a place to belong.
I glance at Dad
still holding the house up
and answer
with the first words that come:
“I’ve survived,” I say, sounding
like a more mature Abbey,
even to me.
Then—
an aching
moment
of SILENCE
f
a
l
l
s
over us
like a heavy blanket of rubble
and my cheeks burn with what I’ve said
and I cannot breathe
with the weight of my stupidity.
Aunt Rose
Dad looks from me to Mom
and then back to me, then tries
to change the subject.
“It’s okay,” Mom whispers,
patting the couch
for me to sit
beside her.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
I rest slightly against her,
closing my eyes.
If I don’t open them
ever again, I could be that girl—
the one in our home videos,
the one with pigtails,
who skins her knee and cries to be held,
who doesn’t know about terrorists,
whose aunt is still alive,
who holds her mom’s hand.
That version.
That girl.
That one.
47.
Murmurs escape
their bedroom—
details they won’t share
about Aunt Rose. I know
from the sound of their movements
Mom is unpacking, pulling
clothes from her bags,
dumping them onto the bed.
She seems to have misplaced something
or left something in New York.
The few words I catch
are like pieces of a puzzle,
a code to crack: “…right here…”
Panic rising in her voice,
“…must have lost it!”
Then Dad’s voice trying to calm her,
and then hers again: “God! Where is it?”
Now she’s crying, now weeping,
and louder still. She’s gasping
and saying, “…the letter…the last thing she wrote…
Todd gave it—to me.”
I freeze, motionless in the hall, listening…
as if my stillness
will help her find
whatever she’s missing.
And in that stillness,
I imagine my uncle,
the firemen and rescue workers,
even Jackson and Kate
searching through metal and concrete,
their hands scraped and dirty,
bloody, searching for something,
anything to grab onto,
to pull up and out
of the darkness
and into the light
of breathable
air.
48.
I yank my thoughts back from New York.
Here in Tennessee, I could be “Abbi” or maybe “Abs.”
A talented artist, like Jiman. I could be an athlete
like Camille or Jacob—no trash that!
Just somebody people know.
I’m so over just being new!
From here forward,
one thing’s for certain,
I’ll be Abbey
who gets her period.
And maybe I’m imagining things,
but Sheila, Angela, and Lana
have begun to regard me a little differently,
like there’s a neon sign on my head
that everyone can read: Look at me!
And I know Camille didn’t tell.
Maybe my trip to the nurse
tipped everyone off.
In the halls,
some boys glance at me, glance at my body
…or perhaps
it’s all in my head.
and no one
is thinking
anything
about me
at all.
49.
At least
I’ve found a friend like Camille.
Camille,
who loves basketball
whose limbs are lean and athletic
whose red hair waves out of control
who sings without fear
who talks without self-censorship
who doesn’t seem to care
what she wears
or who likes her
or how she moves between groups
or through the halls
or what anyone thinks,
My friend.
50.
In the cafeteria, locker room, halls,
on the school grounds outside,
everywhere kids are discussing
what will happen next—
which U.S. cities are potential targets,
if the president makes an easy mark,
if they will bomb Oak Ridge,
which is not too far from here.
Maybe it’s all in my mind,
but I think this school’s coming together a bit
in the wake of such a tragic event.
Some cliques are un-cliquing.
Maybe I’m even starting to fit.
I saw a member of the Geek Club—
kids who play chess and take Advanced Math—
talking with a cheerleader yesterday in homeroom
and planning a community vigil.