into the south tower.
Cursive
plumes
of
smoke
drawing
an
upward
line.
People exiting,
fleeing,
men and women
workers and visitors running,
stumbling, dazed,
afraid.
Then,
a THIRD plane slams the Pentagon—
fueling angry flames.
C
o
l
l
a
p
s
e
of the first tower.
A FOURTH plane smacks
ground in another state.
The
coll-
apse
of the second tower.
These
things
we
can’t
un-
see.
12.
Morning arrives
regardless
and finds me Momless.
Planes fell from the sky!
You’d think they’d close the schools.
But not here.
Dad says they’re aiming for “normal”—
as if middle school is ever that.
I bet there’s no school for days
in New York.
So like any other Wednesday, it’s
sun up,
get up,
get ready.
One foot in front of the other.
“You know the drill!” Dad barks.
But has anyone found Aunt Rose?
Images from the TV footage replay in my head.
I yank the spotted sheets from my bed
and feed them to the washing machine.
Twice, I scour my hands,
but the feelings don’t wash away.
Usually Dad
is THE ONE out of town,
on a mission—a top-secret this or that.
But here we are together—him, me, and the silence
at the kitchen table.
Just the three of us!
I picture Mom driving north, biting her nails into oblivion.
Dad sounds nervous when he speaks in my direction:
“Do you…need anything?”
He must’ve seen through my grocery store charade
and called Mom last night.
Yes! I want to shout
with two competing thoughts: I need you. I don’t need you.
Then I second-guess myself:
Does he mean breakfast?
“I’m good. I’ve got…what I need,” I mutter,
trying to disappear,
and hoping he’s not talking about
what I think
he’s talking about.
Seconds later, he jumps when the phone rings,
acts surprised that it’s Mom, hands me the phone
too delicately, as if avoiding contact.
Mom’s distracted—so many miles away—
but tries to sound positive.
I can tell by her voice that she knows:
“Abbey, sweetheart…welcome!
It’s your entry
into womanhood!”
But as I sit there clutching the phone,
lonely
is all I feel.
13.
As if it couldn’t get worse,
Dad returns from his bedroom
holding a book—A BOOK!—
with a faded, outdated cover.
“Your mom told me you should—uh—
read this, I guess,” he grunts
in his serious Sergeant’s voice.
Then he stands there staring into his coffee.
And I stare at the book
as my face
ignites.
Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.
Margaret looks more secure
than I’ve ever felt.
“It was your mom’s,” he offers,
planting his palm gently on top of my head,
as if he could press down
and hold me at this height
forever.
14.
In my backpack,
I conceal the girl stuff
like foreigners among the pencils,
gum wrappers, and notebooks.
Like flags of surrender
like wings separated from the butterfly,
like little white handkerchiefs,
like folded notes
never to be postmarked.
The word SANITARY
imprinted loudly in my head,
making my skin crawl.
What’s sanitary
about this silent
siege
on my body?
15.
In Ms. Dequire’s room, some boys
actually sound elated: “Did you see them fall?”
“KABOOM!” they say, making planes
with their hands.
I avoid eye contact, look away, escape
into my head. But at a school this small,
you can’t escape being new.
I scan the halls for the other new girl, Jiman,
and am struck by her solemn appearance,
eyes cast low and serious.
Does she know someone in New York, too?
I wonder to myself
What did Aunt Rose do?
Was she aware,
unaware,
have time to prepare?
Type an e-mail,
make a call,
run or scream or cry,
take the elevator,
take the stairs,
have time to think, to blink,
time to wish, to wonder,
did someone help her,
was she alone,
did she whisper a prayer,
close her eyes,
glimpse the pictures
on her desk
and on her wall?
And where
is she now?
16.
Like a shadow on an overcast day,
staring at my own two feet,
I walk at a distance behind Camille,
steal peeks at her and her teammates,
her friends from before we met.
She doesn’t know I’m back here
and there’re twenty-some people between us—
or she’d wave me into her crowd
and link her arm through mine.
She’s just one of those people—
everybody likes her,
except maybe The Trio,
who just like each other.
Jiman walks by herself like me,
the smile she’s worn since August is gone,
her eyes dart side to side
as she takes
careful
nervous
steps.
While battling my locker,
I overhear Camille’s other friend,
her neighbor Jacob,
say, “Where’s Whatserface,
that new girl who’s always drawing?”
And Camille,
in her singsong voice, reply:
“Her name’s Abbey. Learn it. Use it!”
Then teasingly,
“She could teach you
a thing or two
about art!”
I smile desp
ite myself.
I’ve never made such a good friend
so quickly.
17.
Even with Camille,
I can’t shake what I feel:
I’m still that girl—
the one who doesn’t belong,
not fully alone,
but surrounded enough to have to try
to fit in, to blend,
like oil paint
and water.
Art
has always been my thing
from school to school,
but maybe here in Tennessee,
maybe now,
it’s not enough.
I want to be known.
I want to be
seen.
I’m used to
the adjusting,
starting over, the beginning
again, others passing by me
staring through me,
or asking
Who’re you?
I worry about people speaking to me
and worry just the same
when they don’t.
Sometimes, I think
I might blow away
like autumn leaves,
like ashes from a fire,
like sheets of paper
from a spiral
as I trip and stumble,
try to hold it together
like some pre-teen
Humpty Dumpty
just beginning
to crack.
18.
I lug my backpack
to every subject,
the zipper’s smile—
tight and toothy—
protecting my backup
stash. I minimize
my movements, aim for
inconspicuous, stay
in my lane, hope no
one notices how
every hour or two
I leave class.
