along with some bread
and her famous pineapple tiramisu.
Tiramisu means “pick me up” in Italian.
Ma always hopes it will do a little of that.
She took them minestrone soup last week.
When she doesn’t know what else to do, she cooks.
She’s trying to teach me everything she knows.
I’m the closest thing to the daughter she never had, I guess.
She leaves some ravioli for me and Pop.
We eat in silence.
Too bad there’s no tiramisu.
I think we could both use some of that too.
Tues., Jan. 10th—Brooklyn
I fall asleep hoping to dream
of Lucca.
Instead I’m standing in the hallway at school.
In the dark.
Alone.
I turn around
and around,
wondering where everyone is.
I want to turn on the lights,
but where do you find the lights
for a school hallway?
There’s the faint sound of footsteps.
Someone is far away.
But coming closer.
I listen.
They get louder.
I open my mouth.
I try to speak.
Nothing comes out.
I walk forward,
my arms in front of me,
trying to see my way.
There’s a faint light ahead.
I think it’s the light to the office.
If I can just make it there,
it’ll be okay.
The steps are coming faster.
My pace increases.
Just get to the office.
Nothing can hurt you there.
They’ll help you.
The light gets brighter. I start to run.
Faster and faster
I run,
the beating of my heart
almost as loud
as the pounding of my steps.
I reach the door and look behind me.
I see someone.
Someone’s coming.
Right behind me.
I turn the doorknob.
Locked tight.
My fist pounds on the window.
I pound and pound
and open my mouth to scream.
Then, he’s there.
In front of me.
Gray skin with eyes
black as the darkest night,
and lips blood red.
He lunges for me
and I scream his name.
“Gabe!”
When I wake up
with my sheets soaked
and sticking to me like bandages,
I can’t stop shaking.
Even though I know it was a dream,
something about it
was so much more
than a dream.
A lot more.
#281
Dear Lucca,
I’ve read six comics. I still can’t go back to sleep.
I had a horrible dream. I don’t even want to talk
about it.
Daddy told me after Mom moved out, I could
wake him up if I ever needed anything. But then
I’d have to tell him about the dream. He’d worry
about me. Probably think this thing with Gabe is
getting to me. And then who knows what he’d do.
Anyway, what could he do for me, besides give me
a hug and tell me to go back to sleep? He can’t do
anything for me. Not really.
So I guess I’ll read about Tom Strong some more. I recently read a review online about him where someone said, “Tom Strong stands for goodness, purity of heart, tolerance, and family.” No wonder I like him so much.
Love always,
Brooklyn
Wed., Jan. 11th—Nico
Something happened last night
and I am freaking out.
It was almost morning. I was asleep.
I heard a noise.
A scraping noise.
I sat straight up and noticed the window was open, just slightly.
The room was freezing.
I ran to the window and closed it.
I was about to turn on the light, when I felt something.
Like someone was right there.
I lunged for the baseball bat under my bed and started swinging.
I made my way to the light and turned it on.
No one was there.
Nothing was there.
And yet, it was like someone or something was there.
And then I heard a whisper.
Not even a whisper.
Something else.
A silent message in my brain.
Make sure Brooklyn is okay.
The curtains fluttered.
A slight shadow emerged on the wall.
And then, he was gone.
The room warmed up.
My goose bumps disappeared.
And I ran out of my room.
Wed., Jan. 11th—Brooklyn
Kyra tells me
I look tired.
I tell her I’m fine.
Doing great, in fact.
I don’t even tell her
about the nightmare.
That’s all it was.
A stupid nightmare.
Although, getting dressed this morning,
I had this odd sense
someone was watching me.
But that’s ridiculous.
Gabe is dead.
Dead people don’t watch people.
Do they?
Wed., Jan. 11th—Nico
I look for Brooklyn
at school
and see her at her locker
talking to Kyra.
She doesn’t see me
and I don’t stop to talk.
She’s fine.
I’ve seen it for myself.
She’s completely fine.
Did I just imagine it?
Whatever “it” was.
I thought someone was there.
I thought I heard the words.
But now, I don’t know.
Maybe Ma put something in the ravioli.
That’s it.
I’m gonna blame it on the ravioli.
After all, she’s fine.
Wed., Jan. 11th—Brooklyn
Before I head to bed
Dad gives me a piece of paper
with a website address written on it.
“Check it out,” he says.
“It’s a shelter here in town.
Some great dogs.”
I take it,
knowing I won’t look them up.
Knowing my dad just really
doesn’t get it.
Lucca told me
he had a dog one time,
when he was younger.
Her name was something silly
like Taffy or Licorice.
I can’t remember,
but he said she got hit by a car,
and he never wanted a dog again.
“Man, it hurt when she died,” he’d said.
“I didn’t want to go through that again.”
I’ve never had a dog.
But I’m pretty sure
I know how he felt.
Wed., Jan. 11th—Nico
As I cruise
the Internet,
I sense something behind me.
I turn around, expecting to see
Ma or Pop standing there.
But it’s just me.
Or so it seems.
Then I see a shadow pass by
my bedroom window.
It’s dark out, except for the soft glow
of the moonlight shining in.
The light seems to change ever so slightly.
I stand and back up toward the door.
What is it
?
