and feed them to the washing machine.
Twice, I scour my hands,
but the feelings don’t wash away.
Usually Dad
is THE ONE out of town,
on a mission—a top-secret this or that.
But here we are together—him, me, and the silence
at the kitchen table.
Just the three of us!
I picture Mom driving north, biting her nails into oblivion.
Dad sounds nervous when he speaks in my direction:
“Do you…need anything?”
He must’ve seen through my grocery store charade
and called Mom last night.
Yes! I want to shout
with two competing thoughts: I need you. I don’t need you.
Then I second-guess myself:
Does he mean breakfast?
“I’m good. I’ve got…what I need,” I mutter,
trying to disappear,
and hoping he’s not talking about
what I think
he’s talking about.
Seconds later, he jumps when the phone rings,
acts surprised that it’s Mom, hands me the phone
too delicately, as if avoiding contact.
Mom’s distracted—so many miles away—
but tries to sound positive.
I can tell by her voice that she knows:
“Abbey, sweetheart…welcome!
It’s your entry
into womanhood!”
But as I sit there clutching the phone,
lonely
is all I feel.
13.
As if it couldn’t get worse,
Dad returns from his bedroom
holding a book—A BOOK!—
with a faded, outdated cover.
“Your mom told me you should—uh—
read this, I guess,” he grunts
in his serious Sergeant’s voice.
Then he stands there staring into his coffee.
And I stare at the book
as my face
ignites.
Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.
Margaret looks more secure
than I’ve ever felt.
“It was your mom’s,” he offers,
planting his palm gently on top of my head,
as if he could press down
and hold me at this height
forever.
14.
In my backpack,
I conceal the girl stuff
like foreigners among the pencils,
gum wrappers, and notebooks.
Like flags of surrender
like wings separated from the butterfly,
like little white handkerchiefs,
like folded notes
never to be postmarked.
The word SANITARY
imprinted loudly in my head,
making my skin crawl.
What’s sanitary
about this silent
siege
on my body?
15.
In Ms. Dequire’s room, some boys
actually sound elated: “Did you see them fall?”
“KABOOM!” they say, making planes
with their hands.
I avoid eye contact, look away, escape
into my head. But at a school this small,
you can’t escape being new.
I scan the halls for the other new girl, Jiman,
and am struck by her solemn appearance,
eyes cast low and serious.
Does she know someone in New York, too?
I wonder to myself
What did Aunt Rose do?
Was she aware,
unaware,
have time to prepare?
Type an e-mail,
make a call,
run or scream or cry,
take the elevator,
take the stairs,
have time to think, to blink,
time to wish, to wonder,
did someone help her,
was she alone,
did she whisper a prayer,
close her eyes,
glimpse the pictures
on her desk
and on her wall?
And where
is she now?
16.
Like a shadow on an overcast day,
staring at my own two feet,
I walk at a distance behind Camille,
steal peeks at her and her teammates,
her friends from before we met.
She doesn’t know I’m back here
and there’re twenty-some people between us—
or she’d wave me into her crowd
and link her arm through mine.
She’s just one of those people—
everybody likes her,
except maybe The Trio,
who just like each other.
Jiman walks by herself like me,
the smile she’s worn since August is gone,
her eyes dart side to side
as she takes
careful
nervous
steps.
While battling my locker,
I overhear Camille’s other friend,
her neighbor Jacob,
say, “Where’s Whatserface,
that new girl who’s always drawing?”
And Camille,
in her singsong voice, reply:
“Her name’s Abbey. Learn it. Use it!”
Then teasingly,
“She could teach you
a thing or two
about art!”
I smile despite myself.
I’ve never made such a good friend