The Plume Magazine Winter 2011

The Plume the literary magazine of

Keystone College La Plume, Pennsylvania

wINTER 2011

The Plume Editorial Board Kendra Hashagen-Burke Stephen Keating Patricia Kinney Kelly Langan

Evelyn Munley David Schulte Leigh-Ann Sjogren

Faculty Advisor Dr. David Elliott

All works used with permission.

Authors and artists retain all rights to individual works.

Submissions to The Plume are welcomed from students, alumni, and employees of Keystone College.

Please send your poetry, prose, articles, and artwork to: The Plume, Box 305, Keystone College, One College Green, LaPlume, PA 18440

Contents Front Cover: Photograph by Danielle Cortese Design by Leigh-Ann Sjogren Enchanted Place Patricia Kinney Daisies and Meatloaf Kelly Langan Boxes David Schulte Finding Yourself Jessica Rios Strangers Patricia Kinney Photograph Danielle Cortese God Andrew Coyle True Love Evelyn Munley Photograph Leigh-Ann Sjogren No Radio Kendra Hashagen-Burke Fireworks David Schulte Photograph Leigh-Ann Sjogren Love Doesn’t Love Me Sitting on a Park Bench Charles Davis Out of My Shell Cecelia Blue Drawing Zhimin Zhai Autumn Leaf Andrew Coyle The Ring Patricia Kinney Drawing Zhimin Zhai Car Components Evelyn Munley Difference Between Walking and Running Charles Davis Mother Redwood Kendra Hashagen-Burke

1 2 2 3 3 4 5 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Photograph Danielle Cortese Sestina Evelyn Munley Because The English 315 Poets Wooden No. 2 Kendra Hashagen-Burke Photograph Kendra Hashagen-Burke Hate Kelly Langan Painting Zhimin Zhai Crooked Teeth Kendra Hashagen-Burke

19 20 21 22 23 24 40 41

Enchanted Place I stared into the distance, bored with my routine of waiting, waiting for the boy.

Then a glimmer drew my eye with an almost mystic force.

I saw a silver mountain, encircled by a ring of trees, backlit by the golden rays of sunshine through the mist.

I imagined elves, dancing ‘round the base, crafting spells, chanting charms, frolicking with Earth.

Or maybe it was fairies building an enchanted place.

Their wings fluttered as shimmering dust flew when they formed a castle from sun sparkles caught up in the dew.

I tried to keep it in my sight when the bus pulled in, but diesel smoke and tinted windows blocked my magic view.

I thought to point it out when a small hand found mine, but when I looked again to see, that enchanted place was gone.

Patricia Kinney

1

Daisies and Meatloaf Like the perfect daisy who had his petals torn off one by one by an innocent child, (He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me . . .)

You are going to die in pieces.

And me – your baby girl – I will be left alone like the cold slab of meatloaf that was shoved in the back corner of the fridge.

Leftover and helpless. (. . . He loves me not.)

I want to scrape the resin off your tarred lungs and see if you'll smoke that.

Kelly Langan

Boxes Today, I was presented with a cardboard box.

Its contents were personal, similar to another smaller box once received.

Inside: loved books, inked greeting cards, worn baby pictures, ceramic guardian angel, and a wooden box with studded-metal bands.

The smaller contains only a thick clear glass box.

The wooden box: a beige pocketbook, a brass-monogram broach, nametag, and loose papers.

The clear box—sealed; only gray shifting dunes can be seen through its transparent walls.

The pocketbook: IDs, a newspaper clipping, and coins not minted after 1977.

The dunes—trapped; a single-chambered hourglass.

The ID: I am drawn to her eyes—my eyes.

David H. Schulte, III

2

Finding Yourself So many faces, some new, some old So many people, easily bought and sold Loyalties and promises, opinions and thoughts In order to be accepted, you lose the reason you fought Feelings and friends, these are forever changing Try not to lose yourself when your life is rearranging Failing to adapt, getting lost in the flow Somehow you have turned into someone you don’t know Now floundering alone, in a world that does not care You look desperately around, but your friends are not there Hitting rock bottom, your heart full of regret Evaluating your life, getting things all set Standing up again, unsteady on your feet Stubbornly refusing to give into defeat It’s a lot harder, the second time around You will be surprised by the motivation you have found Jessica Rios

Strangers Laughing young girl winds her body around a newcomer.

