by Melody Dodds
“With Cooper?”
“Well, yeah!
He’s going
away to college
in August.
We need to see
as much of each other
as we can
in the next
few months.”
“Can you just
maybe come
once a week?
Instead
of quitting?”
I hate how
my voice sounds
when I ask this.
Like I
might cry
about it.
C IS FOR CONFUSED
I’M
truly confused.
I know
how things go
when Cooper is involved.
But still.
Drama Club
was a big deal
for Liv,
and I don’t mean
KIND OF.
She’s been
talking about it
since last year. I’m
STARTING TO
worry
about her future.
She’s giving up so much
for this guy.
But I’m afraid
to say anything. I’d
HATE
to start a fight with her.
I just hope
he’s not using
HER
like I think he is.
COMPETITION SUBMISSION
Mrs. Goode,
my creative writing teacher,
tells me,
“I’m submitting
the essay
you wrote,
‘Lessons from the Critter Cam,’
to the
Regional
Young Writer’s
Competition.
I’m allowed
to submit
one freshman.
You’re it!”
I wish
I had someone
to tell!
ACQUAINTANCES
This is a word
I learned
from Gramma Wright.
It’s someone
you are friendly with,
but who is not a friend.
Someone
you don’t
dislike.
Maybe you share
a sport
or a class.
I walk
down the hall,
and people wave,
say hello.
On the bus,
they don’t trip me
or shove me
or steal
my book bag
and play
Keep Away.
No one calls me
a jerk
or the B-word.
The worst I get called
is quiet,
weird,
creepy,
dorky.
And most of the time,
they’re playing.
I have
dozens of
acquaintances.
CRITTER CAM
I read online
how to better set
the camera.
Sure enough,
I’m getting
clearer pictures
and seeing more.
The raccoon
is getting f a t t e r.
The skunk
has a family.
The opossum
hasn’t come back.
There are too many
turkeys to count!
I could live here.
It’s so peaceful.
I dream
about getting a tent
and setting it up
here on this lot
and calling this
home.
SPRING AND FAIRIES
I can hear
the circus
from the driveway…
“You gonna just wait
for spring
and let it melt?”
So I shovel.
“The laundry fairy
gonna drop off
clean clothes
anytime soon?”
Good one,
Lobster-Dad!
(This stuff
writes itself!)
I go inside
and start
the laundry, too.
Which makes
my mom
angry…
“Our teenage daughter
does everything!”
“Be proud
our daughter doesn’t
run away from work.”
“Sure don’t!
I’m too lazy to run,”
I say.
I’m trying
to be funny.
But…
“You’re taking
his side?”
“I’m not taking
any side,
Mom, I—”
“Go to your room!”
THIS IS IT!
SHE’S GOT A DISH!
SHE’S GOING TO
HURL IT AT ME!
I want
to try being funny
again.
But my mind
is blank.
SMASH!
“GO TO YOUR ROOM!”
I do,
but I grab
a piece
of that
broken dish
on the way.
LATE FEBRUARY
(BROKEN GLASS)
The glass shard
is as big as
my hand.
I blow on it.
“I work,
Marilyn.”
“Not that much
in winter, Lobsterman!”
I don’t want
bits of glass
in me.
“We fix the boats.”
“You put
a new engine in
last year. What’s left
to fix?”
I carefully set the thin,
sharper part
against my arm
near the elbow.
“We repair
and build
the lobster traps.”
“Oh, is that all
you do?”
SMASH!! SMASH!! SMASH!!
Just the coolness
of the glass
calms me.
“Gary’s
getting serious
about the oyster farm.”
“Gary who you drink
with after work?”
Yank!
No tugging.
It’s clean and slick.
Blood flows
warm.
“Yeah. I do.
It’s better
than coming home.”
Like an ocean.
And, just like the ocean,
I am carried away,
weightless.
“It’s
CUT
better
CUT
than
CUT
coming
CUT
home.”
CUT
Home is where
the heart breaks.
SOPHIE SAID
in one of her LPRB videos
about how to
clean up
after a cutting event.
That’s what
she calls them
in her newest videos.
She said
just use peroxide,
soap,
and warm water.
I did all that,
then wrapped my arm
in gauze.
It was weird,
to do these things.
It made me feel
like I was taking care
of myself
in a deeper way
than just taking care
of my wounds.
It was like
m
othering.
Only, I was
the mom
and
the kid
at the same time.
There was something
very peaceful
about it.
I liked being able
to be kind
to myself.
I didn’t have to
make any jokes.
I didn’t have to
lie to
the Me version
of my parent.
I was honest with Me.
You hurt yourself,
and now
I am going to help you
heal and feel better.
I felt like
I loved myself.
I felt like
I could be loved.
LIV NOTICES
Not the cuts.
I covered those.
The bandages.
I get
careless
with my flannel shirt.
“What happened
to your arm!”
I have already
made up
a whole story:
“I was out
in the brambles
chasing Chairman Meow.
That scratched me up.
Then when I finally
caught him,
he was mad
about it
and wanted
me to know.”
“You should
just let
him go.”
“I would miss him!”
