31.
The past seems so far from today.
But only one month ago,
we were at the beach.
And my cousins and I
built a towering castle of sand
as tall as Kate.
Until the tide came
and stole it away.
32.
On the school bus
after school,
I spy Jiman
who appears comfortable
sitting alone.
I sketch her,
wish I could be
more like her.
Jiman,
an illustration of confidence.
I repeat her name in my head.
Jiman,
a portrait study in nonchalance.
She’s new to Tennessee. Just like me.
She sits alone. I sit alone, too,
but a microphone and spotlight
seem to amplify and highlight
my every unsure
move.
I wonder if Jiman
notices me, wonder if she observes
the war the football boys wage
on the weak.
I glance quickly
in their direction.
They are all eyes
and busy mouths
when they spot me
and bust out laughing
and whisper things,
then laugh some more.
I let my hair fall
curtain-like across my face.
Show’s over! I think
and push forward and off
that rotten,
stinking
bus.
33.
I used to think “stationed”
meant staying put,
like the word “stationary,”
but I was wrong.
It’s more like a brief rest,
then a forwarding address,
and time to learn a new zip code
—and way of life—
all over again.
If it weren’t for Camille,
I’d be ready to pack up,
disappear. Be gone.
But this time, when my family moves,
I have so much to lose.
Our current house is painted
a greenish-brown, and it’s at least
twenty miles from the base,
which is now on
High Alert!
“Security’s tight!” Dad explains.
He’s awaiting his orders.
I can’t recall all of my previous bedrooms.
This one here is pink.
So random it seems, the places we sleep.
I place a thick towel between me
and my clean sheets.
I’ve been staring at this ceiling
since the beginning of summer,
since back in June,
when Dad got stationed in Tennessee.
Mom and I are stationed here, too.
The last state was South Carolina,
and before that
it was
Colorado.
34.
Today Ms. Dequire
sends me to the school nurse,
convinced I have a bladder infection,
and I can’t find the words
to disagree.
Her closet of a room is papered
with rainbows and food charts,
and she explains, “Abbey, I’m here to help.”
So slowly I begin,
“I got my—” thankfully she knows where I’m going with this
and pulls out a picture of the pelvic region
from a drawer in her desk.
She names a few body parts.
And I cringe at each.
Then she points to the two
fallopian tubes, and my mind drifts
to the Twin Towers and New York,
where Mom now sleeps.
Finally she asks, “Do you have any questions for me?”
I pause…
then begin, “I have been wondering
when it all will end…”
And for a second or two,
the nurse just stares, as if I’m asking
about something else entirely, as if I’ve asked
something too personal, a question for which
there’s no answer. Her hesitation
makes me fidget with the hall pass.
“My mom…just left…and I—
I’m just ready for it to end.”
I drop my shoulders
and begin to cry in this tiny room
with this total stranger.
Then, guess what?
The nurse, smelling of powder and bread, hugs me,
and it feels good,
and I hug her back—
and I believe she needed it, too.
And we sit there hugging like idiots
for a full minute or two.
Then she hands me a tissue and says,
“It’s monthly, about four to seven days each cycle.
That’s not too bad, is it?”
35.
In the bus lines after school, when Angela and Lana
point to me and announce,
“New girl’s got a DISEASE that Nurse can’t cure!”
to everyone who’s around to hear,
including Jacob and the back-of-the-bus boys,
Camille marches up
in their puffed-up, lip-glossed faces
and says exactly what she thinks:
“If anyone’s got a disease, it’s you!
A disease of the heart.
Doctors say yours are missing.”
And that’s why