I saw a member of the Geek Club—
kids who play chess and take Advanced Math—
talking with a cheerleader yesterday in homeroom
and planning a community vigil.
Even Camille’s neighbor Jacob
seems to see me
as we pass between classes.
He once even asked about my aunt.
And today at lunch,
the-one-and-only Sheila
sits beside ME, actually confides in me,
while opening a lime yogurt,
“My mom and dad and I are never going overseas again.”
She scans the room for her counterparts,
then continues, “Our travel agent
is changing our summer destination
to Charleston, where we can at least
trust the waiters and chefs
not to poison us!”
Then for some reason,
she stops talking
long enough to glare
over where Jiman sits.
“Cool!” I say, trying to relate to her plans.
Though I’ve lived many places,
I’ve never thought of them
as destinations.
Red, white, and blue banners
have taken over the school’s walls.
One reads “We Love America!”
It’s like how everyone felt
when Henley’s basketball team
scrimmaged Hargood Middle—
united.
Us against Them.
But who are they anyway?
Even Mrs. Baker, our social studies teacher,
can’t explain.
When the other two-thirds of The Trio appear,
Sheila excuses herself,
doesn’t acknowledge me
as I wave goodbye
to their retreating
backsides.
51.
Football Tommy boasts
to anyone who will listen
how his father is buying a gun
and a gas mask and building
a bunker beneath their house
where they can live for 45 days
on cans of green beans
and powdered milk
and bottled water.
Camille’s dad
labels himself a pacifist,
condemns both the terrorist attacks
AND
the imminent war.
My dad watches TV,
observes an anti-war march
in downtown Washington, D.C.—
just 18 days after 9/11.
“They’re against military action,”
he says. And then, “It’s not my job
to agree or disagree. Someone
has to protect
our country.”
OCTOBER
52.
As if life is back on track,
as if buildings haven’t fallen, and people haven’t disappeared,
as if the world isn’t torn in two about going to war,
Camille and I crash at her house
to get down to solving homework equations.
We settle ourselves in her bedroom,
where sports stars beam from posters,
and pictures she colored when she was five
surround her mirror, and a growth chart
climbs up her wall to her current height.
I pull a neglected My Pretty Pony
from under her bed and braid its hair.
Camille has lived her entire life right in this spot—
and Jacob has always lived next door.
Her bedroom is so Camille.
We finish our math and head outside
to shoot hoops in her backyard.
After a few misses, I locate chalk
in her garage and sketch our names—
cursive and temporary—
onto her driveway:
Abbey + Camille
She holds the ball
to watch me draw our faces.
“I swear, you’ll be famous one day!”
“You can come
to all my art openings
in New York and in Paris.”
“Gladly!
And you can come
to all my games.
She dribbles!
She aims!
She shoots!” Camille announces
as the ball swishes
through
the
net.
“Any word on your aunt yet?” she asks casually—
or cautiously—
and a little out of breath.
All I can do is shake my head.
“I’m sorry,”
she says between dribbles.
And I know she means it.
53.
Someone whistles
from a window next door.
It’s Jacob.
He leans out,
waves his hand,
and calls Camille’s
name.
A minute later,
he’s standing beside us,
a soccer ball tucked under one arm
and a basketball under the other.
He studies my drawings
and raises his eyebrows.
But I don’t know how to interpret this.
He looks at me not too differently
from the boys in the halls.
But the boys who taunt me
hijack my mind
and how he’s probably overheard
what they’ve said.
It’s hard to know how he feels,
read what he thinks,
since sometimes he hangs with the other athletes.
Maybe he agrees, believes
I’m a brat too,
just like they say.
Then my tongue
goes all chalky
and suddenly no one is talking
and I have nothing to do with my hands,
so I smudge the faces I’ve drawn
with the tip of my shoe
and whisper,
“Gotta run!” and dash,
like I tend to do lately,
leaving them
staring
after
me.
54.
On October 7th,
close to 12,000 people
in New York City
m a r C H
from Union Square
to Times Square
in opposition
to the administration’s
War on
Terrorism.
Camille says
her dad wishes
he could join them.
She tells me that instead
he marched around
their block.
55.
At home,
some days Mom buries herself
in stacks of math tests at the table,
red slashes here and there
on her hands from grading.
I feel sorry for her students.
I walk through rooms
and she doesn’t look up.
Once, she turned off the light
as she left a room
that I was in.
Other days, she slouches
on the couch, a glass of red wine
in one hand, a photo album open
on her lap, Aunt Rose smiling from photos.
I close the book when she drifts off,
pour the wine down the sink,
and lay a blanket
over her.
When he’s home,
Dad lingers
at the doorways of rooms
and occasionally asks her,
“Is there anything you need me to do?”
or he studies news programs,
as if hearing people talk about “suicide missions”
will tell him
how to fix this—
and Mom.
56.
We attend the vigil
held at the fire department.
A patriotic song is sung.
Flags of all sizes are flown.
The adults are crying,
except Mom, who is too sad
to be here. Strangers hold
hands, hold on to each other,
hold each other’s babies.
Dad and I don’t know how
to be sad together,
so we smile and pretend
to watch children
turn cartwheels in the grass.
I’m sure he’s wishing
I was still one of them.
57.
I’m attempting to sketch the still life
Mr. Lydon has arranged
in the center of our classroom.
He’s explaining how you have secondary colors
because of the primary ones.
Jiman’s sketch
looks just like a photograph.
I wonder how
she did it.
I find nothing inspiring
about the bowl of fruit
but try to capture the shades of apple
versus banana.
