Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small.
We haven’t time, and to see takes time—like to have a friend takes time.
~ Georgia O’Keeffe
SEPTEMBER
1.
It arrives like a punch to the gut
like a shove in the girls’ room
like a name I won’t repeat.
It arrives like nobody’s business, staring and glaring me down,
singling me out
in the un-singular mob
that ebbs and flows and swells and grows
in the freshly painted, de-roached hallways of Henley Middle.
It arrives like a spotlight,
like an intruder in my bedroom,
like a meteor to my center of gravity.
It arrives.
And my body—
in cahoots—allows it.
Just.
Like.
That.
It arrives
and textbooks, full of themselves, weigh me down.
This backpack holds the tools for my success,
yet I’m unprepared for IT:
No change of clothes,
no “girl supplies,”
no friend to ask
because Camille is nowhere nearby,
no know-how,
no nothing.
(Did I mention, it arrives like a double negative?)
What was Mom thinking
by not thinking
to prepare me
for IT?
2.
The bully-of-a-bell taunts me,
rings its second warning
to those of us clogging the halls:
Follow the arrows, Dummy, on the walls!
Remember your locker’s secret code: 22 06 07
Right,
Left,
and then Right again,
as if that cold metal box
holds all I need to survive
yet another school.
If I could just locate Camille—
the only person I can talk to,
the one friend I’ve made
since we moved to town in June—
she might know what to do.
But no sight of Camille’s flame-red hair,
and I’m pushed through the rush
of arms and legs and sideways scowls.
My insides turning black and blue;
my sense of direction confused,
just as the other new student—Jiman—breezes by,
head up and confident.
I stop to stare at her
before stumbling in
to Ms. Dequire’s room.
Late again! And her mouth forms its red-stained frown:
“Tardy, Abbey!”
I find my seat, resist the urge to draw, instead
head my paper:
Abbey Wood
Math
September 11, 2001
3.
I sit through that morning hour,
a dull ache in my abdomen
blossoming like a gigantic thorned flower,
jotting down mathematical formulas
I’m told are the key to my future.
Even with a math teacher for a mother,
my focus wavers in and out…until
another teacher bursts in and whispers
in the ear of our teacher,
who stops teaching to wring her hands.
“Something’s happening—in New York and in D.C.,”
she informs us.
The tension is tangible.
“Some planes have crashed!”
But we don’t know
the half of it yet.
And to my shock,
we are soon released
from school.
Whatever’s happening must be terrible.
But I can’t curb my relief:
Early dismissal!
Set free!
Free to trod off,
free to go our separate ways
like it was any
other
September day.
4.
The buses pull up like salvation on wheels,
like rays of sunshine to my gloom.
And Camille, my single friend in Tennessee,
is AWOL, so I sit up front on the bus and sketch.
Up front, with the kids from the elementary school next door.
Up front, with my back to kids my own age,
who are talking
and shouting
and pushing and shoving
and vibrating with questions about what’s happening.
Up front,
where the driver is crying!
Crying!
…about what’s happening in New York?
New York is where Mom’s sister,
my Aunt Rose lives
and Uncle Todd,
and my cousins Jackson and Kate!
If anyone has cause to cry, it’s me—
but I’m sure they’re okay. New York is huge.
It’s not just that—my secret is now announcing itself,
and I have nothing to tie around my waist
and I’m wishing I hadn’t worn white.
Maybe a few others have reasons too,
like the kid halfway back so short nobody sees him,
or the sixth-grader who sits near the football boys
and tries like mad to make them laugh.
Or Jiman, new like me,
who also sits alone
but doesn’t usually seem to care.
How will I walk away
from this bus, my back
to all these nosy faces,
eyes staring from windows,
arms dangling,
mouths jeering?