Skyscraping (5 page)

Harsh winter wind leaves

a cold layer

over everything,

no way to get warm.

Icy air coats

our apartment,

the space between me

and my family.

Insides matching outsides.

At Yearbook, I enter

and they are already working:

the sports pages,

each sport a planet unto itself.

A few months ago

I would’ve loved to see

this focus, determination.

Now I just want them to go,

spin out, away.

One of them asks where the field day collage went—

the one I destroyed—

I say it’s already off to the printer.

A lie that

flies easily from my tongue.

A parachute of lies that

holds me up lately.

They say isn’t it early,

I say not for color collages.

They believe me.

I open my desk drawer,

the erasers, staples,

still sit so neatly.

When no one is looking,

I summon a storm:

with a thunder

I

hail paper clips      rain tacks

turn order into chaos.

The office door opens.

Sunlight beams in: Adam.

He says surprise, he’s home for winter break.

So relieved I am to see him,

for a second it’s like nothing’s changed,

my life makes sense and I know who I am.

I run to him.

Hug him.

His smell is something new.

The staff huddles around us, him,

asks what college is like, if he misses Yearbook,

he smiles at me, says he misses other things more.

He’s impressed by our layouts,

I shut the messed-up drawer.

Tell him I’m so happy he’s here.

He says it is just for tonight;

his family leaves for Jamaica in the morning.

That night, something else new—

we play quarters with his old high school friends.

He says he’s been drinking some, college, experimentation.

I nod, tell him likewise, and his friend Dave gives me a drink

each time a quarter lands in the Statue of Liberty mug.

Plink. Plink.

Drink.

Back at his parents’ apartment,

I ask Adam if he’s been with anyone.

He says none of that matters,

he’s here with me.

I tell him just the sight of him

makes things feel calmer.

Easier.

I straddle him on his perfectly made bed.

My hair curtains his face,

his eyes are closed,

and I’m drunk enough not to care

that we’re no longer together,

drunk enough to say

one of the things I have to share.

I tell him I wanted to lose my virginity to him

before he left but—

He interrupts me, says

there’s no time like the present.

Puts a lock of hair behind my ear.

Traces a heart with his finger on my knee.

My head spins.

I wonder, if I let him in,

if he could light me, even from a distance,

the way the moon is only bright

because it bathes in the sun’s light.

Or how sailors look to the North Star

to guide them, give direction.

Maybe Adam could be that for me again.

I look down, up into his eyes.

Nod my head.

And for a minute,

my head buzzing with beer,

all I want is for Adam to

pour himself into me.

His face floats above me,

so close, so familiar,

but all I can see is James, lying naked, on my parents’ bed.

And I can’t.

I push Adam off.

Tell him no.

He grumbles

geez, Mira, you’re going to have to grow up sometime.

I tell him growing up sucks.

He shrugs. Doesn’t agree.

The heat clicks on, deafening

Adam’s harsh words—

they float out

into

the howling

December winds.

I follow.

Shut the door quietly,

out of Adam’s apartment,

walk to the gold-mirrored elevator,

my reflection framed in the warp of its mirror:

just a little girl at night,

on a balcony,

my long knotted hair,

eyes squinting

up.

I don’t go straight home,

wander a bit in the night,

think about how quickly people can change,

act in ways you don’t expect.

An unpredicted storm that

leaves people out,

windswept,

in the cold.

3am.

I walk past piles of mail,

clutter on the table.

Dad sees my reflection

in the hallway mirror

before I see him.

He tells me to sit down,

says he knows I’m upset,

that I’m trying to punish him

for what happened,

for things being different than they seemed.

He says he never meant for his choices to hurt us.

Somehow this makes it worse,

like he wasn’t even thinking of me, April, our family.

I ask him why he’s even awake.

He says he’s not feeling well,

been up all night, in the bathroom.

Says not to distract him from the issue at hand,

this is unacceptable, I’m grounded—

something I’ve never been before.

His face changes then,

Dad looks so different

than the person who

used to help me with my homework,

hushed me back to sleep after a nightmare.

This man is

unfamiliar.

But all I say is fine, I’m grounded.

Whatever that means.

He says no going out this week after school.

No talking on the phone either.

He says there have to be consequences

for bad behavior.

Then he walks down the hall,

steadies himself

hand to wall.

In the mirror

I watch

his giant shadow shrink,

disappear.

December

SESSION THREE

I want to get just a few more questions in before break.

Question six: What would you like your legacy to be? If you could only teach us—or your students—one thing, what would it be?

It would be to challenge yourself. Let the world move you. Make something of your own, something new.

Sounds like a Hallmark card.

Miranda—

Fine. Can you be more specific?

Okay, well, this student I had when I was teaching high school Spanish—Camilla. She made her own time travel machine from cardboard when we read
A Wrinkle in Time.
Or the way you and your sister have made videos, written songs, how you feel when you are making Yearbook, how your mom feels when she’s making art, or me, making a costume. Just in the zone. Stay true to your art, your passion. I would want you to remember that.

Why?

Because the world can be a confusing, scary place, Miranda. Not everything will make sense. But you can control your choices. You can control your creations. It can help make the world feel manageable. I see you struggling—

Question seven: What would you put in a time capsule to represent your life?

(Laughs) That’s a ridiculous question.

Dad. Just answer it.

I don’t know. A copy of
Don Quixote.
A chess piece. A feather.

The week I’m grounded,

time seems to still.

Silent, empty.

I mark time

by problems half-solved.

Paragraphs half-read.

Finally, winter break.

Chloe and I used to spend it having

double sleepovers at my house, playing Clue VCR,

eating cookie dough, shopping on Columbus.

This break,

me, Dylan, Chloe

spend lots of time

getting rocked:

smoking pot on the Big Rock,

listening to Phish at Dylan’s house,

the music taking us up,

we laugh so hard I can almost forget who I am.

