where doing the right thing
means giving up
the things you
love.
152.
A week later
and a little more freckled,
it’s back to Mom
and my quiet bedroom,
back to school,
back to Jacob
and Camille.
On the way to my locker, I notice my shoes
still have grains of sand in them
and with each step,
I can almost feel the shifting dunes beneath my feet.
I picture Dad’s artwork and comics,
picture Dad out there somewhere
across the world,
sleeping or fighting
in a faraway desert,
or doing whatever he does,
and I wonder
if he has sand in his boots too,
and if each step he takes
he thinks
of Mom,
and
of me.
APRIL
153.
It’s been raining for days now,
and everything is growing greener.
The flowers and trees are blooming,
and Mom and I take turns X-ing off
the days we pass without Dad—
or each day until he comes back to us.
We haven’t heard from him in weeks
in this hopeful
blossoming
missing
maddening
season.
154.
Mom and I don’t mention
not
hearing from Dad.
I sense it’s getting serious.
It’s been too long in between.
The days
tick
tick
tick by
too loudly.
We talk about him like he’s here:
“Dad’s show is on TV!” I announce.
“Let’s have Dad’s favorite dinner tonight,” she says.
But we spend more time
in our separate bedrooms,
missing him
and
acting like
it’s
no
big
THING.
155.
Two important things happen today.
ONE:
All the girls have been pulled
from class to visit the nurse
and talk about
Our Bodies.
Sheila, Angela, and Lana are painting their fingernails.
They must know all this already.
The nurse explains how girls
can get pregnant after starting their periods—and I think
she means to scare us
yet the following stunning revelation floods me:
I can CREATE life one day
if I choose to.
When I’m ready.
It is a gift.
But for now,
ART is my gift,
how I create,
how I cope
with this world.
TWO:
The Trio find Camille in the hall afterward.
Tommy and a few boys loom nearby.
I know because they holler, “Whoa, slow down, Army!”
as I make a beeline for them.
“None of that stuff applies to you, Camille,” they say,
“ ’cause no boy’s ever going to want you!”
That’s when I totally lose it—or find it.
My VOICE!
And I use it:
“Self-worth is NOT
people wanting you.
It’s what’s INSIDE of you!
And Camille is beautiful—
inside and out.
Go!
Examine!
Yourselves!”
So—yeah—perhaps it’s a little over their heads.
“Who does she think she is?” Sheila snips.
Lana and Angela raise their eyebrows
and purse their lips.
But I know.
I know who I am.
And it works. The Trio disperse—
or maybe the bell rings.
Either way
I’m counting it as a win,
since they leave Camille and me alone
to bask in my
long-time-coming
vocally
valiant
victory.
156.
I decide to talk to Mom
about my day, my revelation,
while she’s driving.
It’s less awkward that way,
but I’m having trouble putting into words
how I feel about art and what happened with Camille
when we come to a halt.
A small crowd has formed
on the side of the road.
Signs shout,
thrust above heads:
Choose Peace!
One Tragedy Is Enough!
Not My War!
Chanting voices
Angry fists
Open mouths
now surrounding our car:
WE
DON’T
WANT
THIS
WAR!
Mom drives through it,
and they part
but want to know:
Thumbs up or down?
Honk twice to agree.
With them? Or against them?
Mom doesn’t speak.
She stares straight ahead
biting her lip
gripping the wheel
through the heart of the crowd
where suddenly I spot Camille’s dad,
with a peace sign on his chest
and intent on his face.
We lock eyes
and my hand waves
before I can stop it
from this small act
of betrayal
to Dad.
157.
“There have been casualties,” the news anchor announces.
—or maybe we received the news through a phone call,
or heard it from a family friend,
or maybe it was in the air
like spring pollen
or poison,
or chemicals
of mass destruction.
“Casualties.”
Mom clicks off the TV and radio, and closes out
our computer’s news page.
Casualties.
Am I being punished for waving my hand?
For the doubts I’ve had about war?
Mom grabs the phone, punches numbers frantically,
calling everyone she knows,
then slams the receiver down and sinks to her knees.
“Casualties,” she sobs.
I stare at the walls
which stare back
at me.
158.
The
not knowing
may have lasted
a solitary
dark
hour.
159.
It may have lasted
an eternity of twenty-four.
It may have lasted
several sleepless days.
But it felt like
YEARS.
160.
…until we finally receive word from the base
It’s not him!
161.
It’s no ONE we know
.
Knew.
Which is reason to breathe again, smile, even laugh at first
out of relief,
but…it’s someONE.
The names are like anyONE’s,
like someONE’s uncle,
like Angela’s brother,
like someONE’s friend.
Now that family has a memorial
instead of a father,
a flag
instead of a brother.
Perfectly folded
and triangular,
red,
white,
and
blue.
162.
The phone rings
extra early the next morning.
My eyes snap open.
I know
it’s him.
Mom’s crying
and whispering,
“I was so…scared! And Abbey—”
and gasping.
I stand in her doorway.
She notices me.
“Okay, okay,”
she says quickly
and replaces the receiver.
“He had only a minute.
But he told me to tell you he loves you—
and he’s sorry. He knows we were worried.
He thinks maybe
he’ll be able to stay in touch
a little better now.”
MAY
163.
Puberty—
is a wicked initiation
to the rest of my life,
but I’m surviving
this club of adolescence.
