Chasing Brooklyn

  We took the morning off,

  but tomorrow, it’s back to it.

  “What are you guys doing?” she asks

  after he leaves.

  “Training together.”

  “Is that all?” she asks,

  her eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, Kyra.

  That’s all.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “What’s okay?” I ask.

  “Just, you know,

  whatever happens, it’s okay.

  Don’t be afraid.”

  And I think,

  what a weird thing

  to say.

  Mon., Jan. 23rd—Nico

  I feel eyes on us

  in the hallway as we talk.

  Like talking to someone

  means something more

  than just talking.

  Jesus.

  Like she would ever want

  anything to do with me

  after she had the greatest boyfriend

  in the history of mankind.

  Talking is just talking, people.

  Get a grip.

  Tues., Jan. 24th—Brooklyn

  I’m in a castle,

  standing in a tower,

  looking down through a window

  at the beautiful garden,

  the sun setting in the distance.

  The beauty in the moment

  brings tears to my eyes.

  Sky blue pink,

  the backdrop for

  roses in every color

  blooming in the garden.

  When Lucca

  comes running up the walkway,

  beside the gardens,

  I gasp.

  His eyes scan the area,

  as if looking for someone.

  “Lucca,” I yell, waving.

  “Lucca, I’m up here!

  He comes closer to the tower,

  still looking around him.

  “Brooklyn, don’t be afraid,” he yells.

  “Afraid?” I say, laughing.

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “It’s not about me,” he said.

  “Please, Lucca, come up here.

  Come and see me.

  Please?”

  He shakes his head

  and looks around some more.

  “I can’t.

  I’m not supposed to be here.

  Remember what I said, okay?”

  In an instant,

  he’s gone.

  Not the first time.

  My heart breaks.

  Also not the first time.

  I long to go after him.

  To find him

  and hold him

  and kiss him

  in the loveliest of gardens.

  Behind me,

  I hear a noise

  and when I turn,

  there’s Gabe,

  standing in front of

  the only exit.

  “No,” I say.

  “Please, no.”

  “Stop the fear,” he says,

  his eyes fierce.

  He takes a step toward me.

  And another.

  “Please,” I say,

  backing toward the window.

  “Leave me alone.”

  He’s just a step away now.

  The window’s here,

  my only way out.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I

  y jump.

  For hours after that,

  I’m awake,

  writing in my notebook

  and reading comic books.

  The last time I look at the clock,

  it says 4:30.

  Finally, I feel tired.

  Like I can sleep.

  My alarm will go off at 5:00.

  I wonder

  if I’ll hear it….

  #288

  Dear Lucca,

  I can’t believe it. You were there in my dream.

  For only a second, but it was you. I loved seeing

  you. You said you weren’t supposed to be there.

  What does that mean? Of course you should be

  in my dreams. You more than anyone should

  be in my dreams. Don’t say things like that.

  I’d actually hoped I was done with those dreams.

  But I guess not. Why can’t he just leave me alone?

  Anyway, if I’m going to keep dreaming, I hope

  you come back.

  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Tues., Jan. 24th—Nico

  She doesn’t show up

  at the swimming pool.

  Maybe she forgot.

  Maybe she went to the track instead.

  I swim alone,

  trying to block out the other maybes

  popping up in my brain.

  The ones that make me want to climb out,

  drive to her house,

  and make sure she’s okay.

  Maybe she overslept.

  That’s got to be it.

  She just overslept.

  Tues., Jan. 24th—Brooklyn

  At lunch, I wander outside,

  needing fresh air in my lungs

  more than greasy food in my stomach.

  Kyra’s in the library

  studying for a test.

  I see Nico,

  or part of him anyway,

  sticking out of the hood of his truck,

  like a skilled lion-tamer

  in his lion’s mouth.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Nice engine.”

  He stands up and gives me a look,

  as if I’ve just told him

  he has a nice ass.

  A little taken aback.

  “You know a nice engine when you see it?”

  “Not really,” I tell him.

  “Just thought it sounded good.”

  He walks to the cab

  and grabs a quart of oil.

  “Where were you this morning?”

  “Rough night.

  Didn’t sleep well.

  Sorry.”

  I let out a deep breath

  as he puts the oil in.

  “I wish life was like a car engine,” I say.

  His eyes squint

  in confusion.

  “When something’s wrong,” I explain,

  “you get a mechanic, and it’s fixed.”

  He stands up. Looks at me.

  “Is something wrong, Brooklyn?”

  I shrug and turn my face

  toward the shining sun,

  wanting it to shine forever,

  keeping the darkness at bay.

  “It’s a lot of things, I guess.

  Mostly, I just wish we could go back.

  I miss him, you know?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

  “I better go.

  See ya, Nico.”

  “Brooklyn?”

  I turn around.

  He’s smiling.

  I feel warmth.

  Is that the sun?

  Is that a dimple on his left cheek?

  “I’m a pretty good mechanic.

  Just keep that in mind, okay?”

  Tues., Jan. 24th—Nico

  I can fix cars.

  I can fix fences.

  I can even fix a drippy faucet.

  But if this is a broken-heart issue

  and Lucca is relying on me to fix that,

  I don’t know if I’m the right guy.

  I’ve never fixed a single

  broken heart in my whole life.

  Been the one to do the breaking

  a time or two.

  But fix one?

  Whole new territory.

  Wed., Jan. 25th—Brooklyn

  I sleep well

  for hours,

  until rancid breath

  on my face

  wakens me.