I bet the fruit find themselves boring too!
When Mr. Lydon isn’t looking,
Tommy snags an apple
and chomps it.
How are we supposed
to keep this up
with the world
crumbling
around us?
I imagine the fruit bowl imploding, apples
spinning away, bananas
smashed—
and find myself needing to know
if everything has a purpose,
a place and a plan
on this planet…
Suddenly
Mr. Lydon approaches,
making his rounds behind us.
I hunker down…
then he’s directly behind me
and I blurt out:
“What’s a…suicide mission?”
Other kids are shocked
at my voice—
probably me more than them.
Without pause—and as if it’s on topic—
he says, “An act that usually takes the life
of the perpetrator as well as others,”
and then he changes the subject:
“I believe you’ve found
your medium, Abbey. Colored pencils
are working out well for you.”
“Thanks,” I mumble
and turn back
to the apples and bananas,
wondering what cause
could be worth
all those lives.
And what caused me
to let the random thoughts
out of my head.
Camille looks over
and mouths, “Your medium!”
And my cheeks turn
the Magic Magenta
pencil #7 color.
58.
In the hallway
between Science
and Language Arts,
Jiman appears
and pauses directly
in front of me, eyebrows
raised in recognition.
I come to a sudden stop.
Mirror-like, we move
in whatever direction
the other one starts—
her eyes laugh at this.
But it’s no surprise that
I’m overcome by self-doubt
and flee before I find
any words
to speak.
59.
I dream
Dad and I
are shopping for groceries.
In the produce section,
I spy Mr. Lydon,
so naturally I cower
behind the broccoli, blushing
from head to toe.
He holds up a kiwi and muses
to no one in particular:
“You’d never know it’s green in there!”
Dad quirks his face
at a man pondering the color of fruit,
then fires commands at me:
“Abbey, front and center!
ASAP. Pronto!”
I creep forward,
and we push our cart
loaded with duct tape and plastic wrap
away from Mr. Lydon.
The dream then shifts
like a TV channel changing
from a cooking show to a broadcast of war,
in which Dad takes cover from gunfire
like an actor in a desert scene
but it is too real
and I wake drenched
in sweat
and
fear.
60.
Today we’re driving to New York
for Aunt Rose’s memorial.
Any other time, I’d be thrilled to miss school.
You don’t have to be good at math to know
new school + new girl = new ways daily to be mortified.
Mom likes her school and hopes I like Henley too,
since she was unhappy in our previous states:
“Tennessee will be good for the Woods!”
But the best thing here so far is Camille.
We’re headed out of this state now
to where sadness awaits.
I’ve never seen a dead body before,
except on TV.
And never anyone I loved.
Mom informs me there will be no body
and that her parents, Grandma Jill and Grandpa Paul,
will be there.
Dad drives while Mom mostly sleeps.
He curses the other cars
that drive too slow or too fast
or generally do something wrong.
He points out the sights and landmarks:
“The majestic Smoky Mountains!”
“Look—a herd of deer!”
“Check out the Potomac River.”
I watch it all slide by
and sketch the passing hills,
a barn, other people in cars,
a church.
Stopped in traffic,
Dad peers over his shoulder at me
and calls me “Abbey the Artist,”
so I tilt the sketchpad up for him to see.
“It’s my medium,” I tell him shyly,
displaying a green pencil.
“Is that right?” he asks before turning back
to the road, to the world of signs
and speed limits
and solid lines
adults aren’t supposed
to cross.
61.
A car is a good vehicle
for daydreaming
with stock scenery rolling by.
I summon Jacob and Camille,
imagine them playing basketball,
passing and shooting and doing
all the things best friends do—
like
they did before I arrived,
like they’ll do again when I move—
then I am there with them
and Jacob tosses me the ball.
To ME of all people!
Just like I’m one of them,
but my hands are full of art supplies
and I drop it all—even daydreams should be semi-realistic—
and Jacob stops playing
to go all day-dreamy:
“Can I help you with that, Abbey?”
But before I know it,
we’re in New York already,
and Mom is getting out of the car
without looking back.
And it’s hard to hit Replay
on a daydream.
62.
We eat Chinese,
the three of us, like old times, but quieter,
a restaurant we’d eaten at once for Christmas
with Aunt Rose and Uncle Todd.
Jackson, Kate, and I had drawn on the placemats
and folded them into airplanes
and sent them innocently sailing
across the empty restaurant.
The place hasn’t changed a bit,
but the world has.
63.
The next day,
I stand apart from my cousins
who stare at their feet and cry,
surrounded by whispering,
sniffling, Kleenex-clutching adults
and emotional hugging
and “I’m so sorry”
and ridiculous bouquets
of beautiful flowers.
Jackson wears a tie,
which strikes me
as funny
and I want to pull it,
but I know
he won’t chase after me today.
Kate, only eight, seems older than the last time I saw her—
almost older than I am now.
She stands amazingly still for her age—
no wiggling or twisting, no falling down,
no yanking at her clothes.
It’s confusing to see them
without Aunt Rose,
who was always there—
dancing with us, handing us
bags of popcorn, singing silly songs,
or putting a Band-Aid
on someone’s knee.
I don’t know what to say,
so I say “Wow!”
and point to all the flowers,
but Jackson and Kate
just stare harder at their feet,
and wipe their faces with their hands,
as they stand side by side
like sad dolls in fancy clothes.
The words
Red Rover, Red Rover, send Abbey right over
The Places We Sleep Page 5
