Chasing Brooklyn

  We meet up

  at the track where he tells me

  he really needs to run

  at his own pace today.

  I tell him to go ahead

  and I watch as he becomes

  a man possessed.

  He laps me two,

  three,

  four times,

  never slowing down.

  After an hour,

  I’ve done all I can do,

  but the look on his face

  tells me he doesn’t want to stop.

  So, I quietly walk across the track,

  and leave the gift I brought him

  in his truck.

  It’s a gift bag

  with a plastic snake inside,

  along with a note:

  Dear Nico,

  Please don’t be afraid—you ARE helping me.

  As for snakes? You should be very afraid.

  Love,

  Brooklyn

  Tues., Jan. 31st—Nico

  When I see

  the gift bag sitting on the seat of my truck,

  something inside of me snaps.

  A gift means something.

  I open it and yeah, it’s silly and nothing special,

  but even a silly little gift means something.

  This is heading to a place it can’t go.

  I’m not him.

  I pound my hand on the steering wheel.

  I’M NOT HIM!

  Everyone wants him.

  Not me.

  Thurs., Feb. 2nd —Brooklyn

  Yesterday and today

  Nico didn’t show.

  Yesterday, I swam without him.

  Today, I ran without him.

  I start to call him

  to make sure he’s okay,

  but I freeze up.

  It’s not like he’s sick,

  because I saw him at school.

  So what’s he going to say?

  That he got tired of my moods

  changing faster than he can run?

  That he got tired of trying

  to lift me up all the time?

  That he simply got tired

  of me?

  So I leave him alone,

  because that’s obviously

  what he wants.

  But I still run.

  I still swim.

  Harder than I ever have before.

  Because I want to do this thing.

  Show him I am strong.

  And that he really has helped me,

  more than he’ll ever know.

  Thurs., Feb. 2nd—Nico

  I’ve messed up.

  It’s like I was trying to make

  something easy like pasta carbonara

  and in trying to make it the best

  pasta carbonara ever,

  throwing this and that into it,

  I’ve ruined it.

  I feel like I’ve totally ruined this thing

  with Brooklyn.

  I don’t even know what’s happened,

  but something’s changed.

  It just feels different.

  Leaving a gift for me,

  that’s not workout partners.

  That’s different.

  Thurs., Feb. 2nd —Brooklyn

  I run into Gabe’s sister,

  Audrey, in the bathroom at school.

  We wash our hands, side by side,

  and I glance at her reflection

  in the mirror.

  She looks okay.

  Normal.

  Good, even.

  Clear, blue eyes.

  Nice color to her cheeks.

  She smiles at me.

  I smile back.

  Just two girls in the bathroom,

  doing what girls do.

  I should say something.

  But what?

  And what good would it do anyway?

  She leaves,

  and I stand there,

  studying myself in the mirror.

  I look okay.

  Good even.

  My reflection tells one story.

  My heart, a different one.

  The difference is,

  hearts don’t lie.

  Mirrors do.

  Fri., Feb. 3rd—Nico

  As I run,

  I find myself

  running toward the cemetery.

  I start to resist and then decide

  to go with it.

  The early morning fog seems to

  swallow me as I run,

  allowing me to see only

  a few feet in front of me.

  Arriving at the cemetery gate,

  the morning light yet to appear,

  all the elements of death

  are here.

  Darkness.

  Solitude.

  Pain.

  All of it surrounds me and

  I’m surprised when I realize

  how familiar it feels.

  I turn and run the other way.

  Whatever it is I want or need,

  it’s not that.

  Fri., Feb. 3rd —Brooklyn

  When I wake up,

  I sense that

  something’s not right.

  I look around.

  The light is still on.

  The windows are still closed.

  The room is still neat.

  It’s just as I left it.

  But as I get up,

  get dressed to go run,

  the feeling doesn’t leave me

  Something’s not right.

  As I go to my door,

  it’s then that I see it.

  My stomach tightens

  and my legs shake.

  On the full-length mirror

  on the back of my door,

  is a note torn from my notebook

  and stuck to the mirror.

  Across the words I’d written to Lucca,

  in big, black letters,

  it says:

  WHY DO YOU RUN?

  WHY ARE YOU AFRAID?

  Fri., Feb. 3rd—Nico

  After dinner,

  I go to Lucca’s room

  and shut the door.

  I look around and think

  about the bed he hated to make,

  the clothes he hated to put away,

  and the dishes he hated to wash.

  He was a slob.

  I can’t stand a mess.

  I want things neat.

  I’d never let my room get this messy.

  Ma used to bug him about it

  all the time.

  Not once has she ever had to tell me

  to clean my room.

  It’s a little thing, I guess.

  But it’s something.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Brooklyn

  I dream of a room

  crisp and white.

  I’m at a party,

  in a doll-like house

  filled with porcelain-like people,

  painted to perfection,

  their smiles and laughter

  buzzing like bees,

  stinging my ears

  because this is not at all

  funny.

  I see him

  from across the room.

  He looks at me,

  and walks toward me.

  Frowning.

  He stands out among

  the delightful dolls,

  his grayish face

  sunken and hollow.

  But no one notices.

  He just walks,

  his eyes holding mine

  across the crowded room.

  If I turn and run,

  where will I go?

  If I stand and stay,

  what do I do?

  Closer

  and closer

  he comes.