Eyes flashing like heat lightning, she whispers in his ear.

The neon glows around them, reflecting in their eyes like fire on a lake as he caresses her in a room full of strangers.

The fever burns between them in this forlorn place of alcohol and secrets, melts them into one as they walk out in the night.

He strokes her back, small circles in the shadows of a lone bulb above the door, whispers magic words that disappear by morning.

Patricia Kinney

3

4

God Don't wait up for me I won't be back until I'm ready Naked as I depart I trust who I am to you A heart to light the way And a mind that matters not Souled to the body in the front row For a lesson that is a lifetime I can hear it now, whispers The voice of the bigger picture Should its colors call to me I won't see black nor white And so I give in Human is what I was sent here to be And if I wasn't loved Angels wouldn't watch over me Andrew Coyle

True Love Your grip is friction zipping up my spine.

Your voice carves its way into the cortex of my brain.

Your stale-ash cologne inhabits my sinuses and pores.

The spectacle of you scorches my gastro tract.

Just the notion of you grates at the muscle that is my heart.

Evelyn B. Munley

5

6

No Radio This is why we fight, she sings. The lyrics— fire in my nose, bee in my throat, ocean in my eyes.

She never mentions why we might give up.

Like cheap toy dinosaurs that grow in jars of water— it absorbed the life from your body, took up space it wasn’t meant to take.

It used a toothy snout to bash your heart against the wall of your ribcage.

Clumps of your mouse-brown hair— sucked into the vacuum hose, emptied into trash cans.

Gobs of phlegm took residence in your throat.

Your tongue and lungs worked hard to evict them. But the taste always came back.

Chemicals— doing nothing more, for you or us, than keep your dead heart beating—stopped.

You’d had enough of that cruel dinosaur.

You gave up that fight for good.

7

My fingers caress the dial and twist. My ears tune in to a faint click— as the melody dies.

Kendra Hashagen-Burke

Fireworks after Theodore Roethke I have known the allure of heroes Pressed in uniforms of drab green and gray, Described through ribbons, badges, and scars, Adorned with arms, armor, and amputation, Lost in cause, country, and conflict, Conceived by Uncle Sam and Lady Liberty, Star-struck and spangled by war, Bleeding red, white, and blue.

And I have witnessed a man on the 4th of July Nervous with anticipation, pacing the perimeter, Checking his post, front door— back door, Hands to ears, mind locked in desperation, ‘Til all the true patriots are sleeping.

David H. Schulte, III

8

9

Love Doesn’t Love Me Sitting on a Park Bench Ms. Happy Nonjudgmental smiles Until she really looks I want to know them all Sweet, vivacious, cute, and alluring Feminine not Femin-on me nor anyone Hell they don’t even know who I am For what badge could I wear?

Badge that screams, “look at me, and what I’ve done.”

Where I’ve been What I’ve seen How I’ve learned Who I’ve become Blazer pulls in not to park but to turn around The girls have been doing that to me all day Sexual bliss must be life’s upper Loneliness most definitely its downer Society has me so drugged up by now, that I see twenty people in the mirror, none of whom I recognize.

Which one will surface tomorrow?

I hope I like him best of all.

Another drives by but again no one stops, just turning around In a land of fast food, cars, and home delivery, Why hasn’t anyone delivered the one?

No, love doesn’t love me sitting on a park bench Charles B. Davis

10

Out of My Shell It tasted like cold slime that slipped down my throat like a slug, Leaving a trail of thick sloppy butter, which coated the inside of my mouth.

The taste resided on my lips After that And for the night.

I tried being polite.

Yet as it went down I felt my face grimace.

And my stomach lurch out.

And I felt my head spin From the sick.

And I swayed.

And the smell I could taste.

I ran out And then back up it came.

