Sometimes
I still walk to our old house. I crawl behind the hedges growing below the wall and I sit. I press against its cool, gray-painted concrete face. And I wonder: If I climb up, will I hear her voice? And then I remember that if I fall, no one will be there to help me.
For Sale
I was 13 when our house went up for sale. It was cold and wet that night. I left Uncle Leon’s and found myself there. If I throw a rock through the window, I thought, maybe no one will want it. So I did. I threw a rock through the front window. And I ran and slipped and fell— my jeans ripped through on both knees. When I cried out, I wasn’t sure where the pain was coming from.
Sometimes
I get this itch in the middle of my rib cage. Maybe it’s more like an ache. And really it’s always there. Some days I think it’s just stronger than others. It feels like the times you played outside when you were little. Your mother isn’t there and you fall. Tears pool your eyes and this pain grows in your chest. Knowing you are alone. Knowing you will have to pick yourself up.
Mr. Ruzza
asks John and I to stay after class. He lectures about how I’m better than this. And how John needs to stop being late. He ends on a note about finding friendship in loneliness or misery or something like that. I feel John look at me and I want to apologize. Instead, I nod and then I leave.
Johnny
Today I Will Ignore Her
I’m not even sure why I bothered trying in the first place. Mr. Ruzza is right, misery needs company. But, company and friendship are two different things. Gin isn’t capable of either.
Gin
Today I Want to Be Better
so I try to catch John’s eye in the hallway. But he never looks at me. I realize for the first time that we have the same lunch period. But he leaves through the cafeteria doors the moment he buys his food. In class. I’ll just catch him in class.
He’s Late When He Finally Shows
So I don’t get to say anything. But, I notice a stain on the cuff of his sweatshirt. It wasn’t there when he walked out of the cafeteria. I wonder what it’s from. Then Mr. Ruzza starts handing back our practice state exams. Great. I’ll never get into college at this rate.
Johnny
Tutor Me,
Gin says. I don’t respond. So she says it again. We got our test marks back from our first practice exams. Puh-leeeease, boy genius, she begs. I laugh, but I’m not facing her when I do. Out the side of my eye, I think I catch her smiling. But I don’t turn to find out. I don’t want to risk it.
Gin
Lunch
Unlike me, when Johnny walks, he shuffles fast. His legs are like a hummingbird’s wings. I want to catch him. Maybe ask if he’d like to sit with me. But today he’s off again. He has two trays in his hands, one flipped upside down to hide what is on top of the other. Quickly he is gone, like a rabbit, through the double doors. As if he is chasing something. As if he has somewhere to be.
Johnny
Broken Mirror on the Wall
who’s the fattest of them all? You are, it says. You are, again and again. My mother insisted I try on these jeans for her. So I do. And when I’ve had my fair share of the mirror’s voice, when I’ve seen enough of my disgusting reflection, I crawl out of the jeans. Slip into my sweats.
A Diet
I tried starving myself once. I was 12 and in the 7th grade. I had gained some weight. Sometimes in the locker room, other boys would laugh and point and poke at my stomach. I didn’t even make it a full two days before I passed out in the middle of dodgeball.
Blue
From then on, my mother would make sure I ate full meals. TV dinners, snacks, and cereal because she worked double shifts and was home only a couple hours a day. Like the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, I watched myself grow and grow. And when they started poking me again at school and Father at home, I’d sometimes pray I’d pop blue. All over the walls. All over their faces.
Doubles
1. I was about nine. Father got let go from his job. My mother sunk all her worries deep in her belly. When she first picked up doubles at the diner, she’d drop me home from school between shifts. We’d sing songs the 20 minutes through. Just to get us by, she’d say. I’d nod my head in agreement. 2. Months passed, turned into a year, and Father was still home. During those 20-minute drives, neither Mom nor I sung anymore. Just to get us by, she’d say when I’d get out of the car. And they fought so much then, back and forth. When she said this, all I heard was, Just to get away. I’d bob my head in understanding. 3. Father has a job now but isn’t on strict hours. He comes and goes when he pleases. But even though my mother no longer works doubles, she is even more absent now than she was then. Every day feels like a trial. And “just to get by,” she doesn’t fight back anymore. She doesn’t say or do anything all that much anymore. I can’t remember the last time either of us sang.
Tonight, I Wake Up
My mother sits at the foot of my bed with her hand on my ankle. When I sit up, her eyes do not leave the floor. I watch her lips part and press back together. She stands, her head tilting slightly in my direction. But she doesn’t look at me before she leaves. It feels like my lungs are swelling. An ache grinds across my ribs. I curl my head into my sheets.
