in solidarity
under
Pretty.
139.
I discover the same list
taped to Camille’s locker
and shred it quickly into a billion pieces,
but only after the whole world
of Henley Middle
reads it.
On the tip of my tongue,
I hold back an arsenal of words,
like ammunition, for the three
who labeled my friend
so hurtfully.
But who am I
to stand up
to anybody?
I stand by
wordless most of the time—
or was it
worthless?
In other words,
Nobody.
140.
Speaking of words,
not a single one from Dad.
And a mood descends upon our house.
I spread his letters across my bed,
the most recent penned in blue ink,
his handwriting quivery.
Was he tired when he wrote it,
or distracted? Was it dark or noisy?
Is the ink so recent
one of my tears
could smear his words
and turn my fingertips blue?
The paper doesn’t have lines
so his writing slants down
the page, as if you could shake
the paper, and the message
would slip away, forever.
I touch his words, especially the last ones,
then gather all the letters together
and close them into a box
beside my bed, for when
I might need them
one day.
141.
The little brother
of Jiman
sits up front on the bus.
I’m in the middle somewhere.
He plays with two action figures—
soldiers actually, positions them
on top of the seat
in front of him.
I watch
his story of war:
the soldiers clobber each other,
until one takes a fatal blow.
Then he lays them side by side,
and it’s hard to tell who won
because they both appear
to be sleeping
or maybe
dying.
Flirty squeals erupt
from the back of the bus
and pull my attention away.
The Trio are all on board
with the football boys,
going to one another’s houses.
At the next stop,
they shove and strut
down the aisle
all noise and hands
as one boy steals
an action figure
and pockets it for keeps.
GIVE IT BACK!
Jiman commands,
bolting to the front
in two seconds flat.
The driver turns in his seat,
makes eye contact with her,
nods,
and demands the boys
return what they stole,
and puts them off the bus
for repeated offenses
for a whole week.
On the side of the road,
they stomp their feet, shove
one another, and kick the dirt.
The Trio prop their hands on cocked hips.
In the bus, the air feels different
and a slow clap begins
until the whole bus
is cheering—and Jiman
and her brother sit taller,
taller now than ever.
142.
So vivid I can touch him—
Dad!
He’s in the desert…
and gunfire pops all around him,
like fireworks with no celebration.
He collapses into the sand
and a bearded soldier overtakes him,
stands above him, takes aim
with his gun—
I wake to screaming—
It is my own!
Mom is beside me in seconds.
She wraps her arms around me
and rocks me back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth,
like I am an infant again.
Is it me who is shaking?
“I know,
I know, Abbey,” she whispers like a lullaby.
We wake the next morning,
awkward and tired,
with dark circles for eyes.
Mom walks me to the bathroom
where I try
to wash the nightmare
away.
143.
Camille and I poke
our squishy burgers
and grease-soaked fries
and plan our upcoming spring break.
She shares her goal to refine her near-perfect layup,
with award-winning humility.
No matter what anyone writes,
I think Camille is amazing.
“Basketball every day!” she sighs
and then spots Jacob
halfway across the cafeteria.
“HEY!” she screams, heads turning
at her volume and audacity.
Jacob carries his tray over to us.
He’s back from a field trip.
“Guess I’ll be lunching
with the young ones today!”
“You know you love it!” Camille beams.
I smile shyly.
Then Camille—spontaneously—bounds away: