as if I’ve climbed it before
or once in a dream,
or in another lifetime
maybe.
My legs and body are strong
and do exactly what I ask,
so I climb higher
and higher still
until I can see all of the school—
the buses, The Trio, even Camille’s red hair—
but the balloon is too high to reach,
so I stop climbing and breathe deeply;
my breath is stolen by the cold air,
and my chest is full
of longing.
My hair whips loose
across my face, and I pull it back
and smile up into the sky
and consider
how it goes
on and on
times
infinity
MARCH
137.
Mr. Lydon
quizzes us about 3-D art
and what “balance” refers to.
“It’s so the thing won’t tip over.” Sheila giggles.
Without thinking or stopping myself,
I blurt out, “It’s a way of combining elements
to give stability to a work of art.”
The last three words come out squeaky,
and my tongue struggles with “stability,”
but at last
I have said something somewhat intelligent
in my all-time favorite class,
to my very favorite teacher.
He gives me a knowing smile:
“Fabulous, Abbey!”
—and I like him even more.
Camille goes all open-mouthed
and high-eyebrowed,
shock and pride bringing
a colorful palette to her face.
It’s a small thing really—
but kinda-sorta monumental
for me,
Abbey.
138.
Life is a moody teenager,
with its ups and downs—
because later that same day
taped to my locker I discover
a neatly written list
torn from a journal or notebook
with distinctly penciled columns: Pretty Ugly Nobody
Jiman and I,
along with a few others,
stand together in the land of Nobody,
and then there’s Camille
with a small lineup of girls
awarded the honor of Ugly.
I can’t tell by Jiman’s face
if she got one too.
I would blame the football boys for this,
except for the three names
listed so clearly
in solidarity
under
Pretty.
139.
I discover the same list
taped to Camille’s locker
and shred it quickly into a billion pieces,
but only after the whole world
of Henley Middle
reads it.
On the tip of my tongue,
I hold back an arsenal of words,
like ammunition, for the three
who labeled my friend
so hurtfully.
But who am I
to stand up
to anybody?
I stand by
wordless most of the time—
or was it
worthless?
In other words,
Nobody.
140.
Speaking of words,
not a single one from Dad.
And a mood descends upon our house.
I spread his letters across my bed,
the most recent penned in blue ink,
his handwriting quivery.
Was he tired when he wrote it,
or distracted? Was it dark or noisy?
Is the ink so recent
one of my tears
could smear his words
and turn my fingertips blue?
The paper doesn’t have lines
so his writing slants down
the page, as if you could shake
the paper, and the message
would slip away, forever.
I touch his words, especially the last ones,
then gather all the letters together
and close them into a box
beside my bed, for when
I might need them
one day.
141.
The little brother
of Jiman
sits up front on the bus.
I’m in the middle somewhere.
He plays with two action figures—
soldiers actually, positions them
on top of the seat
in front of him.
I watch
his story of war:
the soldiers clobber each other,
until one takes a fatal blow.
Then he lays them side by side,
and it’s hard to tell who won
because they both appear
to be sleeping
or maybe
dying.
Flirty squeals erupt
from the back of the bus
and pull my attention away.
The Trio are all on board
with the football boys,
going to one another’s houses.
At the next stop,
they shove and strut
down the aisle
all noise and hands
as one boy steals
an action figure
and pockets it for keeps.
GIVE IT BACK!
Jiman commands,
bolting to the front
in two seconds flat.
The driver turns in his seat,
makes eye contact with her,
nods,
and demands the boys
return what they stole,
and puts them off the bus
for repeated offenses
for a whole week.
On the side of the road,
they stomp their feet, shove
one another, and kick the dirt.
The Trio prop their hands on cocked hips.
In the bus, the air feels different
and a slow clap begins
until the whole bus
is cheering—and Jiman
and her brother sit taller,
taller now than ever.
142.
So vivid I can touch him—
Dad!
He’s in the desert…
and gunfire pops all around him,
like fireworks with no celebration.
He collapses into the sand
and a bearded soldier overtakes him,
stands above him, takes aim
with his gun—
I wake to screaming—
It is my own!
Mom is beside me in seconds.
She wraps her arms around me
and rocks me back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth,
like I am an infant again.
Is it me who is shaking?
“I know,
I know, Abbey,” she whispers like a lullaby.
We wake the next morning,
awkward and tired,
with dark circles for eyes.
Mom walks me to the bathroom
where I try
to wash the nightmare
away.
143.
Camille and I poke
our squishy burgers
and grease-soaked fries
and plan our upcoming spring break.
She shares her goal to refine her near-perfect layup,
with award-winning humility.
No matter what anyone writes,
I think Camille is amazing.
“Basketball every day!” she sighs
and then spots Jacob
halfway across the cafeteria.
“HEY!” she screams, heads turning
at her volume and audacity.
Jacob carries his tray over to us.
He’s back from a field trip.
“Guess I’ll be lunching
with the young ones today!”
“You know you love it!” Camille beams.
I smile shyly.
Then Camille—spontaneously—bounds away:
“Coach! Coach! Wait up!”
Jacob and I stare after her
and grin at one another.
“So, what’re your plans for the break?” I ask.
“Soccer practice.” He shrugs.
“My dad—well, pretty much everyone—
counts on me to play.”
He nods at his teammates
sitting and watching us
from a few tables over, some
I recognize from the bus.
“But you’re into it, right?”
