as I’m on my way to the pool.
Her quivery voice makes me wonder
if we’ll be going today.
She asks me to come to her house,
so I quickly change directions.
When I get there, she’s standing outside
in jeans and a hoody,
her arms wrapped around herself,
trying to stay warm.
When she climbs in,
I notice her red cheeks and chapped lips.
“Man, Brooklyn, how long you been outside?”
Her teeth start chattering. “A long time.”
I blast the heat
and take her hands in mine and rub them.
She looks at me, her eyes filled with fear.
“Shit, what is it?” I ask.
She doesn’t speak.
Not a word.
Instead, she slowly leans in
and kisses me.
Tues., Feb. 7th—Brooklyn
What am I doing?
I’m kissing Nico.
God, I’m kissing him.
His lips are so
warm
and soft
and he tastes like
mint toothpaste
and I want more
so I open my mouth
and softly put my tongue there
waiting for his to meet mine,
and when it does,
heat replaces cold
and I feel like I’m going to
burn up
everywhere.
His hand runs down my hair,
my shoulder,
my back
and stops there,
pressing me to him
and something about that
makes me pull away.
When I open my eyes,
I remember who I’m with.
Nico.
Just Nico.
But he’s not just Nico.
He’s Lucca’s brother.
Tues., Feb. 7th—Nico
As it happens,
I feel my heart running laps in my chest.
She’s simultaneously hot and cold.
Her lips,
her hair,
her skin,
her whole friggin’ body
is a burning icicle.
God, I could kiss her forever.
So when she pulls away,
my heart stops in its tracks.
I can tell from her eyes
she didn’t mean it.
It was a moment of weakness.
Needing someone.
Anyone.
Not me, specifically.
A warm body.
Of course, not me.
It could never be me.
Not after him.
I know she’s going to say
it was a mistake.
My heart holds its breath
and waits.
Tues., Feb. 7th—Brooklyn
“I’m sorry, Nico.
I shouldn’t have done that.
I’m just so confused.
About everything.”
He tucks my hair
behind my ear like he did
that first day we talked.
He’s so tender.
So kind.
So good.
But this can’t happen.
One Ferrari can’t replace
another.
“Brooklyn, you need to know—”
“Please don’t, Nico.
Remember what you said about transitions?
They can be hard.
But we have to keep them simple.
We’re in transition.
Our lives are one big transition.
Getting used to being without him.
But this, you and me, it’s not the answer.
If we do this, I’m afraid we’re making a mistake.
Just like you said.
Keep the transitions simple.”
He starts to say something,
but I don’t let him.
“I’m sorry, Nico.
I can’t see you anymore.
I have to figure everything out by myself.
I know that now.”
And then I get out
and run back into my house,
which is pretty much
the last place I want to be,
but really the only place I have.
Tues., Feb. 7th—Nico
I want to tell her
transitions in life are different
from transitions in a race.
But she doesn’t give me a chance.
As quickly as she came into my life, she’s gone.
Now what am I supposed to do?
Keep running, like always?
It’s worked before.
But now?
I don’t know.
Tues., Feb. 7th—Brooklyn
I tell my dad
I’ve got bad cramps
and he lets me stay home.
I stay in the family room,
on the couch,
in front of the TV,
with every light on.
When it’s time for bed,
I don’t move.
I just pretend to fall asleep
on the couch
and he lets me be.
When I fall asleep for real,
I’m a butterfly,
floating from flower to flower.
There’s no color but I still feel
peaceful and happy.
At home.
A nice dream
until a shadow comes,
and swallows the warm sunshine.
Hands are after me.
Large hands.
Reaching.
Grasping.
Wanting.
My tiny wings
move quickly,
as I fly through bushes
and over the hollyhocks
and cosmos.
Faster and faster I fly,
not wanting the same fate
as the moth in my room.
And yet as I look
at Mother Nature’s handiwork
all around me,
with no color, no life, no texture,
I think of the gray life
I’ve committed myself to,
and realize perhaps his fate
is my own after all.
Wed., Feb. 8th—Nico
I wonder if
we should try and talk about it,
about us,
but Brooklyn is nowhere to be found.
I decide to give her what she’s obviously asking for.
Space.
For now, anyway.
At lunch, I think about sitting in my truck alone
with my crazy, mixed-up thoughts for company,
and decide that sounds as appealing as running in a blizzard
So I grab a sandwich and take a seat
next to Charlie and some other guys.
“Hey, Nico,” he says. “What’s up?
How’s training going?”
“You know. Making progress.”
“Progress is good,” he says.
Damn it.
We were making progress.
Thurs., Feb. 9th—Brooklyn
Nightmare
after nightmare
after nightmare.
Always gray.
Disgustingly dreary
and gray.
Wake up,
sleep again,
wake up,
toss and turn,
drift to sleep,
wake up.
He’s there,
around every corner.
No matter what I do,
where I go,
he’s there.
I cry,
so tired of it all,
missing Nico
and the way he made me feel.
It’s so right with Nico.
And yet so wrong.
Ri
ght and wrong.
Black and white.
And many shades
of gray.
I want color in my life.
Color in my dreams.
The colors of
buttercups and pansies,
poppies and chrysanthemums,
lilies and hydrangeas.