Who is it?
Am I going completely mad?
I stand there for minutes,
unable to move.
There are noises at my computer.
Tapping noises.
Is that my keyboard—
“Hey!” I yell.
“Lucca, is that you?”
My computer monitor blinks,
and the words
YES HELP BROOKLYN
flash across the screen.
“Lucca?”
Wed., Jan. 11th—Brooklyn
Once again
dark hallways
and no one to help me.
I run,
looking for a door outside.
I want out.
Out of this darkness
where the fear inside myself
feels like cement
and I can’t run
as fast as I want to.
He’s behind me.
Running.
Chasing me.
Breathless,
I try a classroom
doorknob.
When it opens,
I duck inside and search
in the blackness
for a light switch.
But no matter how hard I try,
I can’t escape
the darkness.
It consumes me.
It is inside
and outside
and everywhere
I am.
I hide
under the teacher’s desk,
my heart beating so loudly,
I’m sure it’ll lead him
to me.
And when it does,
there is nowhere else
to go.
It’s me
and him
in the darkness.
He moves toward me.
Closer.
And closer.
So close
I can smell the death
that hangs on him
like a comfortable robe.
As his arms reach
under the desk,
I scream
with everything I have.
Screams fill the darkness
and light the way
to a warm bed.
Safe in my warm bed,
crying uncontrollably
not knowing what to do.
And scared I never will.
Thurs., Jan. 12th—Nico
To: brooklynbaby@sosmail.com
From: nicoferrari@remstat.com
Subj: Need to see you
Hey Brooklyn,
Can we meet? Tomorrow after school?
My house?
Do you like how I end everything with a
question mark?
Let me know. Please! That’s a ! not a ? !!
Nico
Thurs., Jan. 12th—Brooklyn
To: nicoferrari@remstat.com
From: brooklynbaby@sosmail.com
Subj: Re: Need to see you
Hi Nico:
Great to hear from you. Yes, I can meet you. See you tomorrow.
ttyl
B
Thurs., Jan. 12th—Nico
Ghosts are only in movies.
Aren’t they?
They haunt people or houses,
moaning or carrying chains around,
pissed off about something.
Ghosts don’t come to tell you something.
To slip you a message
like it’s fifth-period study hall
and there’s a party Friday night.
Do they?
So if it is my brother,
here because he’s worried
or upset
or something else,
why now?
Why’d he wait until now?
And how am I supposed to feel?
Happy he’s back?
Scared of my own brother?
I’ll tell you how I feel.
Like I’m cracked in the head,
talking like this.
Ghosts should just stick to movies.
And I should just stick to running.
Now I’m chasing Brooklyn
because some ghost told me to.
Shit.
Thurs., Jan. 12th—Brooklyn
Gabe and I
got along.
I liked him.
He liked me.
We were friends.
At least, I thought so.
So why these scary dreams?
Why is he chasing me?
I tell myself
over and over,
he isn’t after me.
He’s dead.
D-E-A-D.
Dead, dead, dead.
It hate it.
I wish things were different.
But it is what it is.
I gotta move on.
Put it behind me.
Put him behind me.
Focus on the good.
If I could figure out
what the good
is, exactly.
#282
Dear Lucca,
Seventh period. Can’t focus. Nico wants to see me
tomorrow. It’s weird. First these nightmares with
Gabe, and now Nico’s contacting me after all this
time?
I really don’t want to go. I mean, why should I
go? Maybe he’s freaking out about Gabe too, and
wants to talk about it. Except that I don’t want to
talk about it! I mean, I don’t want to talk about it
with anyone but you.
Love always,
Brooklyn
Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico
Friday the 13th
Some cities don’t have a 13th Street.
Some elevators don’t have a 13th floor.
A coven contains 13 witches.
Unlucky?
Maybe.
I’ve never been superstitious.
But when I realize it’s Friday the 13th,
I consider rescheduling with Brooklyn.
The last thing we need is more
bad luck.
But when I get home from school
and find a book magically
pulled from the bookshelf and on my desk,
I decide we better meet up
no matter what date the calendar says.
The book?
A Cry for Help.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn
What do I know about Nico?
I know he’s a senior,
a year older than me.
I know he’s got an old, black Toyota pickup
he likes to work on.
I know he likes to cook.
I’ve had his lasagna and it is to die for.
I know we should have connected sooner.
We might have been able to help each other.
We were probably scared.
Scared to talk about it all.
Scared to see how hurt the other was.
Scared to feel the empty spot Lucca’s death has made.
One thing I’ve learned
is that the empty spot is always there,
no matter who you’re with.
I suppose Nico understands that
better than anyone.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico
I’m watching some trashy TV show
waiting for her to get here.
I’m anxious to talk to her.
See how she’s doing.
I remember when I met Brooklyn for the first time.
First thing I thought?
She’s hot.
Second thing I thought?
My brother’s one lucky dude.
Third thing I thought?
I wonder if they’re doing it yet.
My brother worshipped her.
She’s artsy. Like him.
He showed me some of her flowery art.
She ta
kes photos of flowers and then draws them.
Beautiful. Like her.
Lucca was an amazing cartoonist.
Drew the funniest characters.
All that talent, gone.
Such a waste.
Since they met in art class,