so quickly.
17.
Even with Camille,
I can’t shake what I feel:
I’m still that girl—
the one who doesn’t belong,
not fully alone,
but surrounded enough to have to try
to fit in, to blend,
like oil paint
and water.
Art
has always been my thing
from school to school,
but maybe here in Tennessee,
maybe now,
it’s not enough.
I want to be known.
I want to be
seen.
I’m used to
the adjusting,
starting over, the beginning
again, others passing by me
staring through me,
or asking
Who’re you?
I worry about people speaking to me
and worry just the same
when they don’t.
Sometimes, I think
I might blow away
like autumn leaves,
like ashes from a fire,
like sheets of paper
from a spiral
as I trip and stumble,
try to hold it together
like some pre-teen
Humpty Dumpty
just beginning
to crack.
18.
I lug my backpack
to every subject,
the zipper’s smile—
tight and toothy—
protecting my backup
stash. I minimize
my movements, aim for
inconspicuous, stay
in my lane, hope no
one notices how
every hour or two
I leave class.
Then
Ms. Dequire
actually complains
to the whole class,
“Again, Abbey?”
and sighs
dramatically.
19.
Some kids at Henley
resemble kids from my previous schools,
from each state
where Dad has been stationed.
I used to rattle off
all of my schools
like a chant I’d memorized for class
or a mnemonic device
like “The Presidents Song.”
But the schools are beginning to blur,
and I think I’ve forgotten a few.
It’s hard to keep my own history straight
now that the school count
totals over eight.
From first grade until now,
I’ve known six Blakes—
five that were boys
and one Blake girl.
I hear that name now in the hall,
and turn, expecting one of the Blakes
from before.
But it’s a new Blake,
a new face
to learn.
Maybe there’s another Abbey here already
at Henley.
At my last school,
most of the parents
were also Army,
just like Dad.
But Henley’s far from the base.
Mom planned it that way this time,
to live like the longtime residents
in a civilian neighborhood,
without the coming and going
of people and their stuff
that occurs when you live
on a base.
It might’ve been easier
to be just one
of many Army Abbeys
in a school
filled with other
Army kids.
20.
It took me exactly one week, four days precisely,
to meet The Trio of Henley Middle:
Sheila, Angela, Lana
Angela, Lana, Sheila
Lana, Sheila, Angela
The first few weeks, I confused their names.
But now, like everyone else,
I know their flawless faces
and can place their voices
from around any corner.
When they saunter down the hall,
hip-to-hip-to-hip,
you have to scoot way over
to let them pass.
They won’t see you.
If one wears teal, the others do too.
If one skips lunch, the others do too.
If the football boys sneeze, The Trio coos, “Bless you!”
If one scoffs at you,
the whole school
scoffs too.
21.
On the bus, I update Camille.
tell her about Aunt Rose—
at least all I currently know—
which is
nothing.
We scrunch down low in the seat,
knees against the bench in front of us
as if holding it up.
“That’s terrible!” she exclaims.
“My parents are donating their blood.”
“And there’s something else,” I whisper,
“I
got
IT!”
Then my only friend in Tennessee
studies me as if I’m somebody
she’s just met.
“IT?” she whispers back.
“IT!” I confirm.
And after a pause, she beams:
“I could tell you were different!”
“That obvious?” I groan.
“It’s just that I know you!” She grins.