Chasing Brooklyn

  in her black two-piece bathing suit,

  with her long legs and sweet-looking body.

  I’m a guy.

  It’s normal to stare at an attractive girl.

  Especially when she’s wearing a bathing suit.

  I can’t help it.

  I’m a guy.

  Not just a guy,

  but one who has pretty much been a loner

  this past year and hasn’t asked a girl out in so long,

  I’d probably have to do something lame

  like use e-mail to do the asking.

  I’m such a guy.

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Brooklyn

  Kyra’s waiting for me

  at our locker with a smile as wide

  as the Golden Gate Bridge.

  She grabs my hand

  swings it side to side

  and tells me Tyler asked her to go

  to the movies with him tomorrow night.

  I hug her.

  “I’m happy for you.

  You’re going to have so much fun.”

  “What about you?” she asks me.

  “What about me?” I say.

  “You need to have some fun.”

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t worry about me.

  Besides, we’re going to the dance tonight, right?

  That’ll be fun.”

  “Brooklyn, what about—?”

  “Stop it,” I say, pointing my finger at her.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Nico

  Brooklyn sees me

  in line, paying for my everyday lunch.

  “Come sit with me,” she says.

  “You can share my leftover pizza.”

  I sort of glance around, to make sure she’s talking to me.

  She continues. “I realize your family makes your own,

  and you’ve probably never tasted pizza from a cardboard box.

  But trust me, it’s better than that crap.”

  She points to the processed food in my hand.

  “Besides, you’re training for a race. How can you eat like that?”

  I rip open the bag of chips, take one out,

  and put it in my mouth.

  “See?” I say. “That’s all there is to it.”

  She smiles. “Smart-ass.”

  I wave a chip in front of her nose.

  “You know you want it.”

  She bites the chip out of my hand.

  “Fine. We’ll have chips and pizza. How’s that?”

  Best lunch I’ve had in a long time.

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Brooklyn

  Friday night

  bodies

  bump it

  grind it

  shift it

  crank it

  work it

  make it

  to the

  hot

  loud

  mad

  music

  on the

  dance

  floor.

  A group of girls

  pulls me up,

  draws me in,

  wraps me up

  in their sisterly

  love.

  I let it

  out

  let it

  loose

  let it

  go

  and

  I

  d n e

  a c

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Nico

  My friend Charlie

  talks me into going to the game and the dance

  even though I feel like going home

  and doing a Rip van Winkle instead.

  The game is a slaughter, our team the bloodied ones.

  I think about calling it a night,

  but Charlie spreads guilt on

  the way he likes his cream cheese on bagels.

  Thick.

  So we head to the dance.

  I run into Gabe’s sister waiting to get in.

  “Hey, Nico,” she says.

  “Hi, Audrey,” I reply. “How’s it going?”

  She shrugs. “Okay.”

  I feel like I should say more, but what?

  Besides, it’s not exactly the easiest place

  to have a heart-to-heart.

  When we get inside, it’s hot and loud,

  and I feel like a popcorn kernel

  being tossed into a pan of fiery hot oil.

  Charlie and I take a seat in the corner,

  trying to stay out of the heat.

  A group of girls pull another girl up

  and into the pan of popping people.

  I look closer, and realize it’s Brooklyn.

  When I see her dancing,

  having fun, it makes me smile.

  It makes me glad I came.

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Brooklyn

  It’s fun until they play

  the song You and Me,

  and that’s when I decide

  to head home.

  Kyra and a couple of others

  beg, beg, beg

  me to stay

  but I

  hug, hug, hug

  each of them

  and wave, wave, wave

  and walk out

  into the cool night air.

  I pass by

  a girl and a boy

  against the wall,

  hooking up,

  their bodies

  crocheted together

  in a double love knot.

  Lucky in love,

  that’s them.

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Nico

  When I see her leave,

  I tell Charlie I’m going outside

  to get some air.

  “Brooklyn!” I yell once I’m out there.

  She stops in the middle of the parking lot

  and waits for me to catch up.

  “Hey, Nico.”

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Going home.”

  I grab her arm.

  “Everything okay?”

  She smiles.

  “Yeah, I actually had fun. Until …”

  She doesn’t have to say.

  I know. You can be fine, and then,

  out of nowhere,

  a memory blindsides you.

  Distraction works for me. So I say,

  “Man, can you believe they played that disco crap?”

  She laughs, sticks her hip out, and puts her finger in the air.

  “See you tomorrow?” I ask.

  “At my place with your bike, right?”

  She looks at the sky. “I wonder if it’ll rain.

  Wow, Nico, look at that moon.”

  I look up and see it shimmering behind some clouds.

  She says good-bye and turns to leave,

  while I stand there awhile longer,

  watching the clouds and the moon

  dance together.

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Brooklyn

  I get home

  and grab my notebook.

  I open it and suddenly realize

  my everyday letters

  are no longer being written

  every day.

  That’s not like me.

  Not like me at all.

  #289

  Dear Lucca,

  I miss you.

  I miss your beautiful blue eyes and the love I saw in

  them for me.

  I miss your hand that held mine.

  I miss your arms around me.

  I miss your lips on mine.

  I miss your laughter.

  I miss the way you called me Brooker the Looker

  I miss your voice and the sweet everythings you

  whispered in my ear.

  I miss the drawings you showed me before anyone else.

  I miss our midnight conversations for no other reason

  than to say, “I love you.”

  I miss how I felt safe when I was with you.

  I miss you, Lucca.

  For my whole life, I will miss you.


  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Fri., Jan. 27th—Nico

  Ma’s awake

  when I get home.

  Just sitting at the kitchen table,

  her hands glued to a coffee mug

  that’s as empty as a rain barrel

  on a hot August day.