If My Heart Had Knees
I wonder if she’d see they were bleeding. Pools of blood and tears filling the pit of my stomach. I wonder how many bandages it would take to close me up. I wonder how much gauze.
Gin
John Wasn’t Here Yesterday
He doesn’t look at me when he walks into class. John looks tired. More tired than usual. And his skin—ghostly. Mr. Ruzza puts a paper on my desk. “Group Project: Scene Play” And he assigns partners right before the ending bell rings. Before I can say anything to John, he is out the door.
Romeo
was a fool. Like me, he fell for a girl from a world he didn’t belong to. Like me, he chased with his heart first and never thought about the risk.
Johnny
Juliet
If my mother killed herself for love, I wonder if Father would, too. But, then again, my mother already roams like a ghost. Her body an empty capsule. Her chest a beatless, bruised tomb.
Gin
I’ll Follow Him
That’s what I decide to do—follow John. So as he walks through the double doors, tray in hand, so do I. As he turns right, down Freshman Hall, I do, too. And when he walks up a ramp and turns left, I also do this. I follow him until he opens and shuts a door behind him, a black and white PRIVATE sign stuck on its surface.
Johnny
Thoughts from the PRIVATE Room
I try to remember the last time I believed Father loved me. I try to remember what he was like when he loved me. Because I know that once upon a time this time existed. But when I reach into my mind, all I find is black, empty nothing. As if I am no more than skin and bone. No more than skin and skull.
Someone’s Knocking
on my door. This never happens. They knock again, harder. John? they say. Oh god. John? again. Is that Gin? I crack the door and she presses an eye at the crack. What are you doing here? I ask her. What are YOU doing here? she asks back as she tries to push through. And I realize I haven’t flushed the toilet.
The PRIVATE Room
I come here to eat my lunch and throw it up. A part of me wants to tell her this. That two, sometimes three fingers jam down my throat three to five times a day. Instead, I slam the door shut on her fingers.
Nurse’s Office
Gin is silent all the way there. I keep a two-yard distance. I watch blood drip down her right arm. Nurse Kathy asks what happened. Lockers? And Gin looks up at me through the station window. We hold this stare the whole time Gin gets wrapped up. Boyfriend? asks Nurse Kathy, when she sees me out here on the other side. And then it’s Gin who looks away.
Gin
It’s Strange
I watch John stand there. His face
red with embarrassment. Sweat beads on his forehead. I wonder how he can feel so much worry, carry so much sadness in his eyes. His eyes don’t look like everyone else’s. His sadness isn’t generic and fleeting. It’s real. Like mine.
Real Sadness
When school started the year Mom died, people talked about the record-breaking heat. But I don’t remember if I even saw the sun that summer. If I felt its warm rays across my face. The night was my friend. The night was quiet and the moon was my sun. Cold and distant like I wanted to be. No one was around to say sorry for my loss. I let no one in. I knew their faces would hold frowns, drooping like melted wax. Reeking of pity. These faces brought me nightmares.
Mom’s Voice
I couldn’t find it anywhere. It had once been so loud by that wall when she was worried. I couldn’t find her face as lively in pictures as it had been framed in our kitchen window. I had to go back. I had to find her in one of my most favorite forms. Neck stretched over the window ledge, head shaking. Voice cracking as it found me.
And So One Night
I walked to my old home to sit between its hedges and the garden wall. See, the wall ran far down the front lawn. I figured I’d never be found there. I figured I was safe this far away. Even if a new family moved in.
The New Family
That night, the mother of this new family went to let the dog out. When she found him sniffing near the end of the driveway, she came to investigate. Once she saw my face, she knelt down, cupped my chin in her wrinkled hand. It had sun spots like Mom’s. And she said, Oh sweetie, I saw your face in the papers a little while back. You come and go as long as you’d like.
I Had Refused
to come back for a few months. I didn’t need her pity, I thought. I didn’t need her telling me what I could and could not do when this was my home once. But eventually I did come back. And no one ever came to chase me out. She was generous. She just let me be.
Generous
AP English is not the only class John and I will share now. I find this out when the principal calls me to his office the next day. Mr. Collins has volunteered to shadow you. He’ll take notes for you until your hand gets better. That’s very generous of John. Yes, I say and make sure he sees my eyes roll. Very generous.
Johnny
I Never Imagined Gin
to be the kind of person to care for apologies. And I figured if I was just a shadow of a person any other day, she’d hardly notice me following her class to class. And I was right. Because for a week she didn’t say a word to me. Well, until—
Why?
she asks. She stops walking. Why was I there? I ask. And when she doesn’t respond, I say, Because it’s my place. My safe space. And— She starts walking again. She doesn’t wait for the rest. And I’m not sure I would have said much more anyway.
