Love,
Dad
169.
Camille shoots layups,
and I sprawl on her driveway
surrounded by tubes of paint.
My canvas is a pair of high-tops.
Naturally, she’s requested peace signs
and basketballs—no surprise!
I line up her name across the front
and paint stripes on the tongues
and my initials on her soles.
I’m afraid I could get used to this.
Living here.
Having a forever friend like Camille.
I’m thinking this when Camille’s dad
comes outside. I picture him at the protest,
but he doesn’t mention it. Instead he says,
“Abbey, your dad’s been in our thoughts.
We’re looking forward to his safe return.”
And as simple as that, he heads off
to mow their grass.
I was holding
my breath. Now I’m breathing again
a sigh of relief when Camille says,
“It’s not the end of the world, Abbey,
when adults disagree.”
Camille and I make plans for summer—
painting, swimming, and basketball.
We’re getting started right now
just in case
my family
has to move.
170.
Mom has dropped me off
at the downtown
Art Supply Store
I need a canvas and new paints
for Dad’s Homecoming,
which should occur
any
day
now.
I’m in my element, and I’m happy
as I reach for a tube of paint
for the painting I have in mind,
and out of the corner of my eye,
I notice someone directly beside me.
We reach for the exact same tube
at the exact same time.
It is Jiman!
She’s probably not sure
what to make of me since
no words live in my head.
Words, what are words?
I cannot remember even one.
“What are you painting?” she leads.
Breathe, Abbey! Just breathe.
“A painting for my dad,” I manage,
and
“You?”
“A mural for my parents’ restaurant,”
she says in a quiet matter of fact.
Side by side, we stare at paints.
I could tell her
that my family ate at their restaurant,
that I’d like to see her mural when it’s done,
that I think she’s awesome.
“You know…
they called me names too,”
she says.
I take another deep breath,
know she’s talking about
the boys on the bus—
or maybe The Trio,
or both.
“They get bored eventually,”
she says.
“Besides…
we belong here, you and I.”
At first I think she means
the art store—but quickly realize
she means so much more.
And I let her words sink in
like seeds planted in fertile dirt.
Then, for some reason, I tell her,
“You’re a really good sister, Jiman.”
A crooked smile leaps to her face.
“My name is Abbey,” I continue,
feeling courageous now.
“I know.” She laughs.
“Where are you from?” I ask her.
“My family is Kurdish,
but I was born and raised in New Jersey.
What about you?”
My answer is complicated, too.
“I’m kind of from a lot of places.
I can tell you about it sometime.”
We stare at each other briefly, as if
we both know we’re going to be friends.
Sometimes it takes an eternity to figure things out,
especially when you’re in middle school.
We start to turn away at the exact same time,
but I turn back and take a risk:
“Do you want to come over one day?
We could paint.”
171.
The next day on the bus
Jiman tells me a story,
set in our art class:
It started with a single dot
that I turned into a sun.
Appear the antagonists:
They walk past when Mr. Lydon isn’t looking,
hands at their sides, marker or pen uncapped,
and stab it or drag it
across my paper.
I’m on the edge of my seat:
Once or twice, when I crumpled it up,
they laughed when I started over, called me a name.
But I realized I was letting them win.
And the hero triumphs:
Now, I can transform any mark or mean word
into a butterfly, flower, or bird.
It’s how I learned I’m talented.
With a twist:
I had a feeling, Abbey,
that you’d be fine too.
The end!
or
The beginning…
172.
The last day of school
begins in an ordinary square classroom
with blue walls, a white board, a striped flag
forever tied in my mind to September 11th, 2001—
the one school I’ll always