Sometimes Chloe locks herself in the bathroom,

only lets me in,

I listen to her problems,

then ask her questions

about movies and music.

She says I’m the only one

who knows how to calm her down.

Chloe doesn’t know that helping her

with her problems

is the only way to forget my own.

I.

I bump into James

in the elevator,

haven’t seen him since

walking in on him and Dad.

My throat swells.

I can’t look at him without remembering him naked.

I look down.

Notice he’s bringing up our ornament boxes

from the storage space in the basement.

Four boxes stacked around him.

I don’t ask questions, but he explains quickly

that Dad wasn’t feeling well again,

Mom had a big project,

Dad asked if he could buy the tree,

bring the boxes up.

I don’t offer to help.

II.

Dad lying on the couch,

says what James has already told me.

I tell him I don’t need James’s help,

Dad says he didn’t know if I’d be around.

He sounds hurt, speaks in a voice

that leaves me with no right

to question.

III.

Later, everyone home,

Mom puts on a Christmas CD.

April puts a wreath on her head,

helps James hang the lights.

April seems unfazed by this new “family.”

I pretend to look through the boxes.

Blue glass balls that Mom made,

store-bought reds, greens and golds,

a peeled-nosed Rudolph,

a broken-hatted Frosty.

’Tis the season to be jolly!

Bing Crosby croons.

I pull a white unicorn with a red saddle from the box.

The smell of pine drifts

as they turn the tree into a blinking sky.

They all sing “Silent Night,”

I snap off the creature’s horn.

Pocket it.

Tell them I still need to buy gifts.

Float out the door.

IV.

On the street,

smoke a red I bummed from Chloe.

Fairy bells jingle as I enter Celestial Treasures.

Dark Side of the Moon
on low as a whisper.

I walk over to the crystals:

a shelf of tiny violet cities,

walls of windows,

every triangled side, a light.

I palm one that looks like the skyline.

For a minute I think about getting it for Dad.

Then I remember what I walked out on:

Mom. Dad. April. James.

Together. Playing perfect family.

I go to the earrings,

pick out some star studs, for April.

Gloria is folding tapestries.

Asks me how my sister’s doing,

asks with some concern,

I say
fine
(as always).

Wonder why she cares so much.

After I pay, on my way out,

I pull the horn out of my pocket;

bury it in the folds of the window display

before I scurry away.

Adam, back from Jamaica,

left me something in the lobby:

a seashell barrette, a note.

In my room I read:

Sorry for how I acted last time.

Hope to see you next time I’m home.

The shells are so shiny,

like they’re still

underwater.

I reread his note.

Feel seasick. Confused.

Not sure what he wants

from me, what I want

from him.

My bedroom phone rings.

Dylan says he’s got Phish tickets for New Year’s.

In Massachusetts.

Dad and Mom, together, on the couch.

He’s reading
I, Claudius
,

she’s got her glasses on, tongue on lip,

drawing plans for her new glass animal farm.

I don’t ask them if I can go to a concert

or on a trip with friends.

Not wanting a fight, not wanting a no,

just ask if I can go to Chloe’s for New Year’s.

Mom leans into his shoulder,

Dad nods his head, yes,

okay, I can go.

For a minute they look like the figures from my drawing,

perfect, average, normal,

lying, folded, under my pillow.

For a minute, I think about grabbing April,

sitting with them.

But then I remember Hubble’s Law:

The closer a galaxy is to us,

the faster it’s moving away.

I can’t be part of a family

that’s built on lies,

they think they can pull me closer,

now that things are out in the open,

but

I’ve already

drifted

away.

I.

We take Chloe’s nonna’s Volvo.

Listen to “Sample in a Jar”

fifteen times in a row.

The farther we drive, the more I forget

my parents don’t know where I am.

I forget if I even care.

We land on Planet Phish:

looks like the 1976 yearbook:

girls in patchwork skirts,

guys in bell-bottoms,

hemp necklaces and grilled cheese for sale,

pot and sweat and patchouli.

We move with the crowd into the indoor arena.

In the hallway,

two girls,

one naked except for overalls,

another in

white-blond dreads,

sell a pink-patched dress

with a pocket gem that shines—

a beaded silver moon.

Immediately my plain clothes feel wrong.

I nod my head to the dress,

shed my jeans and sweater.

II.

During “Run Like an Antelope,” we herd through aisles—

bubble gum smoke pours

on us

pink and yellow balloons

rain down

a guy in a ponytail leads me in a wild

do-si-do

swinging me by the arm,

then comes “Auld Lang Syne.”

We slow dance.

Ponytail leads me to a corner,

kissing, swimming me into the wall,

his spindly, tattooed arms wrapping me.

I think about Adam for a minute, and who he’s kissing.

Ponytail strokes my back,

his cheek scrubbing mine.

He whispers
Happy New Year
in my ear,

fingers my dress strap,

edges his fingers down,

traces the pocket moon.

He asks where I came from,

I think about lying, saying Larchmont or Long Island.

But I tell him the truth.

He says he’s heard kids grow up fast

in New York City.

I guess they do.

I pull Ponytail into a darker space

behind the bleachers, let him touch me

where he wants, and I touch him too.

Because that’s what New York City kids do.

I float away—

until “Down with Disease” shouts me awake.

My body pulses

in disgrace at this stranger’s touch.

I push away Ponytail,

who calls me a tease.

Search for Chloe and Dylan.

My heart beats faster,

my feet quicken

to the frenzy of the music,

building, like gliding under the biggest waves,

water sliding over my back.

When I find my friends,

we dance like we’re on fire,

holding hands, jumping waves of flame,

focus on my own breath,

breathe in sweet smoke

fast as fire