Three words have been neatly carved into the easel.
I inspect it closely.
Across the top of the frame,
three words
carved intentionally—
Who
am
I?
I trace the letters with my paint-stained finger.
My brush lingers in the air like a question.
By the way he’s etched
these words into wood,
I think I know just how he feels.
Could this really be
MY dad?
Hasn’t he always known who he is
and what he wants
with his Army way
of life?
130.
Out of nowhere,
the-one-and-only Sheila appears at my locker.
I assume she’s looking for someone behind me,
but she whips out
a cupid-shaped invitation
and hands it to me
and recites:
“My Valentine’s Party—at the Country Club.
Everyone’s coming. Not to be missed!”
When she walks away, I stand there
fumbling with my combination,
three times not getting it right.
Then I overhear Lana and Angela in passing:
“Everyone who’s anyone will be there,
and most of the football and soccer teams.”
My heart jumps when I think
of Jacob and me together at a party for Valentine’s.
Then—Voilà!—my locker opens,
and I feel a rush of success
that feels like belonging, like I’m a part of something,
and I can’t wait
to debrief
with Camille on the bus.
What’s more, during class,
Lana asks what I’ll wear,
and scoots her desk an inch closer to mine,
and whispers,
“Jacob will be there!”
131.
On the bus ride home, I’m more confident than ever,
talking a mile a minute.
Then Camille drops the bomb:
“Guess who’s NOT invited?
But I’m okay with it,” she adds quickly,
“I have other plans. There’re hoops
to shoot!” She grins.
“But—but why? I don’t get it!” I stutter, my mouth forming an O.
“Why would they invite me
and not you?”
Camille shrugs.
“I’m pretty sure it’s due
to the other day in P.E.,
when I outran Sheila in the fifty-yard dash,
and Tommy shouted:
‘Man, Camille! You’re fast!’ ”
“So what!?” I say.
“Well, afterward, Sheila trotted over
and added, ‘Fast like a four-legged beast!’ ”
“What did you say to her?”
“I think I just agreed.”
For a brief moment,
hurt makes its home on Camille’s face,
a vulnerability I’ve never seen.
And in that second, I really get it.
Like me, Camille struggles,
but in her own way, and in that—
we are not alone.
I drape my arm
around her shoulder
and squeeze.
Just then
the bus driver
regards us in the mirror
and winks
like it’s exactly
the lightness
we need.
132.
Whenever the phone rings,
Mom and I race to get it, spilling things,
bumping into furniture,
and tripping over each other.
I have a bruise
on my right hip
from an encounter
with a table.
This time,
the phone rings three times
by the time I grab the receiver
and pull it to my ear,
all breathless:
“Hello? Hello?”
A slight delay—
“Abbey the Artist!
It’s Dad.”
IT’S REALLY HIM!
Finally after all these days, I catch my breath.
We small-talk
about the snow, groundhogs, and other things,
which is strange
since there’s much bigger stuff to say.
And then
it just happens—
He opens up to me.
“Abbey…I know it’s not easy,
moving so much and all these new towns
and schools, making new friends each time,
and now I’m gone
at such an important time
in your life—”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I manage.
“When I come home, I promise
I’ll spend more time with you.
I want…to get to know you better,
to be closer. We could do stuff together.”
“I’d like that.”
“One of the guys here told me about
an art museum in Atlanta.
Maybe we could go?”
“Okay,” I whisper, smiling and shaking.
Then the words just come pouring out,
and I say it without regret, like I’m six again,
like these might be our last words:
“I love you so much, Dad,
I’m afraid you won’t come home,
and I just keep thinking about Jackson and Kate.