The Places We Sleep

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The Places We Sleep Page 4

by Caroline Brooks DuBois


  hoping to hear Mom’s voice,

  but Jackson answers instead.

  “She’s out for groceries, I think.

  You want to speak to my dad…or Kate

  or—” then his voice dies out,

  and I realize he was going to say “my mom,”

  so quickly I tell him,

  “I’d love to speak to Kate.”

  “Sure.”

  And then…

  after a lengthy pause,

  “Hi, Abbey,” says a tiny voice on the other end.

  We speak for a bit

  but after a while,

  I can’t think of anything

  much to say,

  and the silence

  slinks in.

  “Tell my mom I called, okay?”

  And the words “my mom”

  feel terribly wrong,

  like I’ve said or done

  something hurtful.

  39.

  Dad sits down at the bottom of my bed.

  It sags with his weight.

  He wants to talk.

  Please don’t be about my period.

  Or the pads he bought.

  Anything but that!

  “There’s a chance…” he begins,

  “…that I may get mobilized.” He holds

  Mr. Poodle, my purple stuffed dog, in his hands

  and turns him around and around.

  “If you mean move again,

  I won’t!”

  “Nope. Just me this time around.”

  Then, I’m all smiles.

  A huge, dumb grin in fact—

  so relieved it won’t be me or Mom,

  happy not to be leaving Camille…not yet at least.

  “I just want to prepare you,” he says,

  trying again, seeming confused

  by my happiness.

  Then he just sits there

  turning that poodle around

  in his big,

  strong

  hands.

  40.

  “Artists have a story to tell,”

  Mr. Lydon informs the class.

  “They keep telling it

  until they get it right.

  They must take risks.

  Trust themselves!”

  Jiman, across the room,

  listens intently to Mr. Lydon

  and dares to paint over her first attempt,

  trusting herself, her instincts. New paints,

  clean brush—and she’s in her element.

  I watch,

  how one painting hides another

  layered just beneath it

  and even another

  beneath that. The way a face

  can hide a person’s entire life,

  a story no one knows, a history untold,

  until someone seeks

  to share it.

  I get up and cross behind Jiman, drawn

  to her painting. She pauses brush midair.

  Heads turn, ears tune in

  and a hush falls over the room—

  but I scurry on,

  the moment gone, the status quo resumed,

  my courage dried up like ancient paint.

  41.

  For P.E.,

  we all stumble and push into the locker room

  to claim any private spot to change

  into our gym clothes. The walls seem to sweat

  with our arrival. Some girls seize

  the mirrors, brushing and pulling

  at their hair. Angela and Sheila assume

  center stage and strip off their shirts and pants,

  not bothering to cover or hide themselves.

  Sheila’s bra is lavender, Angela’s is pink.

  Sheila has breasts already and flaunts them.

  “Ohmygod, I’m a cow,” some girl whines.

  “Moo!” another laughs.

  Some of us wait in line for a stall, like Camille,

  who stopped changing in front of others

  on the day Lana remarked:

  “I don’t know why you need a bra.”

  Everyone is edgy and impatient;

  you’d think we were waiting to be fed

  the way we eye one another. But we wait

  like good girls, not cutting in line.

  Lana stands too close behind me,

  rolling her eyes and trying to grab

  Sheila and Angela’s attention.

  When a door swings open

  and Jiman steps out,

  Lana shoves me toward her,

  says, “Geez! Go in already!”

  then wrinkles her nose at Jiman,

  who looks the other way

  and doesn’t let Lana

  get to her.

  I lock the door and yank off my jeans—

  exposed,

  in my plain underwear.

  I follow my new feminine ritual

  of protecting my gym clothes from myself,

  but take too long,

  my movements jumpy and jittery.

  Through the door, a slice of yellow

  is all I can spy of Lana’s shirt.

  Then her shoe begins to tap,

  tap,

  tap

  and her voice begins scoffing, megaphone-loud,

  “Hurry up! WHAT

  are you doing

  in there?”

  42.

  Later that week,

  Ms. Johnson gives us each a yellow ribbon

  since we’re studying symbolism,

  and we’re sent outside to find a suitable tree

  somewhere on the school’s property

  around which to tie our hope.

