The Places We Sleep
Page 3
you’re a world traveler.
You’ve been places.
Look at me! I’ve never
left this Podunkville.”
“Yeah, but at this rate, I’ll have whiplash
by high school.”
25.
My dictionary offers up all it knows:
1. brat /brat/ - noun. somebody, especially a child, who is regarded as tiresomely demanding and selfish in a childish way
2. brat /brat/ - noun. the son or daughter of a serving member of one of the armed forces
which is really nothing,
more or less what I already knew.
26.
In a dream,
I’m falling,
like a body from a building,
falling away from something I need to hold on to,
falling from an unfathomable height,
falling away from others,
from the faces I recognize—
pushed to the edge of bleachers,
out of group pictures,
squeezed to the back of lines,
staring from a car’s rear window
as we drive away again
from everything
I think
I know.
27.
We fold name tents today.
Some teachers still don’t know our names.
One called me Amber twice the other day,
and the gym teacher just calls me “You!”
Crease the paper hot-dog style.
Write your name big and bold.
Place it at the front of your desk.
Use it in each class.
I write ABBEY—colorful and cheerful.
But it might as well say New Girl
because that’s what half
the class calls me.
I notice Jiman’s composure
when she’s called upon, how she shakes her hair
from her shoulders, lifts her head up
like she doesn’t mind being new and unknown.
And when a teacher mispronounces her name,
Jiman simply corrects her, without apology,
but respectfully, politely—and even
the teacher seems impressed.
28.
Our teachers try to discuss
what’s happened—the attack
on our nation.
In Art, Mr. Lydon asks us to paint our emotions.
I choose red and black
to smear across my bone-white paper
because that’s how I feel.
He pauses behind my easel and studies my work,
my hands become birds and I start to tremble.
But when he moves on, I feel invisible.
Camille paints the shape of the Pentagon with colors that run
off the page.
Tommy watches Sheila paint New York’s new skyline.
Assuming the role of Most Talented,
Jiman paints the coolest flag I’ve ever seen,
with abstract stars and stripes outside the rectangle.
But then in the lunch line,
one kid says to another, right in front of her,
“They should all go back to where they came from!”
And I see Jiman freeze,
a carton of milk squeezed
in her hand
and I think I hear her whisper
I am Muslim
but also American.
Later in Social Studies, we read stories
about the man who crossed a tightrope between the Twin Towers,
the man who parachuted from the north tower,
and the man who scaled the south one.
Mrs. Baker asks,
“Who here has visited New York?”
My head pounds
as I try not to think of Mom
so far away.
Then Camille, with her talky-talk mouth,
can’t help but proudly inform the class:
“Abbey’s mom is there right now.”
Someone coughs, “Big deal!”
Thanks, Camille!
for building my fan club
one card-carrying member at a time.
“Do tell, Abbey!” Mrs. Baker prompts me,
after glancing again
at my name tent.
Through clenched teeth
I inform the class,
“My aunt is missing—”
and everyone turns and stares
and demands to know more.
Suddenly I can’t swallow, can’t breathe,
feel my heart speed up
a few beats.
I have a captive audience!
And I’ve forgotten how to speak.
And the sound of my own voice
out loud in the classroom
is terrifying.
29.
I have to ask for the hall pass again.
Each and every bathroom knows me now.
This is the one where Sheila Loves Tommy!
is scrawled on a stall door.
Before, I’d never considered the disposal
boxes, their creaky lids, the loud crumpling
that paper makes, the dispenser by the sink
hanging loose from the wall, the mirrors
reflecting, or mocking me—hung too high
to help, if I need to check my clothes.
30.
In Music, we sing “America the Beautiful.”
I feel dizzy and mumble the words
and find myself wondering
what “God shed His grace on thee” really means.
Across from me, Camille sings her heart out,
eyes closed, face beaming, mouth wide—
fearless personified.
That is so like Aunt Rose!
A tear runs down my cheek,
and I shove it aside.
Aunt Rose lives and breathes music.
It’s not what she does for money
but what she does for love. She once
told me, “Abbey, I’d rather sing than talk.”
Plus, she hums nonstop—
and plays more instruments than I can count: piano, guitar,
violin, harmonica, and even drums.
Mom always says, “Rose is the creative one,
and I’m the mathematical one.”
I want to be just like Aunt Rose.
Once in their New York apartment, I broke a maraca
while marching in a pretend parade
with my cousins Jackson and Kate.
The tiny pellets scattered
from one end of their apartment to the other—
rolling away lickety-split.
I can still hear Aunt Rose proclaiming:
“Let the music spread.
Little seeds for new melodies!”
A sob now catches in my throat.
That’s just how she is!
Or should I say—was?
My mind
is
stuck
in
present
tense.
31.
The past seems so far from today.
But only one month ago,
we were at the beach.
And my cousins and I
built a towering castle of sand
as tall as Kate.
Until the tide came
and stole it away.
32.
On the school bus
after school,
I spy Jiman
who appears comfortable
sitting alone.
I sketch her,
wish I could be
more like her.
Jiman,
an illustration of confidence.
I repeat her name in my head.
Jiman,
a portrait study in nonchalance.
She’s new to Tennessee. Just like me.
She sits alone. I sit alone, too,
but a microphone and spotlight
seem to amplify and highlight
my every unsure
move.
I wonder if Jiman
notices me, wonder if she observes
the war the football boys wage
on the weak.
I glance quickly
in their direction.
They are all eyes
and busy mouths
when they spot me
and bust out laughing
and whisper things,
then laugh some more.
I let my hair fall
curtain-like across my face.
Show’s over! I think
and push forward and off
that rotten,
stinking
bus.
33.
