how hot I get,
how hard I try to lose him,
he’s behind me.
His footsteps now
more familiar to me
than my own voice.
Like a soldier at war,
being chased by the enemy,
I search for places to hide.
But there aren’t any.
So I
just
keep
running.
Then, suddenly,
like an unexpected break
in the storm,
the footsteps stop.
I glance behind me,
and there’s nothing to see.
I stop
and breathe
a sigh of relief.
Until I look
in front of me.
He’s there.
Right
there.
“Fear controls you,” he tells me.
In that moment
my heart is
a ticking bomb,
ready to explode.
I will myself awake,
gasping for breath,
feeling like I ran for miles
even if I was in my bed
all night long.
Sun., Jan. 15th—Nico
Spaghetti Sunday
is my favorite day of the month.
The third Sunday of every month,
Ma makes a big batch of spaghetti with meatballs,
and relatives fill our house like fish fill a net
on a good fishing day.
The guys eat and watch football or basketball or baseball,
depending on the season,
while the girls eat
and talk births or weddings or funerals
depending on the month.
Ma’s spaghetti slid into Lucca’s heart as a toddler
and never left.
I know when she makes it,
she thinks of him,
how he’d come in and ask for a sample of sauce
as it simmered on the stove.
She’d fill a wooden spoon just for him.
He’d slurp the sauce.
She’d reach up and wipe his chin.
He’d say, “Perfection, Ma.”
She’d smile, looking at him, and say, “Yes. It is.”
I always wondered,
did he know she wasn’t talking
about the sauce?
Sun., Jan. 15th—Brooklyn
After I go
to the comic book store,
Kyra and I meet up
at the movies
to escape life
and death
for a couple of hours.
We always get there early
to sit in the way-back,
where the seats are roomy
and our whispers are safe.
The box of Junior Mints
passes between us,
keeping time with our words.
She tells me about this new guy, Tyler,
who’s in her English class
and how he has eyes
the color of sea glass
and hair the color of sand.
“Maybe he’s a merman,” I tell her.
“Well, he can take me under the sea any day,” she says.
With eyes as bright and warm
as a sunflower
and smooth, dark skin,
Kyra is by far the prettiest girl in our class.
I don’t know if boys are intimidated by her
or afraid of her or what,
but I know her heart is open and ready
for a special guy to walk in.
She’s telling me more about her merman
when we see Gabe’s sister, Audrey,
and two of her friends walk in.
They take their seats.
Audrey sits quietly
while her friends chat and laugh.
Kyra and I exchange a look
without words,
and we know our minds
have traveled to the same place together.
The lights dim,
while anticipation rises.
I hope the movie is spectacular.
Because for some people,
it’s not quite so easy
to escape life
and death.
Sun., Jan. 15th—Nico
My cousin Michael
gets my attention from across the room
of noodle heads and waves me outside.
Michael goes to a different school.
“What happened with Gabe?” he asks.
I shrug. “He’s dead.”
“But how?”
“Drugs,” I say, like it’s so simple,
which of course it’s anything but.
“It blows,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I was pissed for a while.
But I’m trying to get over it.”
I grab the football from the lawn
and motion to him to go long.
“Nico. Seriously. Are you okay?”
Concern covers his face like a ski mask.
I smile.
“I’m fine, Michael. I even signed up for a sprint triathlon.
Now I just need to start training.”
“By yourself?” he asks.
“Unless you want to do it with me,” I say.
The ball spirals toward him
and falls into his arms
like it belongs there.
“No way,” he says. “Not my idea of fun.”
It may not be fun all the time.
But it’s better than thinking about
dead people.
Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn
I watch the merman
from afar.
He floats around the library,
waves of eyes
watching him as he goes.
There’s something about him.
Something that captures
your attention and holds it
like a beacon at night
in the strongest of storms.
What is it?
What is it about him?
When he suddenly turns
and his sea-green eyes meet mine,
in that instant
it’s like my toes hit the
cold Pacific ocean,
and I know.
He is not of the ocean.
He is the ocean.
A sea of life
full of all things mysterious
and beautiful
and alive.
What a wondrous thing to be.
#284
Dear Lucca,
Remember how we talked about going to the beach together? We planned to go in the summer, when it was warm. I wanted to walk along the beach with you, holding hands, our bare feet making footprints until the waves quietly washed them away.
I loved dreaming with you. Making plans with you. We had things to do, places to go, things to see.
Now there’s no more plans for me. So, I’ll just sit here, dreaming of the cool, blue ocean. And you. When I’m daydreaming, I always dream of you.
Love always,
Brooklyn
Mon., Jan. 16th—Nico
My talk with Brooklyn
last week doesn’t seem to be enough.
All weekend,
A Cry for Help
made the rounds in my room.
Every time I entered,
the book was somewhere new.
On my pillow.
In my sock drawer.
Between my old Little League trophies.
Tired of the game,
I threw it in the trash can.
Outside.
As I sit in class,
I think back to this morning.
I woke up
to the loud, angry noises
of the garbage trucks on the street.
I woke up
to goose bump
s all over my body.
I woke up
to my hand gripping a book.
A Cry for Help.
Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn
I know what I’ll find
when I get home.
Daddy on the sofa
with his feet on the coffee table,
the newspaper in his hands
and the TV turned to ESPN.
I know
what we’ll talk about
while I make dinner.
He’ll ask about my day
and I’ll say it was fine
and then he’ll tell me about
some of the animals he helped
at his veterinarian practice.
I know
what will happen
during dinner.
We’ll watch TV
until I get up and take our dishes
to the dishwasher.
Then I’ll go to my room
and supposedly do homework,
which I sometimes do,
and sometimes don’t.
I know
what will happen
when it’s time to go to bed.
He’ll say, “I love you, angel.
Sweet dreams.”
I’ll say, “I love you, too”
all the while thinking,
Why’d you make them go?
Mon., Jan. 16th—Nico
Over dinner
Ma asks me if I’ve seen Audrey at school.
“Yeah. A few times.”
“Does she look okay?” Ma asks.
I shrug. “Looks fine to me.
Hanging out with her friends. Like usual.”
Pop nods. “She’s a strong girl. She’ll get through this.”
“That’s what we thought about Gabe,” Ma says softly.
And she’s exactly right.
Later in my room, I think about that.
And I think about Brooklyn and how
I thought she just needed a shoulder to cry on.
But maybe she needs more.
Maybe she can’t put out a call for help,
so Lucca’s doing it for her.
I start to call her.
And then I stop.
Because it’s so bizarre.
I can’t just call her out of nowhere
and tell her I think she needs help.
I mean, what the hell does that sound like?
I’m pretty sure it sounds like
she’ll hang up on my ass.
Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn
Over dinner
Dad tells me
about an old cocker spaniel
named Barnaby
who died today.
He was old and sick,
blind and going deaf,
and his owner
wanted to give him
peace.
I say, “See. That’s exactly why I don’t want a dog.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll just die.”
“Everybody dies, Brooklyn.”
Like that makes it okay or something.
Mon., Jan. 16th—Nico
Pop’s been on my back
like a hump on a camel
about getting a job again.
I worked over the summer
as a waiter and when my
fall course load was heavy, I quit.
Couldn’t stand the whining customers—
the meat’s too red
the gravy too cold
the cake too rich.
Won’t be doing that again anytime soon.
I’d get a job as a grease monkey if I could,
except they have guys
with years of experience under their hoods
lining up for work, and what have I got?
What kind of dressing would you like on your salad, ma’am?
As if that’s going to help me.
Anyway, I really don’t want to work.
I just want to run.
Wish I got paid for doing that.
Running’s my kind of work.
Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn
Mom calls to talk
and when we’re caught up
on her and the twins,
she asks
about school,
about Kyra,
about my art.
Art?
Color?
Beauty?
They’re all foreign to me.
That which used to be
a drawing table
is now a
dirty clothes receptacle.
Apparently, I’m
airing my dirty laundry
in the truest sense
of the words.
Tues., Jan. 17th—Nico
To: brooklynbaby@sosmail.com
From: nicoferrari@remstat.com
Subj: Just checking
Brooklyn,
Everything going okay? Just wanted you to know, if you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. Anything at all …
Nico
Tues., Jan. 17th—Brooklyn
While Mr. Ingalls
drones on in Algebra 2,
I sit in a bathroom stall,
drawing a rose on the wall.
Bathroom art is all about
killing time and nothing else.
Two girls come in,
talking about a party
Friday night.
I draw the last leaf
and go out,
wanting to see who they are.
Melinda and Bree,
two of the biggest
stoners in school.
“Hey,” I say.
They both return the greeting
while I approach the sink.
“You and Gabe were friends, right?” Bree asks.
I nod.
They look at each other,
then back at me.
I focus on the soap
lathering in my hands.
I know they’re trying to decide
what to say.
Perhaps how much to say.
“There’s a party Friday night,” Melinda says.
“At Ben’s house. You should come.”
“It’s to honor Gabe,” Bree says.
“The band’s gonna play.
It’ll be good. You know?”
I turn the water off
and reach for a paper towel.
“Thanks,” I tell them.
“I’ll think about it.”
They smile, then turn back
to each other and whatever
business they have
in the bathroom
together.
A party.
To honor him.
Interesting idea.
Tues., Jan. 17th—Nico
A Cry for Help
is on my pillow again,
like a good-night chocolate,
but not quite as sweet.
Okay.
I get it.
You’re obviously trying to tell me something.
When I take the book to my desk,
I hear music.
My computer is playing a CD.
The song?
Fix You by Coldplay.
“I’ll talk to her tomorrow, Lucca,” I whisper.
“I promise.”
Wed., Jan. 18th—Brooklyn
I’m swimming
in the light, bright ocean
under the waves,
with hundreds of
vibrantly colored fish
all around me.
The colors are more vivid
than anything I’ve seen
in a dream before.
I swim slowly with the fish,
tranquility gently
guiding us along.
Until the sea darkens.
The fish scatter.
And I’m alone.
No footsteps to hear.
No desks to hide under.
No streets or fields to run in.
I know he’s coming.
And only then do my lungs
fill with water,
and I scramble to the surface.
There, I gasp for breath,