Not to mention
seventh—the worst of all grades
and a brand-new school,
and all that’s happened this year.
Finally, at last,
we’re assembling our end-of-the-year art portfolios.
And I add my favorite pieces,
inspecting my first self-portrait with hesitation,
before including it.
Is this really still me?
Mr. Lydon flips through my work
and smiles encouragingly:
“Keep it up this summer, Abbey.
You’re really going somewhere!”
And I startle at his words
and wonder if he knows
if my family will be relocating soon.
Then—Duh!
I get what he means.
“Thanks, Mr. Lydon,
thank you for everything!”
164.
This month,
my period arrives like anything—
the rain, like the nighttime,
like my next breath
of air.
I’m not even surprised
or angry about it.
Maybe—
and I mean maybe—still undecided,
but maybe
it’s a gift.
What’s more, I miss Aunt Rose,
but I’m getting used to the idea
of her gone now
and I wonder
how Jackson and Kate
would feel
about this.
At the moment,
I can hold the sadness
because I know it will
be replaced by joy—
the way war and peace
and summer and winter
and good and bad
turn ’round and ’round
each other.
165.
Camille and I
spend our afternoons at her house
or mine,
studying for
our final tests.
At Camille’s,
Jacob always drops by
and lingers.
When he does,
I cannot remember
anything
I’ve learned all year.
Except the color
of his eyes and the dimple
when he smiles, and his kind
hands, and how he’s a good friend
to Camille, and how he thinks for himself,
and the kiss he placed on my cheek.
But none
of this will be on these tests—
or I’d most definitely,
most certainly
pass.
166.
Dear Dad,
It was so good—for Mom—to hear your voice.
Gram showed me your artwork over spring break.
(I hope you don’t mind.)
Maybe you can draw again one day.
By the way, I love your easel!
Guess what? I drew a comic for my portfolio
about a boy who becomes a soldier.
Love,
Abbey
167.
Lying flat on my bed,
I balance Mr. Poodle on one foot up in the air
and the camo poodle Dad gave me
on the other.
I conjure up fateful things like:
If Mr. Poodle falls off first,
then Dad will come home unhurt.
and
If the camo poodle falls off first,
then something else will happen—
but I shut my eyes to block that thought.
When he does come home,
I have so much to ask him,
so much I want to know.
I have missed him so.
168.
Dear Abbey,
Your artwork rocks!
I can’t wait to spend more time with you and Mom.
I’m sorry for being gone—BEFORE and now.
This may sound crazy, with me so far away,
but I feel like we’ve grown closer somehow
while I’ve been gone. I should be home
soon after your school year ends.
Love,
Dad
169.
Camille shoots layups,
and I sprawl on her driveway
surrounded by tubes of paint.
My canvas is a pair of high-tops.
Naturally, she’s requested peace signs
and basketballs—no surprise!
I line up her name across the front
and paint stripes on the tongues
and my initials on her soles.
I’m afraid I could get used to this.
Living here.
Having a forever friend like Camille.
I’m thinking this when Camille’s dad
comes outside. I picture him at the protest,
but he doesn’t mention it. Instead he says,
“Abbey, your dad’s been in our thoughts.
We’re looking forward to his safe return.”
And as simple as that, he heads off
to mow their grass.
I was holding
my breath. Now I’m breathing again
a sigh of relief when Camille says,
“It’s not the end of the world, Abbey,
when adults disagree.”
Camille and I make plans for summer—
painting, swimming, and basketball.
We’re getting started right now
just in case
my family
has to move.
170.
Mom has dropped me off
at the downtown
Art Supply Store
I need a canvas and new paints
for Dad’s Homecoming,
which should occur
any
day
now.
I’m in my element, and I’m happy
as I reach for a tube of paint
for the painting I have in mind,
and out of the corner of my eye,
I notice someone directly beside me.
We reach for the exact same tube
at the exact same time.
It is Jiman!
She’s probably not sure
what to make of me since
no words live in my head.
Words, what are words?
I cannot remember even one.
“What are you painting?” she leads.
Breathe, Abbey! Just breathe.
“A painting for my dad,” I manage,
and
“You?”
“A mural for my parents’ restaurant,”
she says in a quiet matter of fact.
Side by side, we stare at paints.
I could tell her
that my family ate at their restaurant,
that I’d like to see her mural when it’s done,
that I think she’s awesome.
“You know…
they called me names too,”
she says.
I take another deep breath,
know she’s talking about
the boys on the bus—
or maybe The Trio,
or both.
“They get bored eventually,”
she says.
“Besides…
we belong here, you and I.”
At first I think she means
the art store—but quickly realize
she means so much more.
And I let her words sink in
like seeds planted in fertile dirt.
Then, for some reason, I tell her,
“You’re a really good sister, Jiman.”
A crooked smile leaps to her face.
“My name is Abbey,” I continue,
feeling courageous now.
“I know.” She laughs.
“Where are you from?” I ask her.
“My family is Kurdish,
but I was born and raised in New Jersey.
What about you?”
My answer is complicated, too.
“I’m kind of from a lot of places.
I can tell you about it sometime.”
We stare at each other briefly, as if
we both know we’re going to be friends.
Sometimes it takes an eternity to figure things out,
especially when you’re in middle school.
The Places We Sleep Page 12