Cecelia Blue

11

12

Autumn Leaf Out for a minute, be back soon The Earth is having a midlife crisis The Sun I'm afraid, has a date with the moon That's life, and it's walking all over you A speck in the galaxy An ant, his shadow never qualifies Lost forever in hills of rolling red And underlying yellows The wind carries on, deaf to its own tune Seasons falling all around, none do cry out for help A powered prayer to begin anew, and...

Our resolutions to sin again Cats duck in between dogs Unseen by the robots playing human Industry rumbles under the growing bruise Nature, changing up her wardrobe A sea of leaves, I am met with just one Its shape and texture, ours, taxed I take it, a sign as it were Home from here is never far Andrew Coyle

13

The Ring The gold ring is an anchor, embedded in the soft sea bottom.

Choking, flailing for living air, its owner will drown daily.

The weight of the ring is heavy like the harness of a working horse who stumbles blind under his burden.

Bucking, fighting the whip, its owner will submit daily.

On a finger, the ring comes to life, becomes a noose, sealing the fate of the owned.

Its golden hue entices, but beware the trap that circle hides.

Patricia Kinney

14

15

Car Components Grill clenched teeth – ready for impact Headlights glassy, robotic eyes fixed on the future Doors open the hatch seal up the capsule ready for transport Trunk strong box for possessions on a mission Steering Wheel planet in motion orbits the possibilities Tires spinning tops –frantic, frisky Transmission elevator – going up? down?

Engine blender, set to stir up action Radiator simmering broth Evelyn B. Munley

16

Difference Between Walking and Running We walk through our lives carrying as little as possible to not weigh down our souls We travel in our own cubic spaces trying to maintain controls We walk through friendships, and all manner affairs of the heart We carry our dreams, hopes, tiny memories in part We walk through our lives sometimes without a proper start Walking keeps us from tiring out Walking here and there, and all about Walking at times, as light as butterflies Walking with buckets of tears we cry Walking, when all we really wish is to fly Some walk a bit shy and timid Some walk hard and rigid Some walks got pimp Some still kind of limp Some with hands in pockets Some as if their finger was in a socket Most walk through life carrying very little weight upon their soul I always walked with burden of heavy toll And when I walked I was running, running ten fold.

Charles B. Davis

17

Mother Redwood From what I’ve seen, my redwood seldom rests.

Nobly holding up the sky protecting those that dwell beneath her leaves— she towers over counterparts.

Trees like her hold their own— bearing scars from centuries of standing guard.

Permanently scorched, her bark reveals a past of fires and storms that effortlessly tore down neighboring groves.

Oak, maple, pine— they have their strengths.

But no other sturdy tree measures a thimble against my redwood mother.

Leaching just enough life from the sun and stars, she disperses it efficiently from her leaves to her roots— keeping herself alive for all those who depend on her.

Rings of experience within her trunk seem endless.

If only one could have watched all she has seen— safely enveloped within her branches.

Instead we read her wood grain and revel in her brawny height.

She stands carved and cut open— to be studied and walked right through, at times.

Despite all blows, she remains upright and proud.

From what I’ve seen, my redwood seldom wilts.

Stiffly holding up all clouds protecting those that live beneath her leaves.

Kendra Hashagen-Burke

18

19

Sestina I had no intent to perplex.

My quest was to win a ribbon.

The race was set and, not being apprehensive, I set out to fracture the record without a bruise – to be strong and staid and swift.

Now, I may be fast on foot, but I’m not that swift, which, on occasion, has served to perplex my brain and bruise my ego. But, I wanted that ribbon at all cost, as well as the fractured record. I was not going to be apprehensive!

Other runners, however, were apprehensive about their goals – afraid to be swift, less they fall and fracture a bone, which really perplexes because, come on, didn’t they want a ribbon?

It’s worth a scrape or a bruise!

The quest for the ribbon is like a banana with a bruise.

There’s no need to be apprehensive about eating it, just ‘cause it’s not a blue ribbon fruit. Peel, chomp, and swallow it swiftly!

Don’t let one little blemish perplex your dream of victory – fracture that myth! Again, I say, fracture!