  “You all right, Ma?”

  Her sigh says she’s not

  while her words say, “I suppose.”

  She does this.

  Every now and then, she sinks into a pit of despair

  and Pop and I wonder if this is it.

  If this is the one time we can’t pull her out,

  if she’ll just sink deeper and deeper

  until she’s so far gone,

  there’s no way to reach her.

  I stand behind her and start rubbing her neck and shoulders.

  “You should go to bed,” I tell her. “It’s late.”

  “I suppose,” she says again. “Did you have fun?”

  And because it’s good for Ma to hear

  and maybe me, too, I say,

  “Yeah. I think I did.”

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn

  This time

  my dream

  begins in the cemetery

  where I’m visiting Lucca’s grave,

  my arms weighed down

  by dozens of beautiful roses,

  their sweet fragrance

  surrounding me.

  I’m fascinated by the color

  of those roses.

  A deep,

  rich,

  luscious

  red.

  Everything else

  is gray.

  The sky.

  The tombstones.

  The ground.

  The trees.

  I bend down to put the

  red roses

  on his grave,

  when he appears.

  Gabe.

  My arms extend

  as if I’m a bird

  ready to take flight,

  and a flurry of

  red red red

  red red red

  red red red

  drops silently

  to the ground.

  Then I turn

  and run,

  wishing I really could fly

  into the grayness

  above the red,

  away from the fear.

  Away from him.

  When I sit up,

  forcing myself awake,

  I’m thankful for the lit lamp

  on my nightstand

  that lately, I never turn off.

  And then I see it.

  A deep,

  rich,

  luscious

  red

  rose

  laying at the foot

  of my bed.

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Nico

  It’s not the best day

  for a bike ride.

  I get up,

  an hour before we’re supposed to meet.

  Rain pounds the roof,

  like Mother Nature is throwing one hell of a tantrum.

  I call Brooklyn and suggest we swim again instead.

  I can tell she’s upset.

  Something’s happened.

  There’s a hint of something in her voice.

  Sadness?

  Fear?

  What?

  She won’t say.

  And she doesn’t want to swim.

  “Well, we have to do something,” I tell her.

  “Let’s have a picnic,” she says.

  Not exactly what I had in mind.

  “Come over,” she continues.

  “My dad isn’t here. He’s doing emergency surgery.

  We’ll have a picnic in my living room.”

  Maybe this is it.

  Maybe she’s finally going to tell me.

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn

  I want to tell him.

  I want him to come over here

  and I will tell him

  about these nightmares

  and the rose in my room

  and how Gabe is chasing me,

  and watching me

  and giving me things

  in the dead of the night.

  I want to tell him.

  But I don’t know if I can.

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Nico

  I want her to tell me

  what’s going on.

  How can I get her to do that?

  What would Lucca have done?

  He would have told her to draw

  and then looked for clues there.

  That’s what artists do, right?

  They express themselves through their art.

  I need to get her drawing.

  Only problem is,

  she draws flowers,

  and there aren’t a whole lot of flowers

  blooming in January.

  Unless …

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn

  While I wait for Nico to arrive,

  I peel and slice apples

  because a pie is good and wholesome

  and I’m feeling the need

  for some of that right about now.

  Green skins lay in the sink,

  shredded like raincoats

  after the storm has passed.

  When the pie dish is full,

  I spread a blanket of pastry

  across the naked pieces

  of golden fruit.

  I tuck them in,

  my fingers carefully crimping the dough

  in just the right places.

  Forty minutes later,

  the smell of apples mixed with

  cinnamon and sugar

  greets Nico at the door.

  He smiles and pulls a dozen red roses

  from behind his back.

  Hands to my mouth,

  I jump back as if he’s just tried to hand me

  a dozen grenades.

  What the hell is going on?

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Nico

  This isn’t good.

  The look on her face.

  Does she hate roses?

  Are they too commercial or something?

  “I thought maybe you’d want to draw,” I say.

  “But you don’t like roses?”

  “No, it’s just …”

  I step inside.

  “Don’t stop,” I plead. “Tell me. What is it?”

  She reaches out and takes them.

  “They’re gorgeous. Thank you.”

  The timer lets out an annoying buzz.

  She practically throws the roses

  on the counter as she runs to the stove

  to get a pie that looks like

  it just stepped out of a magazine.

  “You baked that?

  Wow. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  She starts to speak.

  Then stops.

  Why the hell won’t she talk to me?

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn

  When he asks me

  if there’s anything I can’t do,

  I start to say,

  Yes, I can’t stop Gabe from haunting me.

  But I glance at the flowers

  and wonder if there’s more going on

  than I understand.

  As the sky opens up

  and pounds the roof

  in a rage of raindrops,

  we spread a tablecloth

  across the living room floor

  and feast on pita bread with hummus,

  crunchy carrots and juicy grapes,

  cups of warm tomato soup with basil,

  and apple pie, of course.

  He’s very sweet,

  talking to fill the empty gaps

  giving me tips about the race.

  I look at him and wonder.

  Wonder about things.

  There’s so much we haven’t talked about.

  “Do you ever dream about Lucca?” I a
sk.

  “Sorry. Another random question, I know.”

  He nods.

  “Do you?”

  “Hardly ever.

  Even though I wish for that every night.”

  “Sometimes it can be a downer though.

  You know, like I wake up, and reality hits me.”

  I nod.

  And before I can stop myself, I ask,

  “Do you ever dream about Gabe?”

  He shakes his head, no.

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “Once or twice,” I say quickly.

  “I was just curious.

  You haven’t really talked about him.

  About what happened.”

  “He was an idiot, that’s what happened,” he says.

  “There are a hundred places to go if you’re having trouble.