“Yeah, but between soccer and basketball,
I don’t have time for anything else,
like painting or…” He pauses
and looks right at me.
My heart stops
for a fraction of a second.
“And I really miss art class,” he continues.
“It’s all practice these days.
“You’re lucky, you know,” he says,
“You do exactly what you want.”
“I do?” I ask,
never having thought of myself like that.
“Yeah, you’re good at art
and that’s how you spend your time.
I can tell you love it, too.”
My friends seem to know me
better than I know myself.
“Can’t you be,” I suggest, “Mr. Athletic and a part-time Picasso too?”
“I guess.” He smiles slowly.
“Abbey, I really like talking to you.”
“Me too, I mean—like talking to you, too!”
We finish our lunches
and slowly walk away
glancing back over our shoulders
as we head down our different
hallways.
144.
Time moves
in slow motion
during the cold months.
Everything is sluggish.
Thawing.
Quiet.
Nothing blooms.
At least spring break is coming
and I’ll be flying to stay with Gram & Gramps
in sunny Florida.
Mom assures me she’ll be fine
alone.
“I’ll spring clean,
I’ll grade.
I’ll be okay.”
145.
In Camille’s bedroom,
we scheme up ways to keep in touch
over the week-long break.
First,
you call me,
and then I’ll call you—
every
other
day.
“On your plane trip, look down
and I’ll wave up at you.”
Camille giggles.
“Maybe you can come with me
to Florida some time,” I tell her.
“Or South Carolina and meet
my friend Makayla—although she
might’ve moved by now, too.”
“That’d be cool. As you know,
I’ve never been anywhere
but Here-Town.”
“Stick with me—and you’ll get
a small taste of Everywheres-ville.”
146.
On the plane,
I sketch and doodle,
feeling mature traveling alone,
in my window seat with my peanuts—
even though the attendant
keeps checking up on me
every twenty minutes.
Gram & Gramps
meet me at the baggage claim,
waving like fragile, tan maniacs.
I feel insignificant
but safe in the back seat
of their tank-like
grandparent car.
I set up camp in Dad’s boyish
bedroom. It’s the first time
I’ve visited by myself.
Usually, we stay at a motel
down the street.
I browse Dad’s books
and his superheroes—dusty
but still positioned on shelves,
ready to take on the world.
147.
It’s peaceful
with Gram & Gramps.
Their house has two decks,
and the breeze from the sea
comes freely through their screens.
They read the newspaper
for the first half of each day,
and eat slowly—foods like grapefruit,
poached eggs, and dry toast. Their coffee
lasts all morning. I lounge around,
reading magazines and drawing,
popping on my flip-flops
to wander the beach.
My seashell collection grows
over the course of the week,
my pockets sag with their weight.
Each afternoon, I spread out a towel
near a dune, so I’m mostly hidden,
and position my sketchbook so I can capture
the waves,
the sky,
beach birds,
a kite,
people walking along the shore.
At night, I sleep downstairs,
with Gram & Gramps above me.
I can step right out of Dad’s room
and onto the lower deck.
The ocean sings its soothing tune,
so each evening I’m lulled to sleep
in the place where Dad slept
when he was a little boy,
listening to the same
watery song.
148.
Gramps suggests
I type Dad a letter
on his snail of a computer.
“But sometimes I don’t know what to tell him,” I stall.
Mostly, I mean:
I don’t know what to say in letters to him,
especially letters to him when
he’s at war, and every word
must count, must mean
something.
Gram overhears. “That’s natural, sweetheart.”
She thinks it’s a father-daughter thing.
But it’s been a while
since I stopped crawling into his lap
for his comfort.
At some point, we must’ve
silently agreed
I’d outgrown that kind of thing.
And now, like Mom said,
I’m on the brink of womanhood—
or something like that.
So along with my pathetic attempt at a letter,
we enclose one of
my sketches
of Dad’s boyhood home
with the sun shining
protective and golden
above it.
149.
Toward the end of my break,
Gram calls me to her:
“I want to show you something.”
She drags a box from under Dad’s bed
and pulls from it
several large pieces of paper.
Instantly, I know it’s artwork.
Made by my very own dad!
Not because it’s from under his bed,
but because I recognize
the way he would draw and paint
if he drew and painted.
It’s familiar somehow.
“Why didn’t he tell me about this?” I ask in disbelief.
“And where exactly was his easel all these years?”
Gram just murmurs something
about the past being the past to my dad.
We study the drawings and paintings,
Gram reminiscing about each
and telling me stories about when
or why he made it.
Then eventually, while packing
it all back up, she hands me
a stack of homemade books.
“Comics too?” I demand,
like an urchin coming out of
my shell.
150.
The next morning,
I can’t put Dad’s comics down.
While chewing my toast,
I ask Gram why he stopped.
She considers me,
takes her time sweetening her second cup of coffee,
and then finally admits,
“He had big plans for his art.”
“Who knew he was even creative!”
Still, I’m clearly in awe.
My lunch conversation
with Jacob pops into my head
about making time for art
and I demand to know: “Why did Dad give it up?”
“Because…” Gram stalls
and then she begins again,
“He and your mom had you,
and you were more important to him than anything,
so he moved on.”
“Then it’s because of me that he’s in the Army…
and in Afghanistan right now?”
“Oh no, honey,” Gramps jumps in,
joining our conversation,
“He just did the right thing,
that’s all.”
151.
Later,
on the beach
I question a world
The Places We Sleep Page 11