by Edith Pattou
and hobble back
onto the ice.
Then I take off after Brendan,
camera clutched firmly
in my mittened hand.
The number of people thins out
as I get farther away
from the harbor.
There are
no bonfires
here.
The night is perfectly still,
the moon
almost full.
The only sound
I can hear now is
my skates
cutting
the
ice.
The cold wind freezes my face,
but it is exhilarating
swooping along
the glassy smooth surface,
one foot,
then the other,
whoosh whoosh,
like an Olympic speed skater.
At least I feel like I’m going that fast,
but I can’t seem
to catch up to
Brendan and his brother.
A lone torch
marks the spot
where Artie Phelps must’ve left off his
grooming.
The ice is rough here,
so I slow down.
I’m beginning to think that
Brendan and his brother
are headed all the way
into Chicago
when I hear voices
ahead of me.
From the torchlight behind
I can just make out
the wheelchair
and
the skater,
and I catch
my breath.
Brendan and his brother
are doing
a figure eight,
in concentric circles,
passing each other
in the middle.
They are awkward
and unpolished,
but it is
an awe-inspiring,
humbling
sight.
And the most beautiful thing
about it is
the concentration and
the joy on
both their faces.
Someone skates up next to me
and I turn to see
Chloe Carney.
She is intently
watching
the two boys
skate.
Then she turns to me
and smiles.
Wednesday, March 9
ANIL
1. The whole point of a shrine,
I thought, was praying.
But I have no talent for praying.
I’m too self-conscious,
too analytical.
My prayers tend to be
more like checklists,
or mathematical formulas.
2. My mom says there is
no right way to pray
and that prayer is really just
thinking.
Focused thinking perhaps.
Anyway, it’s not like I kneel
in front of my dresser and pray.
More often, I lie on my bed,
glancing over at the pieces of glass,
the roses, and the candle,
and yes, up at those
glow-in-the-dark stars
pasted on the ceiling,
which have become an
unofficial part of my shrine.
3. My mother has already started
planning the feast that she will cook
for the Hindu festival of Holi
which in India marks the
start of spring.
It always falls on
the day of the first full moon
in March, which this year
is on the 19th.
Holi is also called
the Festival of Colors.
At night people light bonfires
to say good-bye to winter.
They gather together to
sing and dance and play music.
And during the day they throw
gulal at each other—
brightly colored powders
that you carry in your pocket
to fling at anyone
you meet.
Everyone knows to wear
old clothes on Holi because
the gulal will stain.
By the end of the day
everyone is covered with
brilliant colored splotches—
on hair, faces, eyelashes, lips,
clothes, shoes.
Like they’ve been tie-dyed.
I love photos of Holi,
the laughter on everyone’s face.
As if they’re throwing
Technicolor clouds of happiness
into the air.
Anointing
everyone around them
with color.
4. I still think about Maxie.
In a different universe,
I imagine spending Holi with her,
us laughing together,
drenched in color.
But she has made it clear that
I am an outcast to her, that
we cannot be friends.
And sometimes I do not know
if I can recover from that.
If I could wash away
these feelings, the way you can
cleanse yourself of the gulal powders
at the end of Holi, I would.
But what kind of unholy joke is it
that I should have stumbled across
this stubbornly unyielding joy
in a girl’s crooked smile
on that one terrible night.
Friday, April 8
POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD
When it looked like one of those kids
was going to die,
the prosecutor was all set
to slap Walter Smith with
Murder One.
But as soon as the boy who lost an eye
came out of the coma,
things shifted.
There was plenty of talk.
That Walter Smith was on suicide watch, which I knew to be true, early on anyway.
That his court-assigned lawyer was going to plead not guilty by reason of insanity.
That he was going to plead not guilty period, using a defense similar to the ‘Stand Your Ground’ laws they’ve got in states like Arizona and Alabama, under the theory that he had a legitimate fear of being under attack.
Then on a cold morning in April,
word came down that Walter Smith was going
to plead guilty.
A plea bargain had been reached,
second-degree murder,
with a possible sentence of eight to nineteen years in prison,
depending on the judge’s final decision.
I wondered why Walter decided
to plead guilty.
I heard it was against the advice of his lawyer.
My best guess is it had to do with
all those tears I saw him shed
that night,
on the curb
and at the jail.
I remember thinking at the time that
he was like a kid who had done something wrong,
and knew it,
and felt bad.
WALTER
When a marshal is hired to protect a town but it turns out the town is populated by the lawless and the insane,
the only option left for the sheriff is to
turn in his badge.