“How could you?
He’s so mean!”
I want
to tell her
that’s exactly
how I feel
about Cooper.
But I figure
that will go over
about as well
as a fart
in church.
So, never mind.
LIV ASKED
Can I come
to Drama Club
just once a week?
They said okay.
Can I just
design the set?
They said yes.
She is designing
the set,
then handing it off
to the builder.
Meaning me.
I didn’t get
an acting part.
And when your dad
builds lobster cages
and fixes boats
for a living,
you learn some stuff.
So they asked me
to build the set.
For some reason,
I said yes.
CONTEST NEWS
Mrs. Goode tells me,
“You won
second place!”
“So I’m the first
loser.”
“You came in second.
In a regional contest
with hundreds
of entries.
And you’re
a freshman.
You should be
really proud.”
“I am!
When it comes
to losing,
I’m the very
best.”
She shakes
her head.
“What is it
with you kids?
Anyway,
there is a
winner’s ceremony
and
reading
in two weeks.”
READING?!
“Wait, WHAT?
We’re expected
to READ?
Out loud?
In FRONT
of people?”
“The winners are
given
the opportunity
to
read their essay
at the awards ceremony,
yes.
You’ll be
representing
the school, Heather.”
I didn’t get
an acting part
in a play with
19 roles!
Now they want
me to read.
How can I say no?
“Of course
I’ll go.”
THE SET
will be made
from cardboard.
Dad loaned me
a utility knife,
a heavy gray thing
as big as a banana
and twice as heavy.
There is space
inside the handle
to hold three blades.
“Cardboard chews
through blades,” Dad told me.
Once I’m done
building the set,
Dad will bring it
to school
in his truck.
I am in
the basement
cutting cardboard
like it’s butter
when the Friday Night Fights begin.
I figure,
Great!
More material!
But something’s
d i f f e r e n t.
MOM IS YELLING, BUT…
Dad is talking.
His voice
is even
and tired.
A low rumble.
I can’t hear
his words.
Just his tone.
Then Mom:
“It’s a marriage!
You don’t get time off!”
Dad’s
distant thunder
response.
Mom again.
No rumble.
Heavy footsteps
to the front door.
Front door
opens.
Dad
leaves.
EARLY MARCH
(UTILITY KNIFE)
Mom stomps
over to
the front door.
“IF YOU LEAVE
IN THAT TRUCK,
DON’T YOU DARE
COME BACK!”
I hear
Dad’s truck
start.
Cool blade
on warm skin:
Hot rush!
He drives off.
And again.
Away
from
me.
A wave
of
calm.
And again.
relief
gentle peace
And again.
soft and
warm and
safe
Like
a
trance.
WARMTH
dribbles
D
o
w
n
my
arm
Drip
drip
drips
onto
the
basement
floor.
Bright red,
so bright,
so much.
Oh!
Oh, no.
FEAR
The utility blade
is sharp and thick.
The cuts it left
are deep and w i d e
How will I hide this
madness?
So reckless.
Stop this bleeding!
Now I’m screaming.
HOSPITAL
The intern
still has braces.
He gives me
some side-eye.
I tell him
the same lie
I told Mom.
“My cat…
I was cutting cardboard…
The third time he asks,
my mom flips out.
“My daughter
is not a liar!
And you
don’t know her.
She’s not wimpy.
She’s forever getting
scratched
>
and
bruised.”
The same
excuse
Liv used.
The intern nods
and sends me
on my way
with stitches and gauze.
DEAR SOPHIE,
If I am
cutting myself
and think maybe it’s
out of control,
what’s the best way to
tell my parents?
Look forward to
your (video)
response!
Love and peace
from the Most Northeast
THREEDAYS
Dad’s been
away now.
I’m glad I’m busy
with the set,
and practicing
for the reading
and checking
the trail cam.
(There was a car
on the property!)
So yeah,
I’ve been busy.
Still, it’s been
impossible
to sleep.
I GO TO LIV’S
Her mom
answers the door.
She tells me
Liv is with Cooper.
She invites me in,
but I say no.
Thank you.
She says
she hasn’t seen me
in a long time
and she misses me.
This makes me sad
because these are things
I wish Liv would say.
DAY SIX
Something clicks.
Mom and I
fall into
a pattern.
The house
is quiet
but not
tense,
cold,
awful
quiet.
It’s
peaceful,
easy,
comfortable
quiet.
It’s warm and kind.
I like it.
I feel
guilty,
but I like it.
SET IS DONE
I text Dad
and we make plans
to get it moved.
I text him
most days,
and most days,
he texts back.
But he is
v a g u e
with his answers.
“Doing well.”
“Working a lot.”
I text him,
“SAME!”
With the trail cam
and the drama club,
plus now practicing
for this reading.
I invite him
to the reading.
He doesn’t say
either way.
THE READING
comes up so fast.
I don’t have time
to be nervous
until I’m standing
backstage
at someone else’s
school.
The third-place freshman,
a guy from Bangor,
is reading his essay
about how
his dog died
on the same day
his school baseball team
won the playoffs.
It might be a good essay.
He’s reading it