whoever you want to be in this town.
You’re free. No history.
I have to be
who everyone expects me to be.
Good old Camille.”
“You think I’m free?” I smirk.
“Free and forever
the newbie, maybe.”
“One day, Abbey,
I’ll be in college somewhere, far from here,
playing basketball.”
“That’s funny—you want to leave,
and all I want is to stay put,” I say
without a smile on my face.
“Yeah, funny,” Camille agrees.
“It’s a wonder we met at all.”
76.
The community center oozes orange
and black. Tables overflow with candy,
popcorn, and caramel apples.
Parents are throwing us
a Halloween party,
Ghouls After School,
since we’re “too old
for trick or treat.”
We’ve been warned to take it easy
on the gore. “Out of respect
for all that’s happened.”
Mr. Lydon’s band, The Hiccups,
plays in a corner. Tommy and Sheila
show their fangs and slow dance.
Angela and Lana float over angelically
to Jacob and me, where we’re drinking punch sheepishly,
waiting for Camille to show up.
My costume consists of a shirt
splattered with paint, and Jacob wears
an orange tee with the word
Costume written on it.
“What’re you supposed to be?” Angela stops near me to stare.
“A Jackson Pollock painting,” I reply.
“I knew it!” Jacob smiles.
“O-kay.” Angela nudges Lana and rolls her eyes, then says,
“Camille must’ve lost her jockstrap.”
I don’t say anything,
and neither does Jacob—at first.
Some friends we are!
Then suddenly Jacob speaks up,
“Were they all out of pitchforks and horns at The Devil Store?”
Angela and Lana groan
and flutter away. I let a laugh
escape once they’re gone.
Then—all in one breath—Jacob describes
a Pollock-inspired project he once made
and how he mostly plays soccer now
but his favorite teacher was Mr. Lydon last year
and do I like Mr. Lydon, too?
“He’s definitely my favorite!” I agree,
and a new kind of warmth floods me.
Jacob grins back,
and we glance once more
toward the door,
waiting for our shared friend
to appear.
When Camille finally shows,
clad in jersey and high-tops,
I’m annoyed that Angela
got the gist of her costume right.
Feeling the need to say
I’m sorry
or
I’m a loser friend
for not defending her,
I push Jacob in Camille’s direction
and we rush over to her.
Then the three of us
spend most of the night
huddled around a bowl of candy,
laughing and eating
only the good chocolates
and voting on our
all-time favorite
costumes.
77.
After the dance, I wait at the curb
for Mom to show up.
I’m beginning to think she forgot
since Jacob and Camille
and most of the others have left.
Mr. Lydon, loading instruments,
calls to me: “You okay, Abbey?”
“Yeah,” I say, before spying
Angela and Lana approaching
with arms full of dismantled decor.
“Waiting on Mommy?” they giggle
but don’t stop for my reaction
because they’ve spotted what looks like
Jiman and a little boy
walking by themselves,
her arm tight around
his shoulder.
“Who invited you?!” Angela yells.
“Ange!” Lana claps her hand over Angela’s mouth,
“You’re so mean!”
But the expression
on Jiman’s face doesn’t seem to change,
although I’m too far away to tell for sure.
What I don’t do
is tell them to shut up,
to leave people alone for once
because mostly I’m relieved
that they’ve forgotten
about me.
NOVEMBER
78.
Most afternoons,
I find Mom lying on her bed
with books propped around her
neither sleeping
nor reading.
Once a week, she writes
a letter to Jackson and Kate
from our kitchen table
and asks me to draw
a “happy” picture on it.
One time, I sketch
a pink flower blooming
up the side of the paper—
and for some reason,
this makes her cry
and lock herself
in her bedroom
for the weekend.
79.
Does someone stay the age
they die forever? A still life,
a photograph, a timeline
stopped, a forever blank spot
in their family’s future?
I dream Aunt Rose
takes an elevator skyward,
finger on the Up button,
Willy Wonka style,
zipping like a shooting star
across New York’s horizon.
I hope
the rivers run chocolate
where she is. And they have music.
And all the instruments.
And a twinkling of souls
strung ’round the dark
like a party where she’s
the honored guest
all dressed
in light.
Mom hopes,
she whispers in a broken voice,
“One day they find her
or some of her bones,
find something to lay beneath
the ground and a stone
we can write her name on.”
80.
Camille tells me
that Jacob informed her
that Sheila’s boyfriend Tommy
and some eighth-graders
were caught after hours
at the elementary school next door
throwing rocks at a little boy
and calling him “Terrorist!”
because of his name
and the shade of his skin.
I recall
Dad’s words:
“It’s what they do.
They’re terrorists.”
But
He’s just a little boy!
81.
In the cafeteria,
I overhear some girls at a table nearby
gossiping and pointing in Jiman’s direction.
Jiman sketches in a sketchbook.
Does she know they’re talking about h
er?
Any other day,
they could be
just as easily
talking about me.
I hear
them say
that she moved here
from somewhere up north,
or maybe farther away,
that her parents run a restaurant in town.
Who’d eat there!
the girls laugh
and
Terrorists!
they whisper.
But I am thinking:
My parents and I will.
We
will
eat there.
82.
Today
for the first time ever,
Jiman doesn’t sit alone on the bus.
She sits with a little boy,
who usually sits near the driver.
Perhaps he’s her brother.
He looks like the boy from Halloween.
I wonder if he’s the ONE
they threw rocks at.
Jiman sits on the outside
facing the aisle, as if daring
anyone to bother them,
and the little boy sits by the window.
He crouches low in the seat
and pretends to sleep.