Run like the wind – bruise and all – and you will perplex the crap out of your apprehensive opponents! Be true! Be swift!

Reach for the stars and that ribbon!

Believe in yourself and cling to that ribbon of hope, that you won’t fracture a femur in your quest to be swift.

Channel your inner banana, bruise and all! Embrace your apprehensive side, use it to persevere, not perplex.

To be perplexed is to not win a ribbon.

Banish apprehension! Scoff at the fracture and the bruise! Bone up and be swift!

Evelyn B. Munley 20

Because a collective poem Because I am never on time because I tripped and spilt coffee down my front side because my dog chewed my favorite shoes because the cat ran between my legs because there wasn’t enough water in the sink because I hit every goddam red light on the way because somewhere in this universe because the eraser was invented because an object in motion stays in motion because the meaning disappeared into the dark because the pencil was so short it never happened Because your words are trite and cheap because crap begets crap because I am never on time because my skin starts to crawl and I become overwhelmed with nausea it shouldn’t happen Because I dropped your potted tulips and blamed it on the dog because I used up all the hot water because I am ignorant because I ate the pumpkin pie because I didn’t see it coming because I didn’t put the milk away because I am never on time it happened Because I could not wait for spring time because you trapped my foot with yours under the table because I wanted to make you stay because I cradled you in my arms because it only happens once in a blue moon because 23 is not an even number because two heads are better than one we happened Because I am never on time because I still look at the ring in wonder I cannot pass it on to you because the water is slowly depleting because the walls are sterilized white because the love of man cannot outrun the hand of death it won’t happen again Because I am never on time I live in the before and after because the earth is a vehicle we are always traveling The English 315 Poets

21

Wooden No. 2 Ratty and rotting— a brown leather pencil wrap blotched with graphite finger prints.

After so many years, there’s no telling what could have been left inside. An ancient man unties strings and slowly unrolls the treasure held within his gaunt hands. Light blue cotton inside lining smudged from years of drawing— a dozen brown sleeves ready to keep things in place. A net pouch holds only a small, metal sharpener and a white rubber eraser.

A few used shading stumps hit the floor. A slanted smile distorts a long since shriveling face.

It’s been at least eighty years since last they met.

The man’s eyes widen as they fall upon a glossy yellow, narrow strip of wood.

He hasn’t seen one of these in quite some time. So much time, in fact, he can’t recall its name.

Though, he remembers its last sketch. The black print on the pencil jogs his brain.

They haven’t been made in over ten years and even paper lurks only in old filing cabinets.

Gazing around—for what even he doesn’t know— he thinks perhaps this is the last.

This is the last.

Kendra Hashagen-Burke

22

23

Hate

1.

Have you ever tried to rewrite the past in your mind? Tried to erase the bad stuff and fill in the gaps with good stuff, or even just mediocre stuff? I know that all I am is the culmination of all my past stuff, but there's one thing I really wish I didn't have to remember. Memory stuff is important. I get that.

If I never remembered anything, I would be very bland. There's just one memory I would like to erase.

That's why I'm writing this. My Psychology teacher said I could fabricate memories. He told me that if I repeated something over and over again, I would eventually be the director of a false memory. He told me I would believe it.

I know I'm not an exquisite writer. I don't expect anyone to finish reading this but me. For the next year, I am going to write everything about my life that I can possibly remember. I am also going to write new memories, things I wish I remembered. I will leave out one true memory, but add hundreds of false memories. In five years, I will get drunk and read my life. I will only remember what I wrote. I will forget the worst week of my life. Or, at least that's the plan.

My name is Harmony Aislin Teagan Emerson. It's a pretty name. Harmony, for the music that I grew up with. Both of my middle names are Irish. Aislin means dream. Teagan means little poet, and is often associated with beauty. Emerson doesn't mean anything, really. But, Ralph Waldo Emerson is my hero, and I'm glad to share his last name. I used to wonder if we were related, I don't wonder anymore.