Monday, April 11
EMMA
We get a call from the prosecutor
saying that Walter Smith
is going to plead guilty.
He asks if we want
to attend the hearing,
maybe even say something to the judge.
Faith isn’t sure she wants to go.
But I am sure.
Which is surprising
because lately there has been very little I’m sure of.
Tuesday, April 19
EMMA
The day of the hearing, Faith
decides to come with me, even
though I told her she didn’t have to.
Anil is the only other one of us there.
He is with his parents and seeing him
in the courtroom is somehow comforting.
Chloe told me Brendan refused to come, mainly because
his dad wanted him to, wanted everyone in the courtroom
to see Brendan in his wheelchair.
Brendan’s dad thought that their seeing the wheelchair
would get Walter Smith slapped in jail for
the maximum sentence allowed by the law.
Chloe says that Brendan’s turned a corner.
He’s more interested in looking ahead than looking back.
And that he doesn’t care what his dad wants.
I stare at Walter Smith, who looks so small and pale
in his oversize glasses, and all I can think is that he
looks like one of those scrawny stubby-tailed squirrels,
the ones you see frozen in the middle of the road
as your car barrels toward them, and you know
that squirrel isn’t long for this world.
And suddenly I know
I have to say something.
Something important.
When the prosecutor looks over at me,
I stand up. My hands are shaking
and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.
I start to talk but only a
croaking sound comes out. The judge
asks me to speak up.
I clear my throat,
take a deep breath
and this time my voice is loud, clear.
We were all at fault, I say. Not just Walter Smith.
We were all to blame.
WALTER SMITH
When the girl with the dark-red ponytail stands up to speak
I realize she is the sister of the girl with the dog,
the one on the bike. They look a little alike,
but this one has a harder face, not as nice-looking.
But then I notice her hands are shaking,
and what she says surprises me.
She says everything that happened that night
wasn’t just my fault. We were all to blame.
And I suddenly remember the movie High Noon and how
the marshal’s nice wife who wears white dresses
is the only one in the whole town who helps the marshal,
who stands beside him when the bad guys come.
The girl with the pony tail now has tears running
down her cheeks, and she turns toward me
looks me straight in the eye.
And she says, “I’m sorry.”
Tears are running out of my eyes, too, and then
a man with a red face jumps up and starts yelling
about how his son is crippled for life because of
“that sonofabitch” and I realize he means me.
The judge bangs her gavel, telling the man to be quiet.
He won’t and so a sheriff takes him away.
I look at the ponytail girl, sitting next to her sister.
They are holding hands and looking back at me.
And my heart starts beating hard because just for a second
I think that maybe there still are good guys
in this world. And that maybe I shouldn’t
hand in my badge after all.
Saturday, July 9
MAXIE
It is a warm Saturday in
early July.
Mom is in the kitchen,
trying a new recipe for turkey chili,
and Dad is off at the garden center.
Now that he’s got a job,
Dad wants to get the backyard
fixed up.
The doorbell rings.
I open the door
and Anil Sayanantham
is
standing
there.
Right away I can’t
breathe.
Hi, Maxie, he says.
Hi, I half whisper, half say.
How are you? he asks.
I stammer back that I’m okay.
Which,
despite my current inability
to breathe,
is actually sort of
true.
Uh, he starts, then clears his throat. I’ve been wanting to tell you that those photos you took, the ones in Versions, were amazing. Congratulations on getting the Ellen Loomis Award. You deserved it.
Thanks, I manage to reply.
This is so surreal,
I think to myself,
chitchatting on the front
stoop
with Anil Sayanantham.
I heard you’re going to Columbia, I say.
Well, yes and no, he says, I’m actually taking a year off. Going to India to live with my mom’s family. Work in a clinic, travel.
Wow, that’s great, I say.
How about you, next year I mean?
Uh, not India exactly, but I did get into Northwestern, which is sort of a miracle.
I hear my mom calling me
from inside
the house.
Well, I say, it was nice to see you, but I . . .
Maxie, Anil blurts out, his cinnamon-colored skin tinged with a red blush, I was wondering, if you, well, would like to go to dinner with me next Saturday night? And maybe a movie?
I am
floored.
Is Anil Sayanantham
actually asking me out
on a
date?
Really?
Like nothing ever happened?
Like somehow we are
just a normal
teenage boy
and
teenage girl?
I can’t take it in.
I feel tears brimming up
in my eyes.
Because
Anil is
that night.
I stare at him.
But then I think to myself
that Chloe
and Brendan
and Emma
and Faith
and Felix
are all