but it was automatic.
Now I cling
to every memory of him,
not letting his leaf
fall from its branch.
I close my eyes and
smell apple pie.
I see Dad’s strong arms
reaching in the oven and
unveiling his
freshly baked pastry.
I sketch him cutting
imperfect slices of dough
for the woven top crust
in the old kitchen
of our apartment in Ohio,
before Mom was successful
and Dad was still with us.
I redraw his face
several times,
scraping pencil and eraser over
the same area,
trying,
failing
to make it perfect.
My cell phone rings.
A steady BEEP, BEEP, BEEP
cuts through
my focus.
Hey J
Meet me in Wonderland
Second semester
Erica and I
were assigned as partners
for a psychology project.
It was about family relationships.
Go figure.
I’m from the
rich side of town.
I was supposed to hang out with
the overprivileged preps,
but they drifted away
when I met
Erica
when we found friendship through
our families’ dysfunction.
She repelled the others
with cynicism.
I isolated myself
from the crowd.
Wildflower Park
has a run-down Wonderland essence.
It’s the perfect place
to dream up a better life
or fend off a miserable one.
I spot the metal gate.
She’s left it slightly open
like a private invitation.
When I walk inside,
I see her sitting on the gravel.
The sun gleams off her
skin like a spotlight.
She’s staring at
an open notebook,
holding a pen in her hand
like a dagger
waiting to attack.
I sit across from her.
She doesn’t look up,
just stares at
the first blank page.
“Jamie,” she says.
It’s a statement, a fact.
She told me to come, I came.
I always do.
She holds out her arms.
I scoot next to her.
She rests her head on my shoulder.
I feel
the familiar sensation
of a thousand nerves
exploding throughout my body.
A side effect
of her touch.
“I have this crazy idea,”
she says.
Her hot breath
traces my neck.
She swallows,
squeezes her eyes shut,
blinks them open,
and lights her cigarette.
She takes a drag
and begins again.
“I have this crazy idea
to write seventy pages
of poetry and prose
over the summer.”
Words climb up my throat,
I want to know more,
but before I can say a thing,
she puts out her cigarette
and stands up.
“I’ve got to call Chris.”
She walks away
and doesn’t look back
or even say
good-bye.
He never went to Gym or Pre-Calc
so he has to repeat his junior year.
He looks like one of the Beatles
with his brown bowl of hair.
He’ll bum a cigarette off her
if there’s an audience.
He criticizes classics.
He says man and like
too much.
I have no idea what Erica sees
in wannabe ’60s hippie
Chris Rush.
It was Chris’s idea
to visit Virginia Beach.
“It’s only, like, a couple of hours away,”
he gushed
not even bothering
to check the weather report
or give us more than
a day’s worth of warning.
Erica, Asher,
Asher’s girlfriend, Grace, and I
pile into Chris’s truck.
I’m surprised he doesn’t own
a freakin’ punch buggy.
Erica rides shotgun.
She runs her fingers through Chris’s hair.
I look out the window
and at my feet,
anywhere but
at them
together.
It’s too cold
for swimming and tans.
I pull my
Greenwood High School sweatshirt
over my swimsuit
and sit in the sand.
I expect Erica
to lie down beside me,
quiet,
unblinking,
and read a novel
as thick as her arm
or maybe work
on her seventy-page project.
Instead I shiver
and watch
as Chris spins her around on his shoulders
and they dive into
the ice-cold water.
Asher makes his way
out of the ocean
and across the sheet of sand.
“What’s wrong?”
He crouches beside me.
“Nothing.”
I plaster on a smile.
Asher looks skeptical,
and I remember
I’ve never been good
at hiding my emotions.
“Come join us.”
He smiles and
there’s no question that he is genuine.
His hair is
dripping with salt water.
Goose bumps and sand
sprinkle his skin.
He couldn’t look happier.
Grace calls his name
in her thick Puerto Rican accent.
I look over and see her
waving to her boyfriend.
I spot Erica and Chris
kissing in the water.
Asher stands up.
“Are you coming?”
Erica wraps her arms
around Chris’s neck.
Their bodies pull closer together.
“I think I’ll sit this one out.”
He frowns,
then yells back to Grace,
“Hold on, babe, I’ll be there in a second.”
He sits down
and folds his legs like he’s
meditating.
“So, Jamie,” he says.
Erica and Chris are kissing.
kissing.
kissing.
“Does this antisocial behavior
have anything to do with
the crush you have
on my sister?”
For a moment,
I can’t think.
My body feels
coated with ice.
Frozen solid,
all I can move
is my mouth
when I nervously shout,
“I uh, I um…I do not!”
Asher laughs.
“Oh please. You can’t deny it.
You’re brick red.”
I bury my head
between my knees.
Damn.
Could I be any more
obvious?
“Don’t worry,” he says.
&
nbsp; “I’m not going to out you
or judge you or anything.
I just…”
He looks out at the ocean.
“I know my sister, and
please, be careful.”
Can you really be careful
when it comes to your feelings?
Is that even possible?
Can someone please teach me?
I nod anyway.
This seems to reassure Asher.
I relax when he says,
“Do you want me to splash Chris for you?”
