who climbs trees.
The Trio would say,
That’s for babies!
I extend
my arms around its width,
and the bark is rough and scratches me
as I tie a lopsided bow
and whisper,
“This is for you, Aunt Rose.”
43.
My period ends—finally!
Over. Period.
The end!
In the first grade,
Mrs. Bennet taught me:
“End a sentence with a full stop
so the next one can begin.”
And after seven long days
that felt like years,
I am me again
I guess, but
I feel like
one huge
question
mark.
44.
After a few days,
Jiman is back at school.
On the bus,
she settles
directly
in front of me.
I say her name
in my head
the way I’ve heard
her say it.
It’s lovely
and suits
her.
Up close,
she looks smaller.
I stare at the back
of her head. Her hair
waves in mahogany layers
and smells of lemons.
She holds her chin high again
and doesn’t hide.
I am the new kid who
cowers, emotes, reacts—
and the boys at the back
can sense that.
Camille
is a “car rider” today,
so I’m extra afraid
to shift or make a sound.
I try NOT
to breathe
too loudly.
Jiman sketches
and seems content,
even dares
to open a window
and let the wind
rearrange her hair.
I smile despite myself,
imagining us as friends—
Jiman, Camille, and me!
That’s when the boys sit up,
take notice of my goofy grin.
Too late to hide it behind my hand
as they start to chant
Ar-my!
Ar-my!
Ar-my!
BRAT! BRAT! BRAT!
Then it hits me
like a putdown on a playground:
I’ve been invisible
at more than one school
but never a target like this.
To all, my biography reads
as whatserface, newcomer, girl
from somewhere else
other than here.
I stand to flee
and see a picture
Jiman was drawing
unfinished in her hand
of a little leafless tree.
She turns to look at me
with maybe care
or concern
on her face.
Tears cloud my vision
and my feet do a tango
with my backpack
and everyone observes it all
with their bulging eyes,
as I stumble up the aisle,
trying like mad
to escape
my never-ending
social
demise.
45.
Mom
remains in New York.
A sub teaches her math classes
at the high school.
Jackson and Kate must need her.
Uncle Todd must too.
I don’t know what’s happened to Aunt Rose.
At night, Dad and I stare at the TV,
eating macaroni and cheese.
A woman reports, “New York is crying,”
and I look at Dad for his take on this.
He keeps watching.
I imagine big tears spilling
from skyscraper windows—
falling and splashing
and washing away
the soot and ash
and cleansing
the streets and people
and Jackson and Kate
and Uncle Todd
and Mom
until everything sparkles—
bright and shiny,
like
new.
46.
A few days later,
Mom comes home to us.
She squeezes me until I can’t breathe
and drops her bags and collapses
into Dad’s arms,
and then onto our couch.
I sit on the floor at her side.
“How’re Jackson and Kate?”
She brushes the hair from my face.
“Todd can’t stop looking,”
she says, mostly to Dad,
who stands and paces,
and leans hard against the wall.
To me, she whispers,
“I love you,”
and kisses my hair.
Gently, she turns my face to hers.
My tears are stuck
somewhere deep inside.
Perhaps I’m Abbey
who no longer cries.
Then, as if waking
from a dream, she asks,
“How have you been?”
The football boys on the bus
spring to mind
and their unwanted attention,
and how my period arrived,
and how I just want to find