I’m Awake But It’s 4 a.m.
I get up anyways. Today, I shower. I pull clothes over my skin. I spoon cereal into my mouth. I go to the bathroom. I slide two bags of chips between my lips. I go to the bathroom. I leave.
I Can’t Sleep
School doesn’t open for an hour. But I decide today I’ll just be early. I can’t sleep knowing that someone else knows about my safe space. A room all to myself where no one can watch me.
Penmanship
Gin is reviewing our notes in study hall. You have really nice handwriting, she says quietly. Thanks, I say. I feel like I should say something else. You smell good today! I say. She snorts. You smell good today? Ugh. I quit smoking, she says, and flips another page. What a weird compliment, by the way. So I try again. You look nice in white, I say. But it comes out so strange it sounds almost like a question. This time she goes cold.
Gin
White
I am a little girl. My mother puts white flowers in my hair. She twirls me fast, faster, (promises hearts of boys, boys that will make my head spin) and then she stops. The song comes to an end. My flowers? All over the kitchen floor.
When I Was a Little Girl
my mother loved dressing me in white. Every Sunday, she’d buckle me in. Then, gently close the car door beside me. I’d watch her white rosary sway on the rearview mirror. Like a wind chime in a summer breeze. The beads bouncing sun rays like a disco ball.
I Saw a Woman Once
through the trees of the school forest. Probably the mother of an away team’s player. Nervously watching, she brought her white beaded necklace to her lips. At night my mother, rosary in her sun-freckled hands, would kneel by her bedside and bring her rosary to her lips. Quiet whispers sweeping between them. Sometimes I’d hear my name.
At Her Funeral
I heard people talking, whispering about how she must’ve seen the other car coming. That when they pulled her from the car, her rosary was in her hand. White beads scattered across the dashboard. A few on the highway, rolling with the wind.
Love Me
I often wonder: would Mom still love me knowing I was gay? Or would she love me knowing that it wouldn’t be boys that rushed blood to my face, or made my head spin? It wouldn’t be a boy that caused my second chest ache, my second heartbreak. Nila would always be my first.
I’ve Had This Nightmare Lately
Its meaning is all too clear. I’m sitting on the couch in my uncle’s house. I can’t remember who I’m speaking to. But they ask me, What is it you wanted to tell me? Well, I—and I start to choke. White beads falling from my mouth into my cupped hands, onto my white, crisp-ironed skirt, flooding the floor under my feet.
Johnny
My Place with Gin
On the way to lunch, Gin asks me about the room again. So I take her with me. When I open my door, she stands in the doorframe. She looks at the toilet, the sink, the chipped wooden bench. Then she comes in. Closes the door behind her. And sits legs crisscrossed on the teal-tiled floor.
This First Time
we don’t say anything and I don’t eat anything.
On Our Walk Home That Day
Gin trips and falls over a raised piece of sidewalk and cuts open her knee. I help her up.
Gin
On the Way Home
the other day, Johnny pointed out how we both had our two front teeth crossed, one over the other. He made a joke saying we must both be the mailman’s kid. But after he said this, and we looked at each other, neither of us laughed. In a way, we both wished it was true.
Johnny
Gin and I
have been friends for about 12 days. We haven’t said much on the subject, though. Haven’t used actual words about whether that’s what we’re calling ourselves now. Maybe I’m just her tutor still. So maybe it’s less than that for her. Maybe it’s eight…five… or no days at all.
We Are Leaving School
and we see the USPS truck. Our mailman dad. Both of us stop walking in our tracks. And both of us try to hold in our laughter. Afraid, I think, about how the other will react. Until I see Gin’s cheeks turn red and laughter bursts out of the both of us in loud, ridiculous cackles.
It’s Strange,
but for seconds at a time, every now and then when we’re together, it feels as if maybe both of us are okay. And at times even if we both seem miserable, that is better than the loneliness I felt before. Before we were us.
Gin
We Talk
about our dreams, our hopes. At least to some degree. Johnny is vague. When we talk about what we hope for in our future, when we finally leave this place, I go on about the freedom we’ll have. The ability to no longer live like a herd animal, migrating only to the sound of bells. Johnny says he hopes for “peace.” But he never really says much else.
Johnny
Gin Always Changes Direction
when we get into a subject. She kind of goes off track like a three-wheeled race car. We talk about our lives after high school. And as I say, “Peace,” she comments on how strange it is to be laying on a bathroom floor. And how strange it is to be considered strange. And what necessarily is strange
in the first place? We never really go back to “hopes” after that. Not really.
Gin
You and Me and Misery Page 2