My mother's name is Eilley, which means beautiful bird. I call her Meilley, a combination of “mom” and her name. Dad's name is Morey, which means proud. I call him Dad. I've got an older brother named Cory. He was named loosely after my father. The name Cory means hollow. I think that's a terrible meaning for a name.

I prefer that people call me Aislin, because I think Harmony sounds like a hooker name. Don't get me wrong – it's a pretty word – it has a lovely meaning. I just feel like a hooker, and Harmony can't be shortened. Well, I suppose it can. But, Harm isn't a nice word, and Harmo is weird. Meilley and my dad are the only people who still call me Harmony, and Cory lovingly calls me Hate. Really. H-A-T-E. Those are my initials. It makes us laugh. It makes our parents cringe. They really should have thought that one out before they named me.

I've lived in the same house all my life. I got to live in the guest room for a month once, but that's the longest break I've ever gotten from my bedroom. Aunt Miriam came in to visit. She wanted my room, because when the sun rises it shines in the guest room early in the morning. Aunt Miriam needed her rest. Meilley said she was recovering from a disease. I think she was an alcoholic, because by the time ten o'clock rolled around every night, Aunt Miriam couldn't speak well. She slurred. She stumbled. Aunt Miriam wasn't very nice. She died three years ago – liver failure. Meilley cried at her funeral. I held her hand and tried to be sad. I admit, I wasn't really sad at all. The name Miriam means sea of bitterness. I have no further comments.

2.

My best friend's name is Emily Amanda Lesh. The name Emily means to strive. It's very overused. I call Emily 'Rooster,' but I really don't remember why. Ever since I can remember, Rooster and I have been best friends. She lives 17 houses away from me. I know that because we counted. We always meet at house number nine. Rooster is gorgeous and everybody says we look alike, but she's definitely prettier. I guess maybe we do look alike. When a person knows things they aren't supposed to know, that person often comes to realizations based off the confidential knowledge. This person knows 24

they wouldn't have come to those realizations otherwise. That makes no sense. What I mean is, Rooster and I look alike. For sure.

I used to play at Rooster's house all the time. The Lesh family doesn't have as much money as we do, but they get along just fine. I never really understood why Meilley made us play there. We had the better toys at my house. Rooster and I always wanted to be at my house. But Meilley would send us with bags full of toys to play at the Leshes' house, Mr. and Mrs. Lesh always watched with sparkling eyes. It gave me the heebie-jeebies. I didn't understand then. I think I get it now. They wished Rooster didn't have to be an only child. She really wasn't. She had me.

Our families have always been super-close, or at least that's what everyone tells me. We moved into Cataula at the same time – when I was two months old. Rooster and Cory often shared a crib at our old house in Ohio somewhere, we hear about it all the time. Dad and Mr. Lesh worked together. Their jobs didn't force them to move, but they moved anyway. Together. Meilley says Cataula, P.A. is a much better place to raise a child, but they wouldn't dare try and raise a family without the Leshes close by. I guess I'm glad all of this happened before I was coherent. I like only having memories from one hometown – it makes everything a lot simpler. Nobody ever mentions things from Ohio, except for the crib thing. It's like the only thing our parents want to remember is living happily in Cataula. It's like before this, they were nothing.

3.

Rooster and Cory started dating almost four months ago. Most people thought I'd be mad, but both of them talked to me about it before it happened. I love my brother, and I love my best friend; I guess it's cool that one day they might love each other. Rooster and Cory are in the same grade. I was born a year after them, but they treat me like we're the same age. Cory calls Rooster by her real name. I still call her Rooster. After Rooster told me she had a crush on him, I knew what was coming. Rooster gets any guy she wants. Like I said, she's gorgeous. So when Cory came to me that Saturday morning, the conversation went something like this: “Hate, ca'i talk to you?”

I was still asleep when he walked in. I lifted up the edge of the blanket as an invitation. He accepted.

He crawled in bed and turned so he wasn't facing me, little spoon style.

“There's this girl, and I really like her, and I want --” “Ask her out. She likes you too.”

I swear I was still sleeping.

“But, H, you – it's Emily Lesh.”

“She likes you too.”

Self loathing, I speak again.