  The dolls keep

  chattering away,

  and laughing,

  louder and louder.

  “What’s so funny?” I scream.

 
Silence.

  Stares.

  Sadness.

  My sadness

  among their smiles

  frozen in place.

  Out of the corner

  of my eye,

  I see Nico,

  one of the dolls.

  “Help me,” I cry out.

  “Please.

  Help me!”

  “No,” he yells.

  “Help yourself!”

  I sit up,

  panting and sweating,

  alone in my room,

  the clock glowing 4:56 a.m.

  I search my room,

  looking for my notebook

  needing to write in it.

  Where is it?

  When did I write in it last?

  I stop and realize,

  not for quite a while.

  And I realize,

  not once,

  until now,

  have I missed it.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Nico

  Pop’s at the table

  drinking coffee, reading the paper.

  I sit down next to him with a bagel.

  “Did you call about the job?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “Been too busy.”

  He sets the paper down.

  “Pop, I’ll get a job this summer, okay?

  I’m training now. For a race in April.

  It’s important to me.

  I need you to understand, this is important to me.”

  He’s quiet, his brown eyes thougtful.

  “I didn’t realize,” he says. “You never told me.

  What race is this?”

  So while I eat my bagel

  and he drinks his coffee,

  I tell him.

  And when I’m done telling him,

  he says, “Well, Nico, that’s quite the endeavor.

  I find it honorable that you want to finish what you’ve started.

  I wish you good luck, son.”

  He pats my arm before he picks up his paper.

  I look at him and realize,

  maybe I overreacted.

  Maybe more than once.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Brooklyn

  Mom calls me,

  giving the notebook search party

  a much-needed break.

  When she asks what I’m up to lately,

  I tell her about the training,

  which prompts lots of questions.

  When we’re done,

  I hand the phone to Daddy

  so he can talk to the boys.

  Over and over again,

  he tells them he misses them.

  He loves them.

  Like he’s afraid

  he’ll never talk to them again.

  The truth is,

  we both understand,

  you just never know.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Nico

  I think back

  to last Saturday

  and how she shared

  pie, pictures, and pieces of her heart.

  Today, I get a seven-mile bike ride

  alone.

  Pretty pathetic.

  Unless . . .

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Brooklyn

  Back in my room,

  I tear everything apart

  looking for the notebook.

  It’s gone.

  Vanished.

  Taken by a ghost, I assume.

  Damn him.

  Damn him for coming in here

  and messing with my life.

  Damn him for giving me

  cryptic messages

  that make no sense.

  I have to figure it out.

  I have to figure out

  what it all means.

  And I have to figure out

  what to do to get him

  to leave me alone.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Nico

  I used to work out

  by myself all the time.

  But this morning,

  when I thought about not seeing her again,

  it felt about as wrong

  as going to school on a Saturday.

  Her dad answers the door,

  and invites me in.

  I wait while he goes and gets her.

  When she finally comes down the stairs

  in polka-dot pajamas,

  her hair sticking out on one side of her head

  and smooshed flat on the other,

  I fight the urge

  to go over and hug her.

  Because she is more

  than a workout partner.

  She’s become my friend.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Brooklyn

  “Nico.

  What are you doing here?”

  “Thought we’d go for a ride.”

  “I, uh, I didn’t expect you.

  I mean, after last week.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.

  Had some stuff going on.”

  “You could have called.

  E-mailed. Something.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.

  Forgive me?”

  I start to pace the floor.

  “I’m not sure I can go right now.

  I’ve got some stuff going on myself.”

  “Can I help?” he asks.

  I want to say—

  Help?

  You want to help?

  Get rid of him!

  Just make him go away

  and leave me alone!

  But I don’t.

  Instead I start to shake.

  My whole body starts to shake

  and I have to sit down.

  Once on the sofa,

  I put my head in my hands

  and tell myself not to cry.

  He doesn’t need to see me cry

  again.

  I take a deep breath.

  Then I look at him.

  “No, Nico, you can’t help.

  I wish you could.

  But you can’t.”

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Nico

  I sit down

  at the other end of the sofa,

  silence sitting on the cushion

  between us.

  Finally, I have to try.

  Tell me,” I whisper to her.

  “Brooklyn, please.

  Just tell me.

  What’s really going on?

  You can trust me.”

  I think about that.

  Trust me.

  Have faith in me.

  And yet, why should she?

  There’s nothing to prove she can trust me

  except my words.

  She trusted him.

  She had faith in him.

  And he left her forever.

  Something tells me she’s not forgetting that

  anytime soon.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Brooklyn

  He’s giving me

  an open door.

  Do I go?

  Do I walk through?

  What’s on the other side?

  Once I go through,

  I can’t go back.

  Once through, I’m there.

  My nightmares become his.

  My fears not my own.

  Will it change anything?

  Will it change how he sees me?

  Will it change us?

  He reaches over,

  takes my hand,

  and with his thumb,

  gently caresses it,

  trying to tell me

  it will be okay.

  I jerk my hand away

  and stand up.

  I slam the door

  closed.

  Sat., Feb. 4th—Nico

  We go from zero to sixty

  in about a second:

  From sitting there,

  going nowhere,

  trying to get her to say something

  to getting up,

  her saying, “Let’s go,

  I’ll change my clothes,

  then we’ll hit the road.”

  Just like
that we’re moving

  and yet really

  we’re right back

  where we started.