pop into my head, but I cannot
join my cousins
or snap them out of their grief.
They’re brother and sister—
and I am just a girl
whose mother is somewhere
nearby.
64.
Back at their apartment,
casseroles and tiny sandwiches
crowd every empty surface.
Who are all these people
who knew Aunt Rose?
Did they work with her in the tower?
If so, how did they escape?
A sobbing woman
corners and tries to hug me,
but I slip away.
I’ve always thought of the instruments
throughout their apartment
as my aunt’s friends.
I don’t even know what she did
at her job. It must have been important,
enough to die.
Uncle Todd just stares,
standing stationary in their living room,
the center of a shifting group.
He’s skinnier than I remember
and his beard is growing in.
He doesn’t call me “Abbey Fabulous!”
like he used to, but smiles vaguely,
as if thinking, “Who are you again?”
Jackson seems to shrink back
from him, as if it would hurt
too much to touch.
If ever there was a time
they need Aunt Rose,
it is now.
She was their cheerleader,
their tour guide, the captain
of their joyride—and now they are adrift.
She was the mom who lived for
roller coasters, screaming louder
than all the others, painted her toenails
a rainbow of colors, made
a family of themed costumes
for Halloween.
Grandma Jill and Grandpa Paul slump
on the couch, silent tears
trail down their faces.
I sit on the couch’s arm.
Grandma smiles up at me
and grabs my hand.
We watch all the people.
Some are eating.
Some talk quietly.
Dad, for once, seems to know
just what to do and stands close
to Uncle Todd, as if to catch him
if he falls. Mom scoops up Kate
and places her on her lap
with a book in front of them,
and I’m glad she does this.
Someone plays Aunt Rose’s piano.
I keep thinking it is her
and looking over my shoulder.
Was Aunt Rose the last person
to touch the keys? It angers me
that it can make music still.
65.
It’s different this time
with Jackson and Kate.
Usually, we fall instantly in sync,
tumble off to build a pillow-and-blanket fort,
or write a play, or plot a rolled-sock war,
or color tattoos on our arms
for our rock-and-roll band:
Introducing The Donuts!
“You can tell they’re related,”
our parents would muse from another room.
We just fit together—like Legos.
We were “The Three Musketeers!”
This time, though, they seem
more like names or familiar faces—
two people I see a few times each year,
to whom I happen
to be related.
After a while, they retreat
to their bedrooms
and close their doors.
Is this what heartbroken looks like?
On a napkin, I sketch a heart
fracturing and falling apart
into two piles of red.
On the long ride home,
we pass the same landmarks—
the same hills,
towns,
cities,
bridges,
and rivers.
I stare out the windows.
Again, Mom sleeps while Dad drives
and curses the other drivers,
yet somehow this time
I find a little comfort
in all this.
66.
My period comes ’round again
like a nightmare
like a surprise test in Science
like a speech I have to give on a stage
like a recurring dream
with people I cannot locate
and something important I’ve forgotten to do
and blood on my hands that will not wash away
and a familiar stab
in my lower back.
I hug myself into morning,
doing the math:
7 days
Once a month
12 times a year
7 x 12 = 84 days a year
I want to stay in bed,
stay home from school,
skip my entire seventh-grade year—
but I hear Mom leaving
for the high school, her car backing
down and out the drive, and this
feels like my cue
to rise.
Sometimes, lately, she forgets
to wake or kiss me before she goes.
It’s okay, though;
I’m a young woman now.
I should be able to deal with this.
It’s only middle-school
after all.
67.
“A portrait should capture the heart of a person.”
—Mr. Lydon
In Art, I draw my first
self-portrait:
Roundish face. No, stretch that longer—
oval, pale-moon face.
Long sweeping hair,
tree-bark brown—no, coffee brown—no, grizzly bear brown,
the kind of brown that sweeps across your face
and tries to hide what you’re feeling.
Dark eyes like secrets,
like lockets that hold
how you feel about yourself
and all the places you’ve lived,
the friends you’ve left—
Makayla was the hardest to leave.
She made you laugh out loud when no one else could.
She was silly, and silly was good.
But Lisa was a good listener
and made the best s’mores
and cried when you moved.
An ordinary, nothing-special, speckled nose.
A mouth that wants to say something to someone—
but mostly stays quiet and closed.
Signed
Whatserface
68.
“Nice picture…Abbey!”
Jacob calls
from somewhere behind me
in the hall.
I freeze
and turn—
and almost drop the portrait.
He knows my name!
“You know my name,” I manage,
hiding my mouth behind my portrait.
“Of course! You’re Camille’s
other best friend.”
He grins.
69.
Dad’s on the base all the time now,
so when I need anything, I have to ask Mom.
She’s agreed to take Camille and me shopping for sho
es,
but I’m afraid she’s forgotten
or gone all zombie-like
or gone home and married the bed.
“Our car is one big disaster!”
I warn Camille, as Mom’s car finally coughs up
to the curb, with a tired sticker
Math: It’s Easy as Pi!
peeling from the back window.
I cringe—
“It needs to be washed,
and painted,
and then sold!”
“Like I care,” scoffs Camille
as she swings open the squeaky door
and smiles at Mom:
“Hello, Mrs. Wood!”
“Hello, Camille.”
In the shoe shop, Mom holds up
shiny shoes with small stacked heels.
Camille giggles,
and I roll my eyes at Mom.
“What? They’re cute,” she tries.
“Cute, if you’re Sheila,” I reply.
“Or Ange,” Camille adds.
“Fine, you two choose”
—and she gives up
too easily
and walks away too quickly.
