27.
We fold name tents today.
Some teachers still don’t know our names.
One called me Amber twice the other day,
and the gym teacher just calls me “You!”
Crease the paper hot-dog style.
Write your name big and bold.
Place it at the front of your desk.
Use it in each class.
I write ABBEY—colorful and cheerful.
But it might as well say New Girl
because that’s what half
the class calls me.
I notice Jiman’s composure
when she’s called upon, how she shakes her hair
from her shoulders, lifts her head up
like she doesn’t mind being new and unknown.
And when a teacher mispronounces her name,
Jiman simply corrects her, without apology,
but respectfully, politely—and even
the teacher seems impressed.
28.
Our teachers try to discuss
what’s happened—the attack
on our nation.
In Art, Mr. Lydon asks us to paint our emotions.
I choose red and black
to smear across my bone-white paper
because that’s how I feel.
He pauses behind my easel and studies my work,
my hands become birds and I start to tremble.
But when he moves on, I feel invisible.
Camille paints the shape of the Pentagon with colors that run
off the page.
Tommy watches Sheila paint New York’s new skyline.
Assuming the role of Most Talented,
Jiman paints the coolest flag I’ve ever seen,
with abstract stars and stripes outside the rectangle.
But then in the lunch line,
one kid says to another, right in front of her,
“They should all go back to where they came from!”
And I see Jiman freeze,
a carton of milk squeezed
in her hand
and I think I hear her whisper
I am Muslim
but also American.
Later in Social Studies, we read stories
about the man who crossed a tightrope between the Twin Towers,
the man who parachuted from the north tower,
and the man who scaled the south one.
Mrs. Baker asks,
“Who here has visited New York?”
My head pounds
as I try not to think of Mom
so far away.
Then Camille, with her talky-talk mouth,
can’t help but proudly inform the class:
“Abbey’s mom is there right now.”
Someone coughs, “Big deal!”
Thanks, Camille!
for building my fan club
one card-carrying member at a time.
“Do tell, Abbey!” Mrs. Baker prompts me,
after glancing again
at my name tent.
Through clenched teeth
I inform the class,
“My aunt is missing—”
and everyone turns and stares
and demands to know more.
Suddenly I can’t swallow, can’t breathe,
feel my heart speed up
a few beats.
I have a captive audience!
And I’ve forgotten how to speak.
And the sound of my own voice
out loud in the classroom
is terrifying.
29.
I have to ask for the hall pass again.
Each and every bathroom knows me now.
This is the one where Sheila Loves Tommy!
is scrawled on a stall door.
Before, I’d never considered the disposal
boxes, their creaky lids, the loud crumpling
that paper makes, the dispenser by the sink
hanging loose from the wall, the mirrors
reflecting, or mocking me—hung too high
to help, if I need to check my clothes.
30.
In Music, we sing “America the Beautiful.”
I feel dizzy and mumble the words
and find myself wondering
what “God shed His grace on thee” really means.
Across from me, Camille sings her heart out,
eyes closed, face beaming, mouth wide—
fearless personified.
That is so like Aunt Rose!
A tear runs down my cheek,
and I shove it aside.
Aunt Rose lives and breathes music.
It’s not what she does for money
but what she does for love. She once
told me, “Abbey, I’d rather sing than talk.”
Plus, she hums nonstop—
and plays more instruments than I can count: piano, guitar,
violin, harmonica, and even drums.
Mom always says, “Rose is the creative one,
and I’m the mathematical one.”
I want to be just like Aunt Rose.
Once in their New York apartment, I broke a maraca
while marching in a pretend parade
with my cousins Jackson and Kate.
The tiny pellets scattered
from one end of their apartment to the other—
rolling away lickety-split.
I can still hear Aunt Rose proclaiming:
“Let the music spread.
Little seeds for new melodies!”
A sob now catches in my throat.
That’s just how she is!
Or should I say—was?
My mind
is
stuck
in
present
tense.