Authors: Kelsey Sutton
I am standing
on a mountain made of tongues,
all of them wriggling,
shouting at me
in a thousand different languages.
I am walking
down a street
empty of all but
wistful breezes
sighing stars
creaking doors.
I am being eaten
alive by crows,
their beaks
pecking and poking and tearing.
I am in a grave
with the bell rope
next to my hand,
but I can't move
to ring it.
And then I am being shaken awake,
listening to a low whisper
that tells me everything is all right,
I'm safe.
“Mom?” I whisper,
open my eyes
to her dim outline.
“You were having a bad dream,” she says,
her palm a cool spot
on my skin.
I grab her hand
and hold it tight,
reassure myself
this isn't another dream.
“Don't leave,” I say.
She doesn't speak,
just slides down
into the space beside me,
tucks the covers
around us both.
She reeks
of cheeseburgers and coffee,
but I don't mind one bit.
For a few minutes
we breathe in sync,
Dana still sound asleep
till I feel myself
slipping away.
Then a movement
yanks me back
to the present;
my mother twitches and smiles
as if she's caught
in a thrilling dream.
I wonder
if she's floated amongst
the stars, too.
At breakfast
I find an apple
in the fridge.
Think of the boy
from New Orleans,
hesitate,
put it back.
Take
an orange instead.
Today
the cafeteria is
made of only eyes and whispers.
My tree
seems far away
now that the teachers
have deemed it too cold
to eat outside.
Matthew sits in the corner
with Mary Mosley,
a king on his plastic throne.
I hesitate,
clutch my tray.
He catches my stare.
Even now
the sight of him
makes the birds in my stomach
flutter.
Anna sits beside them,
looks at me,
struggle written plainly
across her face.
We both know
she doesn't belong
with the Mary Mosleys
of the world.
But sometimes it feels impossible
to leave the familiar behind.
I can't help her;
there are some battles
we must fight on our own.
Then,
a voice.
“Fain! Sit with me,” Dana demands.
I settle under
my sister's wing,
tucked around me
warm and safe.
That night
I open my eyes to once again see
my sister's face above me,
a pale moon rising
over the horizon
of our room.
“Get up,” Dana orders.
She won't answer any questions,
but I ask them all the same.
By the time I get to the door,
she and Tyler
are already there.
The three of us
sneak out,
walk the six blocks
to the rink.
Our snow pants swish,
heavy boots clomp.
We creep onto the ice
and our bladeless feet
don't matter:
we fall
and laugh
and glide
and spin.
Every time
I hit the ground,
they reach down
and pull me up.
All my nights
with the monsters
cannot compare to this.
Later that night
the monsters visit me
even though I haven't called them.
Still,
I take hold of their hands
and climb back out
into the cold.
The dongs of the clock
fade fast behind us.
The monsters
are more fearless than usual.
We fly with a flock of honking geese
across the midnight moon.
I think of gliding over ice,
holding tight to Dana and Tyler.
We have a tea party
in the middle of a cloud.
I think of building towers and trick-or-treating
with Peter.
We run into the forest
and hunt with wolves.
I think of tucking my head into the warm curve
of my mother's neck.
We tie a balloon around an elephant's belly,
watch it ascend into the stars.
I think of the constellations,
talking with Anna in the dark.
Our journeys are just as magical
as they have ever been,
but nothing feels the same.
All the while
we fly and chase and run,
my favorite monster is silent.
When I ask him
what has changed,
he gives me a sad smile.
“You.”
In that moment I know
that my little monsters
will never tap on the window again.
I look out the window
toward the street,
and there she is.
We meet
in the spot
where we first met.
Where I saw
her swollen eyes
and she just saw
me for me.
Her scarf flutters
in the breeze.
“It was my fault,” Anna blurts,
her cheeks flushed with shame.
“I told Mary which window was yours.”
Then she apologizes,
asks if she can eat lunch with me
tomorrow.
I consider this
for a moment.
“I want to show you something,” I say.
When we arrive,
Anna looks around with so much curiosity,
it's as though she's examining
my soul.
She picks up a rock,
throws it with all the strength
in her arm.
“What is this place?” she asks.
“Quiet,” I answer,
tracking the progress
of a seagull as it
flies across the sky.
I tell her
I used to come here
when I needed
someplace safe.
We stand silently,
look out over the water
for a while.
“If a bird stops flying,
does that mean
it's no longer a bird?” Anna asks.
I'm not sure
if she expects an answer,
but a ripple
expands over the water
in response.
This doesn't feel
like my haven anymore;
now it just feels empty.
Minutes pass;
Anna and I leave the quarry,
a place of escape and loneliness.
I will not be back.
The sound of my brother's giggle
draws me to his bedroom door.
Unaware of my presence,
Peter looks out the window,
smiling and touching that fragile barrier.
The city we once so painstakingly built
crumbled and forgotten
on the floor.
I ask my brother
what it is
that made him laugh.
“Squirrel,” he says, grinning.
I follow his gaze
but see only quivering branches,
roiling skies.
“Come with me,” I say,
taking his small hand.
When Peter is not looking,
I unlock the window.
Just in case.
A space heater hums
as I walk down the stairs,
step closer,
magazine crinkling
in my hands.