  I notice Jiman is absent,

  hear rumors that someone spray-painted words

  on her parents’ restaurant,

  and I wonder what they wrote

  and why they would do it.

  Sheila and Angela tie their ribbons

  around the same tree,

  and when Sheila commands:

  “Tomorrow, Ange,

  let’s wear red, white, and blue,”

  Angela responds, “Sure, Shee-Shee.”

  For a second, I wonder

  if I should wear those colors too.

  Then I look for Camille, who waves at me

  as she heads off on her own,

  her ribbon fluttering

  wild and free.

  Beside the ball field,

  I find a solitary tree with drooping leaves

  and lots of low branches.

  Last summer, I would’ve called it

  the perfect climbing tree

  —but I’m no longer Abbey

  who climbs trees.

  The Trio would say,

  That’s for babies!

  I extend

  my arms around its width,

  and the bark is rough and scratches me

  as I tie a lopsided bow

  and whisper,

  “This is for you, Aunt Rose.”

  43.

  My period ends—finally!

  Over. Period.

  The end!

  In the first grade,

  Mrs. Bennet taught me:

  “End a sentence with a full stop

  so the next one can begin.”

  And after seven long days

  that felt like years,

  I am me again

  I guess, but

  I feel like

  one huge

  question

  mark.

&nb
sp; 44.

  After a few days,

  Jiman is back at school.

  On the bus,

  she settles

  directly

  in front of me.

  I say her name

  in my head

  the way I’ve heard

  her say it.

  It’s lovely

  and suits

  her.

  Up close,

  she looks smaller.

  I stare at the back

  of her head. Her hair

  waves in mahogany layers

  and smells of lemons.

  She holds her chin high again

  and doesn’t hide.

  I am the new kid who

  cowers, emotes, reacts—

  and the boys at the back

  can sense that.

  Camille

  is a “car rider” today,

  so I’m extra afraid

  to shift or make a sound.

  I try NOT

  to breathe

  too loudly.

  Jiman sketches

  and seems content,

  even dares

  to open a window

  and let the wind

  rearrange her hair.

  I smile despite myself,

  imagining us as friends—

  Jiman, Camille, and me!

  That’s when the boys sit up,

  take notice of my goofy grin.

  Too late to hide it behind my hand

  as they start to chant

  Ar-my!

  Ar-my!

  Ar-my!

  BRAT! BRAT! BRAT!

  Then it hits me

  like a putdown on a playground:

  I’ve been invisible

  at more than one school

  but never a target like this.

  To all, my biography reads

  as whatserface, newcomer, girl

  from somewhere else

  other than here.

  I stand to flee

  and see a picture

  Jiman was drawing

  unfinished in her hand

  of a little leafless tree.

  She turns to look at me

  with maybe care

  or concern

  on her face.

  Tears cloud my vision

  and my feet do a tango

  with my backpack

  and everyone observes it all

  with their bulging eyes,

  as I stumble up the aisle,

  trying like mad

  to escape

  my never-ending

  social

  demise.

  45.

  Mom

  remains in New York.

  A sub teaches her math classes

  at the high school.

  Jackson and Kate must need her.

  Uncle Todd must too.

  I don’t know what’s happened to Aunt Rose.

  At night, Dad and I stare at the TV,

  eating macaroni and cheese.

  A woman reports, “New York is crying,”

  and I look at Dad for his take on this.

  He keeps watching.

  I imagine big tears spilling

  from skyscraper windows—

  falling and splashing

  and washing away

  the soot and ash

  and cleansing

  the streets and people

  and Jackson and Kate

  and Uncle Todd

  and Mom

  until everything sparkles—

  bright and shiny,

  like

  new.

  46.

  A few days later,

  Mom comes home to us.

  She squeezes me until I can’t breathe

  and drops her bags and collapses

  into Dad’s arms,

  and then onto our couch.

  I sit on the floor at her side.

  “How’re Jackson and Kate?”

  She brushes the hair from my face.

  “Todd can’t stop looking,”

  she says, mostly to Dad,

  who stands and paces,

  and leans hard against the wall.

