commandeer my table,
open their lunches, and spread out
their yogurts, carrots, and pretzels.
Surrounded!
I don’t know how I feel about this.
There are so many of them.
Do they like me now?
I can’t help myself
and start to sweat, look around to see who notices
the infamous three
sitting with me.
“So…” Sheila begins casually
but with the hint of an agenda,
“where’s Camille?”
I choke down a bite
of PB&honey,
and quickly spit out her whereabouts: “At home.”
“And what’s with this little getup?” Angela
points to my plaid shirt,
jeans, and painted high-tops.
I search my brain
for something cool
or witty to say.
Then Sheila nudges Lana,
who asks, as if she’s rehearsed it,
“So. We really need to know—
does Camille like Tommy
or what?”
A small part of me wants The Trio
to stay,
but then Dad comes to mind
and how he talks about duty,
about doing the right thing.
So I just shrug.
“You’d have to ask Camille.”
The Trio’s disappointment is visible.
They can’t pack up their lunches
fast enough.
103.
Later,
in Ms. Dequire’s room—
the one class with a seating chart—
I sit beside Lana, who rolls her eyes,
scoots her desk a little farther from mine,
and turns her chair so her back is to me.
At one point, she coughs and chokes
and complains to anyone nearby,
“What’s that god-awful
smell?”
104.
Afternoons
at our house,
Mom nails the role
of merry parent, singing out loud
like a Dickens caroler:
“This shall be a holiday to remember!
A Christmas of firsts for the Woods!”
She instructs me, “Chin up. Be joyful!”
her finger poking the air
for emphasis.
So we try new things—
or the things Dad usually does
when he’s not too busy with work—
like building fires,
shopping for a Christmas tree,
and stringing lights around our house.
Mom works extra hard
to appear convincingly
spirited.
It’s almost like Dad’s gone already
since he’s on the base
practically full time now.
In the cold night air
when he finally gets home,
we stand back in the yard
to admire the twinkling lights
that I’ve wound around
the porch columns.
And I can sense he’s impressed,
but I need him this once
just to say it.
105.
Mom
goes overboard,
trying to make Christmas perfect,
doling out
present after present
like a crazed elf.
My loot piles up,
and my stocking spills over
with chocolates,
colored pencils,
and paintbrushes.
Dad gives us
personalized canisters of Mace,
tied with decorative
red ribbons.
“How romantic!” Mom laughs
and plants a kiss on his cheek.
He also pulls
from behind his back
a stuffed pink poodle,
just like my purple one,
except this one is sporting
Army fatigues, and he
tosses it
lovingly
to me.
Big surprise—I miss!
A stuffed dog and Mace!
He must be trying to decide
if I’m a teenager yet or not.
To Mom, I give a picture
I’ve drawn of Dad and her
on the beach.
For Dad, I’ve made a calendar
with themed artwork for each month.
I’m most proud of January.
“You can cross off the days,” I explain.
“It’s amazing!” he begins,
“but I hate to bring it with me—
in case something happens…
“—to it,” he adds quickly.
“But you have to take it!” I practically whimper.
“Sweetie, your dad loves it,” Mom reassures,
misunderstanding me
or the moment.
106.
Later,
to spread some joy,
I call Camille
and chuckle
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
into the receiver.
“Ab-bey! I thought you were a perv!”
We get down to talking presents—
my set of paints and brushes,
her collectible basketball jersey—
and we schedule a movie date.
Then
like she can read my mind
and knows I’m worried about Jacob
because I snapped at him
that day on the bus,