“Are you awake?” I whisper.
“Can I show you something?”
My mother stirs
from her place on the couch,
lifts her head,
squints at me.
“What is it?” she mumbles.
Ignoring the instinct
to turn and run,
I put my story on her lap.
Mom is so silent, so still,
the light inside me
begins to fade.
But then she rubs her eye with one knuckle
and sits up
for a better look.
I know the exact moment
she sees my name
and realizes what it is
she's holding.
“Honey!” she shouts.
“Come look at this!”
There are some stories
without happy endings.
There are some tales
that go on and on.
It happens gradually,
like the seasons changing
bones growing.
Every day I go into the kitchen
and I see the tiny differences
in my family
far from perfect
but still trying
growing taller and stronger
like Peter's tower of blocks.
Tyler kneels down
to pick up
the spoon our brother dropped.
Dana ignores
the ringing phone,
talks about the upcoming dance.
At the stove,
Mom takes a moment
to turn her head
and smile at me.
But all the while
Dad sits at the table
rubbing his head,
staring at the tiny letters
of the classifieds.
I don't know
if he'll stay in that chair
or if one day I'll come home
to find it empty.
For now
all that matters is
it isn't.
Steam rises off the turkey,
condensation rolls down the water pitcher,
forks clink against plates.
My prize-winning story
hangs on the wall
in a brand-new frame.
It's the first meal
our family has had together
since I can remember.
I hope it's not the last.
In the middle of dessert,
the room goes bright
and I realize
it's snowing again.
Normally
I would lose myself
in the magic
outside the window.
But the scene around me
is so beautiful,
I find that
I cannot look away.
Dana has been making plans.
She planned our dresses
our ride
our night.
But I've made plans
of my own.
We're in the gymnasium,
where I once felt so apart
from everything.
Stars dangle from the ceiling,
a band plays,
lights swoop and flash.
It takes me a while
to find the boy
who saw the Fain no one else did.
“Will you dance with me?” I ask Carl.
Smooth my skirt,
wonder if he will notice
that it's as silver
as the armor he drew me in.
Eyes watch from all around
as we dance
with pride
joy
abandon.
Then Anna finds me,
loops her arm
through mine,
white teeth gleaming in laughter.
Dana elbows through,
and moments later
Tyler pushes his way
into our circle.
Suddenly I realize
I no longer feel alone.
Fingers brush my arm,
cold and clammy.
Somehow I know
before I turn around
it's the boy
from New Orleans.
“Hi, Fain.”
He fidgets;
his suit doesn't fit right,
just like us.
Mary Mosley
stands a short distance away,
sour-faced;
I wonder if anyone
has made her drink
lemonade tonight.
“Listen,” Matthew starts.
His words are strange
with their hidden meanings
and murky intentions.
I glance over my shoulder,
see my friends, my siblings
waiting.
“Tell it to the goldfish,” I say.
During a still moment
something draws me
to the woods.
I find the clearing
where I once danced
around a fire
with monsters.
I kneel to the ground
and pick up a stick,
recognize it as
my former queenly scepter.
A few yards away
rests an upturned bucket,
plastic and cracked.
I know it will fit as effortlessly
as the crown I once wore.
I make a pile of it all
in case someone else needs it
someday.
Then I sit against a tree,
write a different kind
of story.
I write about
a girl who is learning
to take things as they come
a girl who is learning
that life is far from perfect.
But she's also learning
that things are constantly
changing
shifting
growing
every moment of every day.
Then I close my notebook,
leave the woods,
run all the way home.
It may seem strange that I worked harder on this book than any other, because there are significantly fewer words involved. But each of those words were examined and agonized over to make The Lonely Ones the best it could possibly be, and that wouldn't have happened without certain people. My thanks and eternal appreciation go to:
Liza Kaplan, not only for her passion during this process but also for being so understanding when I needed extra time to work on Fain's story. She is an incredible editor to work with, and I'm constantly pinching myself to make sure all of this is real. The bruises reassure me that, yes, she really is in my corner and this whole thing happened.
My amazing agent, Beth Miller, for not batting an eyelash when I sent her this manuscript out of the blue. The day before she was leaving on holiday, no less. “I don't know what this is, really, but what do you think?” I wrote. That very same day she replied with, “Okay, so I love this a lot.” Neither of us had explored novels in verse before, but Beth didn't let that stop her for a second. She really does have superpowers.
Talia Benamy and Michael Green, for their time and dedication.
Kristy King, for her excellent feedback on the very, very rough first draft. So much of what she said helped shape what this book has become.
Jordan Kralewski and Emily Neuman, who both spent many long afternoons with me as I worked on this book. Thank you for letting me bounce ideas off you, for closing my Facebook and Pinterest windows when the time called for it, and ultimately
keeping me sane during revisions. And Jordan, thank you for the hot chocolate. It was an essential part of the process.
Larry Swain, for his patience and encouragement during my internship with him. I may have missed a couple deadlines while struggling to meet the one for this manuscript. I'll be eternally grateful for the day when he said, “Okay, Sutton, forget the essay. Your focus for the next couple weeks will be getting this book done.”
Theresa Evangelista and Siobhán Gallagher, for designing such a lovely book to go along with the story.
I wouldn't have been able to do this without any of
you.