83.
We’re having class outdoors.
I zip my jacket from the autumn chill.
Mr. Lydon has instructed us
to pick a “natural” object to draw.
So I wander around, begin sketching
a large rock that lies left of the soccer field,
a rock kids hang out on after school.
But I crumple my page, move on.
I come to Aunt Rose’s tree,
the one I tied a ribbon around in September,
and I sit at its base.
The branches are mostly empty now.
Like arms, they could hug me
if they could bend.
Dry leaves surround the tree—
like clothing fallen free.
I think of Dad’s camouflage
and its shades of color
meant to keep him hidden.
A few branches have broken and are hanging crooked,
from where kids must have swung from them.
It’s a lovely tree, really.
After sketching it,
I re-tie the faded ribbon
and think of Aunt Rose,
before leaving
to look for
Camille.
84.
It’s that time again.
“Has your monthly visitor come to call?” Mom asks,
which seriously irritates me
because a visitor should be invited
or wanted, or at least have permission
to drop by.
I spend lots of time
in the bathroom and my bedroom,
crossing off the days
until my “company” departs.
At least this time,
Mom caves and writes an excuse for P.E.
that lets me sit out, lean against the wall
and draw, try to avoid the stray basketballs
that always seem to find me. But I regret
leaving Camille alone in the locker room,
so each time she looks my way from the court,
I wave or give her a thumbs-up
for the points she scores.
Tommy asks her to play H-O-R-S-E,
so The Trio
cheer loudly on the sidelines for Tommy—
but mostly Sheila boos Camille,
who makes shot
after
glorious
shot!
85.
All week long,
Mom lets me order
my takeout favorites—
enchiladas, pizza, lo mein—
says she’s lost the energy to cook.
I make heaping plates for Dad
and leave them wrapped up
in the fridge.
Before bed each night,
I warm a heating pad
filled with starchy-smelling rice
and sleep curled around it,
like I used to sleep
with Mr. Poodle.
In the mornings,
the heating pad has slipped
between the wall and the bed,
and the plates for Dad
are scraped clean and waiting
in the sink.
86.
Mom and I hang out
mostly without talking these days.
We speak an unspoken language,
a mother-daughter language
that leaves a lot open
to interpretation.
I mention my art class
in case she might want to ask
about it, but she’s listening
to news on the radio
while pushing her noodles
around with chopsticks,
so I sketch her face,
between bites.
Words on the radio are tossed about,
words like hijackers and evil-doers.
I want to talk about Aunt Rose.
But Mom shrugs:
“I can’t talk about that right now.”
87.
Camille has a dentist appointment
so I’m alone on the bus again—
not really alone—
but sometimes
it feels that way
with lots of people around,
people who don’t really know me,
listening
and witnessing
what goes down.
The football boys perch
a few rows back.
And I will them
not to target me,
especially since Jacob
is within hearing
range today.
Jiman boards the bus,
passes the little boy, who might be her brother,
and heads toward the middle, toward us.
Others deliberately scoot their backpacks over
to take up their half-empty seats.
She pauses briefly near me.
Unfortunately, I look up too late,
drop my sketchpad, watch my pencils roll away.
Jacob stifles a giggle, whispers,
“Awk-ward!” and waits
for me to agree.
Then I surprise myself
and him
when I whip around
and snap, “Shut up!
She might hear you.”
Stunned or hurt, he says,
“I was kidding
and talking
about you,
Abbey,” and hands me
a handful
of runaway
colored
pencils.
88.
It’s Saturday night
and we’re trying out a new restaurant,
one of our long-standing Wood family traditions
for when we’re celebrating.
Tonight, it’s my choice
so I choose Middle Eastern food,
hoping the place might belong to Jiman’s family.
What would I say if I happened to see her?
“So what’s the occasion?” I ask my parents
between bites of savory rice.
Mom and Dad exchange worry.
“What?” I brace myself
for what I’m about to feel.
/> Like a balloon losing its air,
Dad starts to explain,
“Very soon…
I’m going…
to be leaving…
for Afghanistan.”
“Wh-When?” I ask, confused,
and, “For how long?”
“We knew this was coming, remember?
I warned you.
Maybe a six-month tour.”
“You didn’t say Afghanistan!”
“Well, I didn’t know then, but now it’s clear.
It’s my job, Abbey, it’s what I do.”
“Can’t you do anything else?”
because
what if…
something terrible
happens
over
there?
I push back
from the table
just as the waiter reaches over
to refill my water,
and I knock the pitcher
out of his hand.
He apologizes like it was his fault,
as I stare blankly back at him.
“Abbey,” Dad says gently,
and mops the table with his napkin.
“Abbey,” he says again,
and suddenly I’m filled
with fear—
but for whom or what
I don’t know.
And that’s when I see Jiman
and the little boy,
who has to be her brother,
smiling from a picture
behind the cash register.
I chose the right restaurant!
Beneath their picture,
a plaque reads
FOOD, FAMILY, AND FRIENDS.
And I repeat those words to myself
again and again until
I am calm.
89.
The details are vague,
so Dad packs his gear
and polishes various pieces
of equipment each night.
His rucksack stays bloated
by the door, as we
await his orders.
Each morning, he reports
to the base earlier than usual,
trains all day, then returns to our house
in the dark. The specifics
of his deployment are one
BIG secret, so we act
like nothing is different.
Sometimes it feels
like we’re pretending,
like we’re dolls in a dollhouse,
just waiting, in whatever position
we’ve been placed.
Here’s what we look like:
Mom sits at the kitchen table,
The Places We Sleep Page 7