  Fear creeps down my spine

  and I gasp, sitting up.


  I wait

  and watch.

  What does he want?

  Will he ever tell me?

  Or is he just tormenting me

  for the fun of it?

  Out of the corner of my eye

  I see something move.

  A little white moth

  flying here and there,

  around my lamp,

  seeking the light

  like a lost child

  seeking his mother.

  And then,

  in an instant,

  the moth disappears.

  Gone.

  Until it miraculously

  appears from nowhere

  dropped on my blankets

  right in front of me.

  Dead.

  Wed., Jan. 25th—Nico

  Last night

  I had a dream.

  Lucca and I sitting in a baseball stadium,

  the only ones in the stands,

  with the field spread out before us like a feast for a king.

  Baseball hats on our heads.

  Blue sky and warm sunshine.

  The smell of hot dogs in the air.

  Two brothers, side by side, waiting for the game to start.

  “Who’s playing?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?” he asked.

  “No. Not really.”

  Me and him together, that’s what mattered.

  “Brooklyn misses you,” I said.

  He looked at me, his blue eyes stern.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re there. I’m not.

  Don’t give up on her. Please, Nico.

  I gave up on him. And look what happened.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Gabe. I gave up on Gabe.

  Those last days when he was spiraling out of control.

  I didn’t know what else to do. So I gave up.

  And look what happened.”

  “Lucca, if you tried to help him,

  why can’t you try and help her?” I asked.

  “She’s too emotionally dependent on me as it is,” he said.

  “You know those flowers she draws?

  She’s like them in so many ways, Nico.

  Bright and beautiful.

  Lights up the world with her colorful way of seeing things.

  And she’s fragile. Right now, really fragile.

  Handle with care, you know?”

  I know.

  A flower girl indeed.

  Wed., Jan. 25th—Brooklyn

  Ghost in my bedroom.

  Ghost in my dreams.

  Is there something to tell me?

  Or is he making me pay?

  Is he stuck in the past?

  Is there comfort in this?

  Can’t he see what he’s doing?

  Making life hell on earth.

  If that’s the main point,

  then I won’t let him win.

  He simply

  can’t

  win.

  Wed., Jan. 25th—Nico

  As we run around the track,

  a stray dog finds us.

  A black Pomeranian,

  groomed and healthy, but no tag.

  We sit on the damp grass, petting him.

  “Should we take him to the shelter?” Brooklyn asks me.

  “Nah. I’ll go door-to-door.

  He’s gotta live around here.”

  “But what about school?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “Some things are more important.

  Someone must be missing him.

  Imagine if it were you.”

  She tilts her head and smiles.

  “You are good at fixing things, aren’t you?”

  I feel my cheeks get warm.

  “I don’t know.

  All I can do is try.”

  Wed., Jan. 25th—Brooklyn

  After dinner

  my thoughts are here

  and there

  and everywhere

  and I give up on math

  before I even really start.

  I keep thinking about that dog.

  About Nico.

  I don’t know that

  I’ve ever seen

  such determination

  to be good and kind

  and helpful.

  How often do you find

  a combination of strength

  and goodness

  rolled into one?

  And then,

  it hits me like

  a ton of comic books

  alongside the head.

  Tom Strong.

  Nico is a real-life

  Tom Strong.

  Wed., Jan. 25th—Nico

  When she calls me

  I half expect to hear

  a crying girl on the other end.

  But no tears tonight.

  “Did you find the dog’s home?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Oh, good,” she says. “I’m so glad.

  “So, the pool tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Five thirty. Got your alarm set?”

  She laughs. “Yes, my alarm is set.

  I promise I’ll be there.”

  “Okay, good. Try and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Hey, Nico?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you still like to cook?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just curious. Maybe we can have pasta

  the night before the race.

  That’s what runners do, right? Load up on carbs?”

  “So you an expert on racing now, Brooklyn?”

  “Hardly,” she says. “But I’m gonna do this thing.

  I want to know what it feels like

  to run across a finish line.

  Despite all the obstacles and setbacks,

  to go out and do it. You know?”

  “Yep. I know.”

  “Bye, Nico.”

  “Bye.”

  Wed., Jan. 25th—Brooklyn

  I wake

  to something in my hand.

  My notebook

  with letters to Lucca.

  On the front cover

  in big, black ink

  in ugly, scribbly handwriting

  it says,

  Love is the answer. Not fear.

  I toss it on the floor,

  thankful he didn’t give me something

  dead this time.

  Thurs., Jan. 26th—Nico

  When we meet at the pool,

  she asks me for details on getting the dog home.

  It was an hour and a half of knocking on doors.

  I was starting to worry I’d been wrong

  when a car pulled up beside me with an old guy and his wife.

  They jumped out yelling, “There you are!”

  Brooklyn leans against the door

  leading to the women’s locker room and smiles.

  “I love happy endings.

  So what was his name?”

  “Lucky,” I tell her.

  “His name was Lucky.”

  She winks at me before she pushes on the door.

  “Lucky indeed.”

  Thurs., Jan. 26th—Brooklyn

  While I change

  into my suit,

  I think about that little dog, Lucky.

  I was ready to give up right away.

  Take him to the shelter.

  Let someone else deal with him.

  Not Nico.

  He’s not the kind of guy

  to back down.

  He holds on tight

  when he cares strongly

  about something.

  Or someone.

  I know Lucca

  loved that about him.

  I can see why.

  Thurs., Jan. 26th—Nico

  I’m a guy.

  I tell myself this every time I see Brooklyn