“Can I have a hug?”

He turned around and hugged me. I was crying a little, but he didn't know. He would have asked why.

Cory never let me cry without asking why.

I didn't go to school that day. I told Meilley I had the shits. Sometimes when I first get my period, I get the shits. Nobody should have to go to school with the shits. So I stayed home and I moped. If Rooster hurts Cory, I'll have to kill her. It's hard to understand how much I care about my big brother. I know I called Rooster my best friend, but if I had to pick between the two of them, I'd definitely pick Cor. He knows everything about me. Well, almost everything. Anyway, I was moping mostly because I knew eventually I'd have to take sides in an argument. When it happens, I'm going to take Cory's side and I'm going to lose the only non-related friend I've ever had. I guess she's nonrelated. I don't know anymore.

4.

I was sixteen when I got my first hickey. I'm still sixteen, but that was at the beginning of sixteen and now I'm nearing the end of sixteen. Anyway, his name was Leo and he was drunk. I don't get drunk yet. Alcohol makes me nervous ever since Aunt Miriam came to visit. Leo told me I was 25

beautiful and tried to touch my boobs. I wouldn't let him, so he settled on kissing my neck. Before I knew it, he was touching my boobs again, in the shirt. I let him that time. At least he left the bra where it belonged. I didn't kiss Leo back. In retrospect, I suppose this must have been awkward. It didn't feel awkward at the time. The name Leo means lion; I think Leo's name fits him. He bit my neck. Lions bite.

The point of the story is that Cory was very concerned. I came home late, smelling like booze, with a hickey on my neck. Granted, I was late because Rooster wouldn't take me home when I asked, and I smelled like booze because of Leo's stinky beer breath lingering on my neck. Neither of those things were really my fault. Nevertheless, Cory was worried and took me to the guest room to talk. I told Cory about Leo. I told him everything. He wasn't mad at me, but he was mad at Leo for pressuring me. I don't think I was pressured, but what do I know? Cory is rarely wrong, so I didn't dare disagree with him. He made me nervous, so I started to cry. Cory held my hand and told me the hickey would be gone by Sunday. He was right. Again.

Leo was Rooster's ex-boyfriend. Rooster's ex's always try to date me. Rooster doesn't get mad because she always breaks their hearts and they never break hers. Those are the rules of dating Rooster.

You get your heart broken, and you do not dare try and break hers. I get all her leftovers, which is really fine with me. I've only kissed one boy before, and it was only because I felt obligated to. His name was Justin, which means just and fair. We dated for three months after he dated Rooster for a year. He tried to kiss Rooster after month three as my boyfriend and she told me about it. That was not just or fair. Justin got a stern talking to from Cory. I didn't even have to break up with him, he just knew. Cory didn't go out with his friends that weekend. He stayed home and watched movies with me.

We snuggled and ate ice cream. Rooster was out kissing boys. I don't know how she does it. I'd rather be at home with my big brother.

5.

Rooster has been calling me a lot lately. She's been calling me late at night and telling me how sad she is. I don't really know what to say to her. She doesn't think Cory likes her as much as she likes him, but she would never say that out loud because Rooster likes to pretend that she's emotionally impenetrable. She's not. I know. She just sits on the phone and makes me listen to her sob. I've never been good at talking, so I just listen like I always have. Somehow I don't think listening helps anymore.

Somehow I sit there for hours with the phone resting on my head and I don't say a word. Somehow Rooster's problems don't bother me anymore. Hell, I've got my own shit to deal with. She is trying to steal the one person who means something to me and she expects me to tell her it's okay. The problem is, it's not okay. Cory will always love me more than he loves her and we both know it. I would never say that out loud. I'm surprised I even had the guts to write it down. I've been surprising myself a lot lately.

6.

It's September thirtieth. We've only been in school for a month, but it feels like it's been forever.

