The Places We Sleep

Home > Other > The Places We Sleep > Page 11
The Places We Sleep Page 11

by Caroline Brooks DuBois


  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

 

‹ Prev