Camille points to a pair
of blue low-top sneakers.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say and try them on,
then bring them up to Mom,
who’s waiting at the counter to pay.
After the transaction,
Mom snaps her wallet shut
like an exclamation,
and I wonder if she’s angry
or if I’ve hurt her
somehow.
On the way to the food court,
I sneak peeks at my new shoes
and then at Mom
who walks out in front of us.
Her shoulders are stiff,
and I can tell
she’s disappointed
or sad
or something more.
Camille and I order pizza and Sprites
and sit
at a table
for two.
Mom positions herself nearby.
I glance over,
wonder if I’m a good daughter.
She’s studying two women
who are walking and chatting,
arm in arm,
and then I know—
She misses Aunt Rose.
I have no clue
what it’s like to have a sister,
much less to lose one.
She looks away from the women
and forces a smile my way,
then tips her slice of pizza at me.
I could go to her
tell her a joke
or give her a hug,
tell her she’s a good mom.
“Earth to Abbey!” Camille sings out,
and I’m pulled back
to my friend and our food
in the food court.
“So…about Mr. Lydon…” Camille begins,
“you think he’s cute, right?”
“He’s our teacher, Camille!
And seriously old—like thirty or something!”
“Yeah, but—?”
“Okay, okay…I like what he says about art.”
“Sure you do!”
“I do!
Well, what about Jacob and YOU?” I tease.
“You know he’s just my friend. Besides, I remember when Jakie
still slept with a teddy!
Anyway, he likes you!”
“Me?
Wait—did you say Jakie?”
“Yes.
And yes—
YOU.”
70.
Camille must be wrong.
Here’s what I’m used to being:
the last to be picked,
that girl over there,
the one hiding behind her hair,
counted absent when present,
the one who eats alone,
sits alone,
the quiet type,
a sit-on-the-sidelines type,
the girl who draws,
and lately
Army brat.
I lie on my bed tossing Mr. Poodle
up to the ceiling
and trying to catch him
as he
falls
back
down.
Jacob knows my name.
AND
Maybe He Likes ME!
Until that moment,
I’d never noticed
what an awesome canvas
my ceiling would make.
And I decide to paint it,
even if this house is temporary
and I have to move again
soon.
71.
Mr. Lydon displays a painting,
and quizzes us:
“What was Picasso trying to accomplish?
&
What do you think blue meant to him?”
I know
but stare at the blank paper on my table.
“That he was cold!” Sheila laughs.
“Loneliness?” Camille suggests.
“Sadness,” Jiman adds.
I look up
and then at Mr. Lydon,
who smiles and says,
“Excellent.”
So we begin our monochromatic paintings,
and I choose blue,
like Picasso.
While painting,
I think of Dad on the base
with the other soldiers
and imagine them discussing camouflage—
its shades of greens, browns, and tans,
and how these colors make them feel.
He would explain to me, “See, Abbey, in the Army,
colors have purposes,
not emotions.”
I laugh out loud at this.
Camille grins, surprised to hear my voice in class.
“Inside joke, Abbey?” Mr. Lydon asks.
“Um…yeah,”
I squeak.
72.
That night,
Dad holds a soft conversation
with the phone—
Perhaps it’s Uncle Todd?
But I swear I hear him say,
right before hanging up,
“I love ya, man.”
I whip my head
and body toward him,
almost knock my glass
from the table, and demand,
“Who was that?”
Dad doesn’t share
his emotions easily
and keeps his heart
locked up safely.
“Your uncle,”
he says calmly
and comes over and stands
just behind my chair
and almost touches me.
Mom washes our dishes
with her back to us.
I can tell she’s crying,
and I think I know
what she’s feeling
just from the angle of her head—
and because
she’s my mom.
She’s thinking
that Dad has to say certain things
before he leaves
just in case he doesn’t get the chance
to say them
again.
73.
Lately,
Dad busies himself around the house
when he’s here:
changing smoke-detector batteries,
unclogging gutters,
checking the oil in the cars,
crossing off items
on some master list
one by one.
And
I wonder…
if I’m on there.
Mostly he’s on the base
training—I guess—
for war.
74.
In the cafeteria,
Sheila, Angela, and Lana
surround something, circling like buzzards,
something or someone,
with red hair.
It is Camille.
I pause for only a second,
then hear them chanting:
“JACOB and CAMILLE!
Better take a pill!”
“He’s only a friend!” she growls,
standing up quickly from her chair.
The girls jump back,
startled but cool,
and laugh at Camille,
red-faced and unbalanced.
“You do like boys, don’t you?”
Lana provokes. And for once,
Camille has no comeback.
I can almost hear Dad in my head:
“Everyone has an Achilles’ heel.”
And I’m surprised
that the strongest girl I know
has a breaking point.
She is suddenly
silent,
un-
nerved.
un-
Camilled.
I push through them
and grab my friend by the hand.
“It’s called a joke,” Angela smirks,
but I pull Camille away
and toward the gym,
into her zone, where even
if Tommy says, “You shoot like a girl!”
it’s a compliment
when you see Camille
handle
the ball.
75.
On the way home,
Camille is not Camille:
Staring. Quiet. Still.
I give her space
but eventually ask,
“Are you okay?”
“It’s just…
everyone around here
makes a big freaking deal
out of ev-e-ry-thing!”
“I know.”
“Just because two people play ball together—
it doesn’t mean anything at all.
We’re friends!”
“I know.”
Camille glares out
the bus’s window, at the same houses
we pass every day.
“You know what’s cool about you, Abbey?”
“Please tell me,” I say seriously.
“You get to be
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