I never quite understood the passage of time. The entire summer goes by faster than a week of school. I don't hate school, but when it's nice out, I would definitely rather be outside. Anyway. It's September thirtieth and today my best friend told me she wanted to die. I think she was kidding, but I'm really not sure. We were at our lockers switching out books and grabbing lunch. Cory walked by, kissed my forehead, kissed Rooster's lips, and said, “See you guys soon.” Rooster started crying. I didn't think anything was all that sad. She told me that Cory likes another girl. I know that's bullshit. He likes her more than anyone. I refused to feed into her attention cravings, so I said, “Well, Em, that's the way it goes sometimes.” I call her Em when I'm being serious. She cried harder. She told me that nothing in her life is the way she planned. I reminded her that we're still in high school. That's when she told me about wanting to die. In retrospect, maybe it wasn't a joke. I suppose that was a serious situation. But, hey! Who can convince a suicidal maniac that life is worth it? That's not my specialty.

Last year, a boy in Cory's grade committed suicide. The school took us all into the auditorium 26

and told us to cry. Cory and I sat together. Mrs. Boland, the principal, told us it wasn't our fault. She said that Dan's actions were Dan's actions, and that we could do nothing to prevent it. The only thing we can do is report it if someone we know seems “off.” Dan seemed off all his life, so nobody thought anything of it. Then, he tied a rope around his neck. The name Daniel means God is my judge. I guess even God judged Dan. I feel somewhat responsible to tell someone about Rooster's problems, but I know she'd hate me. I don't know if she'd ever be brave enough to go through with it even if she was serious. I looked online and found out that only four percent of suicide attempts actually work. Those odds sound good to me. Rooster isn't that smart. She'll probably fail if she tries anyway. Then, everyone will know she's suicidal but she won't be able to blame me. I hope she tries soon. I don't like living on the edge of my seat. I'd rather everyone finds out about her craziness so I don't have to deal with it alone. That probably sounds selfish, but sometimes everyone has to be selfish. Meilley says that I need to take care of me before I can take care of others. I've always been pretty good at taking care of “me.” It's “others” that pose a problem.

7.

I cut myself once, but it wasn't because I wanted to die. I was thirteen, and Cory and I were gossiping about Shannon Prebish. Shannon had scars all the way up her arms, and she showed them off. We didn't understand why she would cut herself. A few weeks ago she had told us about endorphins. Apparently when people get hurt, their brains send endorphins throughout their bodies and it makes them feel good. Endorphins release a natural high. Shannon was one of the smartest girls in our school. Her name means old. I think Shannon's brain was too old for her body. So, anyway, when Meilley and Dad went to Binghamton one Saturday, Cory and I rounded up the kitchen knives and headed for the cellar. We were very careful. First, we washed the knives with alcohol. Then we washed our backs. We cut our backs because they were the least likely to be seen by anyone. It was winter. I cut Cory first. He was brave. He wanted to make sure that nothing bad would happen to me. I cut him up his back, on both sides of the spine. I used the big smooth knife Meilley uses to cut the fat off chicken.

“Do you want me to stop, Cor?” “I don't know. Do you think that's enough for the endorphins?” Cory was laying face down on the ground.

“Do you want me to call Shannon Prebish to ask her?”

“No. Do two more and then go get some old towels. You don't have to do this if you don't want to, Hate. I could tell you how it feels if you're scared. I won't make fun of you and this can still be our little secret.” He turned to look at me and the two lines of blood going up his back started leaking onto the cement floor.

“Please don't talk me out of this.”

I carved a big ol' H in my brother's back, and I underlined it. His blood soaked the towel. He was smiling. Then it was my turn. I took off my shirt and bra so there wouldn't be any bloody evidence. It was the first time Cory saw me without a shirt on since I was a toddler. He stared for a split second, then told me to lie down. There was still a towel stuck to his back.

Cory put on a fancy accent, “Which knife would you prefer this evening, Miss Emerson?” I didn't answer. I was very scared, and I felt very strange about being topless in front of Cory. Then, the fancy accent was gone; “You ready, girlie? You sure you want to do this?” I nodded and put my forehead onto the cold concrete. I pressed it at hard as I could, and I waited. Cory was an artist. He stared at the array of silver artillery we had spread out across the floor. After playing with a few different blades, Cory decided upon a paring knife. It was bendy. He liked that. Once Cory chose his malleable instrument, he carved beautiful swirls all over my back. Before every cut, he asked permission.