Then
Ms. Dequire
actually complains
to the whole class,
“Again, Abbey?”
and sighs
dramatically.
19.
Some kids at Henley
resemble kids from my previous schools,
from each state
where Dad has been stationed.
I used to rattle off
all of my schools
like a chant I’d memorized for class
or a mnemonic device
like “The Presidents Song.”
But the schools are beginning to blur,
and I think I’ve forgotten a few.
It’s hard to keep my own history straight
now that the school count
totals over eight.
From first grade until now,
I’ve known six Blakes—
five that were boys
and one Blake girl.
I hear that name now in the hall,
and turn, expecting one of the Blakes
from before.
But it’s a new Blake,
a new face
to learn.
Maybe there’s another Abbey here already
at Henley.
At my last school,
most of the parents
were also Army,
just like Dad.
But Henley’s far from the base.
Mom planned it that way this time,
to live like the longtime residents
in a civilian neighborhood,
without the coming and going
of people and their stuff
that occurs when you live
on a base.
It might’ve been easier
to be just one
of many Army Abbeys
in a school
filled with other
Army kids.
20.
It took me exactly one week, four days precisely,
to meet The Trio of Henley Middle:
Sheila, Angela, Lana
Angela, Lana, Sheila
Lana, Sheila, Angela
The first few weeks, I confused their names.
But now, like everyone else,
I know their flawless faces
and can place their voices
from around any corner.
When they saunter down the hall,
hip-to-hip-to-hip,
you have to scoot way over
to let them pass.
They won’t see you.
If one wears teal, the others do too.
If one skips lunch, the others do too.
If the football boys sneeze, The Trio coos, “Bless you!”
If one scoffs at you,
the whole school
scoffs too.
21.
On the bus, I update Camille.
tell her about Aunt Rose—
at least all I currently know—
which is
nothing.
We scrunch down low in the seat,
knees against the bench in front of us
as if holding it up.
“That’s terrible!” she exclaims.
“My parents are donating their blood.”
“And there’s something else,” I whisper,
“I
got
IT!”
Then my only friend in Tennessee
studies me as if I’m somebody
she’s just met.
“IT?” she whispers back.
“IT!” I confirm.
And after a pause, she beams:
“I could tell you were different!”
“That obvious?” I groan.
“It’s just that I know you!” She grins.
I stare at her briefly,
not sure how I got so lucky.
“Pretty sure The Trio have it, too,” she adds.
“Great!” I roll my eyes.
“I’m in a club!”
We erupt in laughter—
the kind that turns to tears—
as others on the bus
stare at where we sit,
but I don’t care
because we’re just two voices floating up and out
the half-lowered,
rectangular
windows.
22.
Down the aisle of the bus, I wobble
with a smidgeon more confidence than before,
and just as I turn to wave at Camille,
who makes a Call me
gesture with her hand,
“Army brat!” is spat
from the mouth of somebody I pass.
That’s how we described ourselves
at some of my other schools—but this doesn’t feel
like that now, this label that’s not my name.
I spot Jacob, Camille’s neighbor,
and a pack of smirking boys at the back
who start to snicker.
To my surprise, Jiman
suddenly seems to see me,
looks directly in my eyes and semi-smiles
just as I bolt past her.
Or did I imagine that?
Maybe she was smiling
to herself.
The confusion I feel
is for real
and can’t be erased
from my easy-to-read
open-book
face.
23.
At home, I perch on the corner of the couch,
behind my hair
and my latest sketch.
I draw when I can’t handle my thoughts, imagine my art
hanging somewhere cool, like the school’s hallway,
with a circle of friends surrounding me,
saying, “Nice work, Abbey!”
Dad sits like the Lincoln Memorial,
upright in his reclining chair.
He’s purchased some “female gear”
and deposited it, in a brown paper bag,
on my bed while I was at school.
Beside it, he’s placed a new sketchbook.
Neither of us mentions this.
Instead, we choose to stare straight ahead.
Still no sight of Aunt Rose’s face on the TV.
The 24-hour coverage shocks and shocks:
the Twin Towers collapsing into themselves,
the dark cloud hovering, people fleeing,
and the planes crashing over and over again,
as if perhaps this time by accident
but aimed so perfectly.
“I just don’t get it,” I whisper.
“They’re terrorists,” Dad tells me,
matter-of-factly, but his voice catches
and he coughs
and switches the channel again.
New York has never seemed so close—
yet Mom so far.
On another station, they say:
“We’ve been attacked on our own soil.”
I know a few things about war,
from Dad—
Germany, Hiroshima, Vietnam,
but not here.
“You shouldn’t be watching this.” Dad finally snaps
it off, grabs his combat boots to polish
since it’s something he can do with his hands.
I know he wishes he were there,
in New York. Instead of here,
with me.
24.
On the phone,
Camille makes small talk and tries to cheer me up:
“You move a lot! That’s all Army brat means.
It was probably one of those jocks at the back.
Or one of The Trio—Angela was back there.
She’s probably just jealous.”
“Yeah, right!” I sigh
and kick a pillow from my bed, thinking of Mom
and Aunt Rose and Uncle Todd and my cousins
in New York, and trying to recall
if the voice on the bus belonged to a girl or a boy.
I don’t mention that Jacob was among them
since I know how Camille feels about him.
“How do people know my dad’s Army?”
“Henley’s small, Abbey,
and lots of people around here are Army.
Plus, it’s obvious—
The Places We Sleep Page 2