Color, beautiful color.
Fri., Feb. 10th—Nico
Lucca is haunting me
like never before.
Every night,
in different ways,
whispering,
moving,
breathing,
writing,
Brooklyn,
Brooklyn,
help her,
help Brooklyn.
Tonight,
he plays Fix You
over and
over and
over again
until I can’t take it anymore.
I get up, take the CD out, and snap it in half.
“Don’t you get it, I can’t!” I yell.
A minute later, Ma and Pop come running.
“It was just a nightmare,” I tell them.
Ma gives me a hug before they shuffle back to bed,
while I lie in mine
covered by feelings of worry and guilt.
Brooklyn doesn’t want to see me.
She doesn’t even want to talk to me.
How can I possibly help her now?
Fri., Feb. 10th—Brooklyn
Best friends
are together
through it all,
like soil and roots,
one needing the other,
through chilling winters,
scorching summers,
through hailstorms
and lightning strikes.
They weather it
together.
So when Kyra calls,
I tell her about Nico.
How I don’t want
to be thinking of him
but I am,
and why does that feel
so wrong?
Talking it through with her,
not to find a resolution
but to have someone hear me
is just what I need
to help me feel stronger,
grounded,
in this hailstorm
called life.
Fri., Feb. 10th—Nico
The hours crawl
like time has decided to slow down
and take a vacation.
I go to the pool before school,
the water especially cold this morning,
matching the temperature of my heart.
I miss her.
There’s no confusion there.
As to what to do about it,
that’s another story.
Fri., Feb. 10th—Brooklyn
I managed
to convince Daddy
to let me stay home all week.
He was preoccupied,
getting stuff ready for a visit
from the twins.
He’s missed them.
So have I.
But when they arrive,
I’m barely there
when we play Clue Jr.
and watch their favorite
Disney movies.
Like a candy wrapper on the ground,
the best part gone.
Again and again
they look in the wrapper,
wanting something to be there.
“Brooklyn, come on,
play with us, play with us!”
Sorry, boys.
Nothing there.
It’s just
gone.
Fri., Feb. 10th—Nico
Not sure what to do
with myself, I go for a run after school.
I haven’t gone far when I look up
at the pale blue sky splattered with clouds.
She taught me to slow down.
To look up and enjoy the view.
To not worry so much about the end result
that I end up missing things along the way.
I stop when a bird flies above me.
I watch him soar, uninhibited and free.
I want to be like that.
I think she does too.
Uninhibited and free,
soaring to new heights,
never standing back, afraid.
Sat., Feb. 11th—Brooklyn
In this dream
I’m standing in the toy store,
the aisles filled with
dolls and action figures,
board games and bead kits.
There’s a twenty-dollar bill
in my hand so I search the aisles,
looking for something to buy.
How do I choose?
How do I decide?
What would make me happy?
I circle the store,
panic rising in my chest.
I’m supposed to buy something.
I know that.
But it feels like this is a test.
What I choose means something.
After what seems like hours,
I choose a doll
dressed in a pretty pink dress.
An old man with big, red lesions
all over his face and bloodshot eyes
glares at me from behind the register.
“You sure that’s what you want?” he asks.
“No.
I don’t know.
I don’t know what I want.”
“It’s time to figure it out,” he says.
His face starts to change.
The wrinkles fade,
the nose shrinks,
and the old man
morphs into Gabe.
His face is sunken and hollow,
with bulging, bloodshot eyes
and yellow, cracked teeth.
And those sores.
They open, bleed and scab over
until his face is so hideous,
I scream while turning
and running to the door.
But it’s locked.
I look behind me.
He’s standing there,
holding my notebook.
The notebook that went missing.
The notebook filled with all
my thoughts and feelings
from the past year.
The notebook I want back.
“You want it?” he asks.
“You have to come and get it.”
“I can’t,” I scream.
God, I’m so afraid.
“Don’t let fear control you.”
Why won’t he just stop?
How can I not be afraid?
He holds out the notebook
and steps closer.
As I stand there,
looking at him,
wanting desperately
to get away,
I know there’s no other solution.
I have to face him.
I have to stop running.
I take a breath.
I take a step.
Another breath.
Another step.
When I’m finally
just inches away,
I reach out and grab the notebook
from his hands.
As I do, he turns from the
gruesome monster
to the Gabe I used to know.
Handsome face.
Thick, brown hair.
Warm green eyes.
“Why?” I ask,
my eyes filled with tears.
“I made you a promise,” he says.
“Don’t you remember?
We promised to help each other through the pain.
So I had to get you to see, Brooklyn.”
“What? That I shouldn’t be afraid?”
“Exactly. That you have choices.
Make the right ones.
Don’t let fear rule you like
it ruled me.”
“I’m so sorry, Gabe.
I’m sorry I let you down.
I didn’t keep my promise to you.”
He reaches out
and puts his finger
to my lips.
“Shhhh. Don’t.
No more living in the past.
Okay?”
My insides are trembling.
My outsides, too,
as my brothers call my name,
shaking me to wake up.
He’s gone.
I’m back on the couch.
Safe and sound
in my home,
with my notebook
in my hands.
#290