  To me, she whispers,

  “I love you,”

  and kisses my hair.

  Gently, she turns my face to hers.

  My tears are stuck

  somewhere deep inside.

  Perhaps I’m Abbey

  who no longer cries.

  Then, as if waking

  from a dream, she asks,

  “How have you been?”

  The football boys on the bus

  spring to mind

  and their unwanted attention,

  and how my period arrived,

  and how I just want to find

  a place to belong.

  I glance at Dad

  still holding the house up

  and answer

  with the first words that come:

  “I’ve survived,” I say, sounding

  like a more mature Abbey,

  even to me.

  Then—

  an aching

  moment

  of SILENCE

  f

  a

  l

  l

  s

  over us

  like a heavy blanket of rubble

  and my cheeks burn with what I’ve said

  and I cannot breathe

  with the weight of my stupidity.

  Aunt Rose

  Dad looks from me to Mom

  and then back to me, then tries

  to change the subject.

  “It’s okay,” Mom whispers,

  patting the couch

  for me to sit

  beside her.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  I rest slightly against her,

  closing my eyes.

  If I don’t open them

  ever again, I could be that girl—

  the one in our home videos,

  the one with pigtails,

  who skins her knee and cries to be held,

  who doesn’t know about terrorists,

  whose aunt is still alive,

  who holds her mom’s hand.

  That version.

  That girl.

  That one.

  47.

  Murmurs escape

  their bedroom—

  details they won’t share

  about Aunt Rose. I know

  from the sound of their movements

  Mom is unpacking, pulling

  clothes from her bags,

  dumping them onto the bed.

  She seems to have misplaced something

  or left something in New York.

  The few words I catch

  are like pieces of a puzzle,

  a code to crack: “…right here…”

  Panic rising in her voice,

  “…must have lost it!”

  Then Dad’s voice trying to calm her,

  and then hers again: “God! Where is it?”

  Now she’s crying, now weeping,

  and louder still. She’s gasping

  and saying, “…the letter…the last thing she wrote…

  Todd gave it—to me.”

  I freeze, motionless in the hall, listening…

  as if my stillness

  will help her find

  whatever she’s missing.

  And
in that stillness,

  I imagine my uncle,

  the firemen and rescue workers,

  even Jackson and Kate

  searching through metal and concrete,

  their hands scraped and dirty,

  bloody, searching for something,

  anything to grab onto,

  to pull up and out

  of the darkness

  and into the light

  of breathable

  air.

  48.

  I yank my thoughts back from New York.

  Here in Tennessee, I could be “Abbi” or maybe “Abs.”

  A talented artist, like Jiman. I could be an athlete

  like Camille or Jacob—no trash that!

  Just somebody people know.

  I’m so over just being new!

  From here forward,

  one thing’s for certain,

  I’ll be Abbey

  who gets her period.

  And maybe I’m imagining things,

  but Sheila, Angela, and Lana

  have begun to regard me a little differently,

  like there’s a neon sign on my head

  that everyone can read: Look at me!

  And I know Camille didn’t tell.

  Maybe my trip to the nurse

  tipped everyone off.

  In the halls,

  some boys glance at me, glance at my body

  …or perhaps

  it’s all in my head.

  and no one

  is thinking

  anything

  about me

  at all.

  49.

  At least

  I’ve found a friend like Camille.

  Camille,

  who loves basketball

  whose limbs are lean and athletic

  whose red hair waves out of control

  who sings without fear

  who talks without self-censorship

  who doesn’t seem to care

  what she wears

  or who likes her

  or how she moves between groups

  or through the halls

  or what anyone thinks,

  My friend.

  50.

  In the cafeteria, locker room, halls,

  on the school grounds outside,

  everywhere kids are discussing

  what will happen next—

  which U.S. cities are potential targets,

  if the president makes an easy mark,

  if they will bomb Oak Ridge,

  which is not too far from here.

  Maybe it’s all in my mind,

  but I think this school’s coming together a bit

  in the wake of such a tragic event.

  Some cliques are un-cliquing.

  Maybe I’m even starting to fit.

 

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