LIST OF DRAWING EXERCISES
13) Draw a portrait of somebody you love.
I start with
the outline of
her heart-shaped face.
I compose
her crooked nose and
re-create
her acute eyes
as she’s absorbed in a novel.
I express
every thick eyelash,
the thin scar under her
right eyebrow,
leaving no detail behind,
taking no artistic license
when sketching Erica’s
perfectly flawed features.
“What are you drawing?” she asks,
her eyes still pinned
to the pages of her book.
“Um…the forest.”
She snorts.
“Do you have some sort of
obsession with trees?”
I feel my cheeks burn
as I dip my pencil
into her rough lips.
“There are millions of ways
to draw the same thing, you know.”
“Hmm, that sounds like something
I would say.”
I smile,
feeling warm from
her approval.
Seventy pages.
She works on them
religiously.
She tells me she
sneaks off
to Wildflower Park
and writes until
a page is full.
“A page a day,”
she says,
“and it’s got to be
perfect.”
I want to know more,
but I leave it at that
because explanations
are almost never offered,
and if I pry for more,
she’ll take the truth back
in an instant.
Mom has to travel for work.
“It’s just a couple of days in New York,”
she says while applying mascara.
“Will you be all right on your own?”
Sure. Yeah. Of course.
Is there any other option?
She kisses me on the cheek
and says good-bye
before leaving to live her
briefcase, stiletto, fitted-suit life.
The house grows
when I’m alone.
The walls pull apart and
the floor stretches.
I tiptoe into Mom’s closet.
Even though no one is home,
I’m scared that I’ll get caught
holding on to a memory
she’s forbidden from our thoughts,
or at least
that we don’t talk about.
Under Gucci, Prada,
Chanel, and Wang,
I uncover an old hatbox
that belonged to my grandma.
I pull out
years of photographs,
each of them portraying
my dad.
Washing the car
or toasting champagne at his wedding,
he smiles in every picture.
I could never draw his image.
I could never capture that essence.
I lie on the closet floor,
the past pinched between my fingers,
my dad and I
building a sandcastle
four summers ago.
God, has it been that long?
Hey, it’s Erica. Meet me at the library.
When?
Twelve o’clock tomorrow. I’m running low on stock.
I don’t know if—
It wasn’t a question. I’ve got to go, Chris is on the other line.
Oh.
Sunday is
Mom’s mental health day.
She usually
combines Starbucks with reality TV
in an attempt to
take her mind off of
the papers that need to be filed and
the calls that must be made
come Monday.
I walk to the living room
and ask her
for her car keys.
“Absolutely not.
You’re only fifteen!”
Why did I even ask?
“Fine, then can you
give me a ride to
the library?”
She sighs and
takes a sip of her latte.
“When?”
“How about now?”
She groans.
“Jamie, I’m not even dressed.”
“It’s not a fucking fashion show.”
It just slipped out.
No control.
No conscience.
If I were theatrical
I would gasp,
slap my hand over my mouth,
beg for mercy.
Coffee slams
on the glass table.
Milky brown liquid
splashes from the rim
of the steaming mug.
“I’m not taking you anywhere!”
I storm up to my room,
then turn my head and see
Mom pressing her palm
against her forehead.
Mental health day
is officially over.
I’m sorry, I can’t come.
What? Dammit.
You know I can’t go alone.
What about Asher?
He’s out with his friends.
And Chris is at work. Fuck.
Breathe, Erica.
I was depending on you.
I’m really sorry, but my mom—
I need you, Jamie.
…
I’ll be there in half an hour.
I used to bike
with my dad.
He was the
outdoorsy type
and I
was eager for the wind
against my skin,
riding along
the paved road to
freedom.
The closest Mom gets
to nature
is when she has her monthly
mud mask.
I pull
my old bike
from the shed.
It’s covered in
pink butterflies.
I can’t believe
I ever went through
that phase.
“It’s a piece of junk,
a hunk of metal,
a waste of space,”
Mom says
whenever we do our
spring cleaning.
“Let’s toss it, Jamie.”
But whenever
I see it,
I see him.
I think
she does
too.
I don’t think
of how I must look
riding a
child-sized bicycle.
I ignore
the sweat running
down my back and
my heavy
breathing.
Erica
needs me.
It’s rare
she does.
She laughs
when she sees me.
“Nice ride, J.”
My cheeks burn
as I toss my bike
behind the bushes.
She slides he
r hand
into mine.
“Come on,” she whispers
in my ear,
as if this simple trip
is a secret adventure
for just the two
of us.
She pushes the
front door open
and pulls me into
her world.
Erica
is the bravest person I know,
but even superheroes
have their weaknesses.
She loves
all things literary,
but she can’t stand
to check out books herself.
“It’s like buying condoms.”
Erica pushes a stack of seven novels
into my hands.
“What I read is personal.
No one has the right to judge me.”
Before I agree
to check out the books,
she has already
shoved me in line.
“Thanks, J,” she says
and hugs my waist
from behind.
My heart beats so fast
I almost drop the stack.
“You can’t just run off like that,”
Mom says
when I arrive home.
“No matter what.”
I charge
into my room
and think,
hypocrite.
Remember Me Page 2