I used to think “stationed”
meant staying put,
like the word “stationary,”
but I was wrong.
It’s more like a brief rest,
then a forwarding address,
and time to learn a new zip code
—and way of life—
all over again.
If it weren’t for Camille,
I’d be ready to pack up,
disappear. Be gone.
But this time, when my family moves,
I have so much to lose.
Our current house is painted
a greenish-brown, and it’s at least
twenty miles from the base,
which is now on
High Alert!
“Security’s tight!” Dad explains.
He’s awaiting his orders.
I can’t recall all of my previous bedrooms.
This one here is pink.
So random it seems, the places we sleep.
I place a thick towel between me
and my clean sheets.
I’ve been staring at this ceiling
since the beginning of summer,
since back in June,
when Dad got stationed in Tennessee.
Mom and I are stationed here, too.
The last state was South Carolina,
and before that
it was
Colorado.
34.
Today Ms. Dequire
sends me to the school nurse,
convinced I have a bladder infection,
and I can’t find the words
to disagree.
Her closet of a room is papered
with rainbows and food charts,
and she explains, “Abbey, I’m here to help.”
So slowly I begin,
“I got my—” thankfully she knows where I’m going with this
and pulls out a picture of the pelvic region
from a drawer in her desk.
She names a few body parts.
And I cringe at each.
Then she points to the two
fallopian tubes, and my mind drifts
to the Twin Towers and New York,
where Mom now sleeps.
Finally she asks, “Do you have any questions for me?”
I pause…
then begin, “I have been wondering
when it all will end…”
And for a second or two,
the nurse just stares, as if I’m asking
about something else entirely, as if I’ve asked
something too personal, a question for which
there’s no answer. Her hesitation
makes me fidget with the hall pass.
“My mom…just left…and I—
I’m just ready for it to end.”
I drop my shoulders
and begin to cry in this tiny room
with this total stranger.
Then, guess what?
The nurse, smelling of powder and bread, hugs me,
and it feels good,
and I hug her back—
and I believe she needed it, too.
And we sit there hugging like idiots
for a full minute or two.
Then she hands me a tissue and says,
“It’s monthly, about four to seven days each cycle.
That’s not too bad, is it?”
35.
In the bus lines after school, when Angela and Lana
point to me and announce,
“New girl’s got a DISEASE that Nurse can’t cure!”
to everyone who’s around to hear,
including Jacob and the back-of-the-bus boys,
Camille marches up
in their puffed-up, lip-glossed faces
and says exactly what she thinks:
“If anyone’s got a disease, it’s you!
A disease of the heart.
Doctors say yours are missing.”
And that’s why
Camille is my all-time best friend—
even over Makayla in South Carolina,
and Lisa in Colorado.
I’d even go so far as saying
we’re like blood sisters,
but without the blood,
unless you count the colors of red
flushed through our faces right now—
hers shining like courage,
and mine a mixture
of embarrassment
and pride.
36.
On the bus,
Camille beams,
pumped up by her victory:
“Did you see their smiles vanish?”
“You have a way with words,” I agree.
“I do, it’s true.” She closes her eyes,
lays her head on my shoulder—
affection comes so easy
for her.
I take in the moment, soak it up.
This is what having a true best friend feels like.
“Why doesn’t Jacob
ride the bus much?” eventually I ask,
remembering her other best friend
and all the boys
who witnessed the scene
just now.
“He does. Sometimes.” Camille yawns
catlike in the afternoon sun.
Camille and Jacob have been friends
since forever, even though he’s a year older.
They play basketball or soccer in her backyard
most afternoons—and have done so for years.
And although I haven’t known Camille
for near that long, and I don’t play sports,
I knew the minute we met at the community pool
this summer that we’d be good friends too.
She bounced right up to me at the snack bar,
dripping water and out of breath,
and exclaimed, “I love your swimsuit!
I’m Camille. Who’re you?”
That’s all it took!
We just knew.
I pause my thoughts
when we come to my stop,
say goodbye to Camille
and jump up to leave.
But once again,
I’m caught off guard
as I file forward
to exit the bus
and a boy’s foot juts out
and trips me up.
On purpose?
Maybe
it’s
new kid
target
practice.
It happens so quickly,
I barely catch myself.
As I collect my stuff,
he mumbles to himself, “Didn’t even
see you there!”
like I don’t
exist.
37.
Dad tapes the MISSING flyer
Mom sent of Aunt Rose
to the refrigerator,
beside a permission slip,
shopping lists,
and photos.
Are you really missing
if you don’t wander off in the woods,
get snatched in the mall, or run away?
I can’t help but think of stranger danger
and America’s Most Wanted.
Uncle Todd took that picture.
Aunt Rose is smiling at him, in their kitchen.
Jackson and Kate make faces behind her.
I can almost hear her voice—she was saying:
“Hurry up! Take the picture!
My cookies are burning.”
Then afterward, she dashed to rescue
the sugar cookies from the oven.
A treat because I was visiting!
She didn’t know then
that now she’d be missing.
I study her face, fear her features
will fade until the picture
is all that’s left
of that memory.
On news shows,
fences are papered with flyers like Aunt Rose’s,
like yard-sale signs or concert posters.
The flyers multiply like a quilt of worry
sewn by loved ones: pictures from weddings,
graduations, birthdays, ordinary days—
faces smiling,
smiling,
smiling.
All those happy faces.
38.
On a certain show,
I hear a phrase
for the very first time:
“Human remains.”
And it sounds like humans
who stay behind—a hopeful sign of people alive.
Then the true meaning sinks in—
They may not find Aunt Rose.
Without warning,
there’s pressure in my chest
like I might explode.
I call the New York apartment,