coming back
for us.
I want to tell Terry:
I don’t know why it makes him mad
she’s the only mom we ever had.
That I don’t get why he’s so angry
at everyone
at everything.
That yes, the apartment we
spent our days in
was ugly
to say the least
but I kept him safe from most of it.
Kept him safe from the worst of it.
That while the bad things happened
in the other room
he was in his bed
looking at the moon.
Falling
asleep.
But I don’t tell Terry that.
“Louisa, we can’t help you when you keep the truth from us. That’s what I have been telling you for the past year.”
50.
I look up at her,
thinking that if she only knew.
Knew what it was like to be in this chair,
on this side of the
room.
Maybe then she’d be
able
to see that
the idea
of me opening up
to her
is as likely
as me opening up myself to a
guy.
It
ain’t
ever
gonna
happen.
Why don’t they teach that
part in the
classes she took
to get the
right
to sit here
asking me questions
every Monday
night?
“Okay, Louisa, I see we aren’t getting anywhere with that. Why don’t you tell me about your Thanksgiving. I understand Ms. Francine’s sister came. How was that?”
It was
apple pie
lotion at
Bath & Body works
for five days
straight.
It was
a magazine
spread
white
tablecloth
name cards
placed
by each plate
perfection.
It was
everything I
ever wanted
but
have been
too scared
to admit.
It was
hands held around a table
where we said
grace
and bowed
our heads
before
we were
fed.
It was
the kind
of happy
I
heard
about
but never
knew.
I tell her, “It was fine.”
The clock
tick tock dings!
Marking the end
of our hour.
51.
Ms. Francine’s been
acting completely normal
the same
slow go
not really saying no
mostly okay with me
being free
to do what
I please
ever since the Thanksgiving visit
ended
INSANELY.
I keep waiting for her
to ask me about what
happened
why he left me
stranded
on the sidewalk all-alone.
It’s like I
want her to act the way
she
should.
Push
me so I have to
pull
away.
I want her to
force me
to do what
she wants.
Instead she’s there
after school
always the same.
Checking on homework
asking about Jess
careful not to press
too hard
about math
or science.
Respecting my
silence.
It’s times like these
I wish someone would
just
shove me in a corner
and tell me I have to
say something
or else!
But these new people
in my life?
That’s not how they react.
And so I’m left
feeling like a jerk.
The way Dad used to operate,
retaliate
set me straight
was:
DO
IT
OR
________________
(fill in the blank
with some sort of act
usually reserved to
extract
pain)
That mode of operation
doesn’t fly
here.
And
I
don’t
know
how
to
do
different.
52.
The letter came in the mail.
I was relieved
to understand hear
from my Little Benji Boy.
“Lou-Lou,”
he wrote,
“Sorry to walk out on you
didn’t want to leave you.
I had to get away
it seems like too
much to take
sometimes.
You know?”
I did.
“I got in a bunch
of trouble.
Guess everyone was scared.
But I’m gonna be okay.
I’ll try and stick to the plan––
you know what plan
I mean.”
The plan he wants or the one I want?
I don’t think they
are one in the
same
anymore.
“One day it
will all be different.
I’m sorry,
Lou-Lou.
Never meant to
hurt you.
You’ve been
hurt
enough
already.”
I hate that the person
who wrote this letter
is usually the one missing
from the conversation.
53.
Ms. Francine picks me up
from school.
I’m going to my weekly
visit
mandatory
commitment
assigned to me by the
state.
A visit with Mom.
“Louisa, I wanted you to know that my sister, Margot, is going to be at the house when we get back. Her place is being fumigated today so she’ll be staying the night with us.”
What am I supposed to say?
That Jess will be jealous
that I got to hang
out with the
one person
we both want to impress?
“Anything you want to talk about before the visit with your mom today?”
Um.
Like I hope Benji keeps it together
with Mom.
Um.
Like I hope when she talks about Dad
I stay calm.
Um.
Like I hope she doesn’t miss the appointment
and mess it all up.
Um.
Like I hope if she does,
she’ll manage to call
so I don’t feel dumped
by
my
mother.
“No, I’m cool, Ms. Francine.”
54.
But she shows.
And so does Benji.
I give him a hug
forcing him to stop
pacing
the waiting room.
He’s wearing a giant parka,
ski gloves
ski mask
snow boots.
An entire
ski suit
ready to hit the slopes or to build a
snow fort.
Not exactly the right clothes for a
court-appointed date.
Yes –– it’s December,
but it’s still a solid fifty-four degrees.
And I wonder if he’s as
crazy as
