Even Camille’s neighbor Jacob
seems to see me
as we pass between classes.
He once even asked about my aunt.
And today at lunch,
the-one-and-only Sheila
sits beside ME, actually confides in me,
while opening a lime yogurt,
“My mom and dad and I are never going overseas again.”
She scans the room for her counterparts,
then continues, “Our travel agent
is changing our summer destination
to Charleston, where we can at least
trust the waiters and chefs
not to poison us!”
Then for some reason,
she stops talking
long enough to glare
over where Jiman sits.
“Cool!” I say, trying to relate to her plans.
Though I’ve lived many places,
I’ve never thought of them
as destinations.
Red, white, and blue banners
have taken over the school’s walls.
One reads “We Love America!”
It’s like how everyone felt
when Henley’s basketball team
scrimmaged Hargood Middle—
united.
Us against Them.
But who are they anyway?
Even Mrs. Baker, our social studies teacher,
can’t explain.
When the other two-thirds of The Trio appear,
Sheila excuses herself,
doesn’t acknowledge me
as I wave goodbye
to their retreating
backsides.
51.
Football Tommy boasts
to anyone who will listen
how his father is buying a gun
and a gas mask and building
a bunker beneath their house
where they can live for 45 days
on cans of green beans
and powdered milk
and bottled water.
Camille’s dad
labels himself a pacifist,
condemns both the terrorist attacks
AND
the imminent war.
My dad watches TV,
observes an anti-war march
in downtown Washington, D.C.—
just 18 days after 9/11.
“They’re against military action,”
he says. And then, “It’s not my job
to agree or disagree. Someone
has to protect
our country.”
OCTOBER
52.
As if life is back on track,
as if buildings haven’t fallen, and people haven’t disappeared,
as if the world isn’t torn in two about going to war,
Camille and I crash at her house
to get down to solving homework equations.
We settle ourselves in her bedroom,
where sports stars beam from posters,
and pictures she colored when she was five
surround her mirror, and a growth chart
climbs up her wall to her current height.
I pull a neglected My Pretty Pony
from under her bed and braid its hair.
Camille has lived her entire life right in this spot—
and Jacob has always lived next door.
Her bedroom is so Camille.
We finish our math and head outside
to shoot hoops in her backyard.
After a few misses, I locate chalk
in her garage and sketch our names—
cursive and temporary—
onto her driveway:
Abbey + Camille
She holds the ball
to watch me draw our faces.
“I swear, you’ll be famous one day!”
“You can come
to all my art openings
in New York and in Paris.”
“Gladly!
And you can come
to all my games.
She dribbles!
She aims!
She shoots!” Camille announces
as the ball swishes
through
the
net.
“Any word on your aunt yet?” she asks casually—
or cautiously—
and a little out of breath.
All I can do is shake my head.
“I’m sorry,”
she says between dribbles.
And I know she means it.
53.
Someone whistles
from a window next door.
It’s Jacob.
He leans out,
waves his hand,
and calls Camille’s
name.
A minute later,
he’s standing beside us,
a soccer ball tucked under one arm
and a basketball under the other.
He studies my drawings
and raises his eyebrows.
But I don’t know how to interpret this.
He looks at me not too differently
from the boys in the halls.
But the boys who taunt me
hijack my mind
and how he’s probably overheard
what they’ve said.
It’s hard to know how he feels,
read what he thinks,
since sometimes he hangs with the other athletes.
Maybe he agrees, believes
I’m a brat too,
just like they say.
Then my tongue
goes all chalky
and suddenly no one is talking
and I have nothing to do with my hands,