in the bathroom and my bedroom,
crossing off the days
until my “company” departs.
At least this time,
Mom caves and writes an excuse for P.E.
that lets me sit out, lean against the wall
and draw, try to avoid the stray basketballs
that always seem to find me. But I regret
leaving Camille alone in the locker room,
so each time she looks my way from the court,
I wave or give her a thumbs-up
for the points she scores.
Tommy asks her to play H-O-R-S-E,
so The Trio
cheer loudly on the sidelines for Tommy—
but mostly Sheila boos Camille,
who makes shot
after
glorious
shot!
85.
All week long,
Mom lets me order
my takeout favorites—
enchiladas, pizza, lo mein—
says she’s lost the energy to cook.
I make heaping plates for Dad
and leave them wrapped up
in the fridge.
Before bed each night,
I warm a heating pad
filled with starchy-smelling rice
and sleep curled around it,
like I used to sleep
with Mr. Poodle.
In the mornings,
the heating pad has slipped
between the wall and the bed,
and the plates for Dad
are scraped clean and waiting
in the sink.
86.
Mom and I hang out
mostly without talking these days.
We speak an unspoken language,
a mother-daughter language
that leaves a lot open
to interpretation.
I mention my art class
in case she might want to ask
about it, but she’s listening
to news on the radio
while pushing her noodles
around with chopsticks,
so I sketch her face,
between bites.
Words on the radio are tossed about,
words like hijackers and evil-doers.
I want to talk about Aunt Rose.
But Mom shrugs:
“I can’t talk about that right now.”
87.
Camille has a dentist appointment
so I’m alone on the bus again—
not really alone—
but sometimes
it feels that way
with lots of people around,
people who don’t really know me,
listening
and witnessing
what goes down.
The football boys perch
a few rows back.
And I will them
not to target me,
especially since Jacob
is within hearing
range today.
Jiman boards the bus,
passes the little boy, who might be her brother,
and heads toward the middle, toward us.
Others deliberately scoot their backpacks over
to take up their half-empty seats.
She pauses briefly near me.
Unfortunately, I look up too late,
drop my sketchpad, watch my pencils roll away.
Jacob stifles a giggle, whispers,
“Awk-ward!” and waits
for me to agree.
Then I surprise myself
and him
when I whip around
and snap, “Shut up!
She might hear you.”
Stunned or hurt, he says,
“I was kidding
and talking
about you,
Abbey,” and hands me
a handful
of runaway
colored
pencils.
88.
It’s Saturday night
and we’re trying out a new restaurant,
one of our long-standing Wood family traditions
for when we’re celebrating.
Tonight, it’s my choice
so I choose Middle Eastern food,
hoping the place might belong to Jiman’s family.
What would I say if I happened to see her?
“So what’s the occasion?” I ask my parents
between bites of savory rice.
Mom and Dad exchange worry.
“What?” I brace myself
for what I’m about to feel.
Like a balloon losing its air,
Dad starts to explain,
“Very soon…
I’m going…
to be leaving…
for Afghanistan.”
“Wh-When?” I ask, confused,
and, “For how long?”
“We knew this was coming, remember?
I warned you.
Maybe a six-month tour.”
“You didn’t say Afghanistan!”
“Well, I didn’t know then, but now it’s clear.
It’s my job, Abbey, it’s what I do.”
“Can’t you do anything else?”
because
what if…
something terrible
happens
over
there?
I push back
from the table
just as the waiter reaches over
to refill my water,
and I knock the pitcher
out of his hand.
He apologizes like it was his fault,