I get the feeling that Cory didn't cut me too deeply, because I didn't bleed all that much. It did hurt like a bitch, but I don't think I got any endorphins. Right when Cory had finished his masterpiece, 27

we heard something upstairs. I got up really quickly and looked at my brother. He shrugged. We both walked quietly over to the stairs. The door at the top was open. We peered up the stairs, through the door, and past the refrigerator. It was silent. I grabbed Cory's hand. We both took one step up the staircase. Mr. Lesh poked his head around the corner. He looked horrified. I knew he couldn't see the blood. We were facing him. I was so worried he could see right through us, see the gashes in our backs.

He stared. We stared. He mechanically turned his head and said, “I told your mother I would check on you.” He gulped. Something was really bothering him. “Please be sure that you straighten up. Your parents will be home at eight.” It was only three. Could he see the blood? I was paranoid. Mr. Lesh left the house quietly. Cory and I stood motionless for a minute, then I stepped down onto the floor. I could feel my face go white. I knew why Mr. Lesh was so upset.

Here he is, trying to check on his neighbors' kids. He basically raised us. Mr. Lesh walks over here expecting to find us on the couch watching a movie. The couch is empty. He walks to the basement stairs and sees Cory and I, both shirtless, standing in the doorway. We're holding hands, for God's sake! He's gotta be thinking some fucked up things at this point. Anyway, I freaked out. I started crying and shaking and not knowing what to do. Cory came over and tried to put his arm around me, but he grazed my fresh wounds with his arm and I jumped away from him. I was convinced we would be grounded for the rest of our lives. I grabbed the cordless phone and called the Lesh house. Rooster answered and tried to talk to me. I explained in a pseudo-calm voice that I needed to speak to her father. She asked why and I repeated myself. In a huff, she put her father on the phone.

“Mister Lesh, I just wanted to let you know that everything is fine here. Cory and I are about to clean up the house for Meilley. No problems here.”

“Did he make you take your shirt off, Aislin?”

I looked at Cory. He was attempting to put band-aids on his back.

“Have a nice day, Mister Lesh. Thanks for checking on us.”

“Harmony, if you need --” I don't know what he said after that because I hung up. Mr. Lesh never told anyone about that Saturday.

I know, because nobody every looked at us differently but him. He was probably too scared that we were both consensually fooling around. That idea probably freaked him out. Well, for whatever reason, Mister Apollo Lesh kept his mouth shut. Apollo means destroyer. Mr. Lesh could have destroyed our lives within a week. Cataula is a small town. I don't think Mr. Lesh is a destroyer at all.

Cory and I both have some weird looking scars on our backs. Mine are swirly and come around my sides. Cory just has a big H, underlined. We threw the towels away and made brownies for our parents. Meilley and Dad were glad we behaved while they were gone.

8.

Rooster and I aren't talking as much as we used to. She sleeps most of the time that we aren't in school. Cory and I have been going on hikes. Rooster has been watching cartoons. We've been catching crayfish in the creek by Myrtle Street. Rooster's been writing depressing poems. We've been climbing trees in the woods past Dr. Rogan's office. Rooster has been moping around her house in the same penguin pajamas she's been wearing for the past couple weeks. Cory thinks that Rooster hates him, but he won't break up with her because he knows she's sad. He's a nice boy.

9.

Today is October thirteenth. Rooster's birthday. I called her after school to wish her a happy birthday, because she wasn't in school and I felt obligated. She told me today was the day. I didn't know what that meant. She sounded pleased. After dinner she called me. She was in hysterics. She told me that her life wasn't worth it. She asked me to come over. I told her I had too much homework. She said killing herself was the only way to fix her problems. This sounded all so generic. I don't know why I didn't care. I listened, like I always do. I didn't say much. There's really nothing to say. Everyone loves her. She's gorgeous, she does well in school, she's the star softball player. She really shouldn't be complaining. She just wants attention. She knows I won't give it to her. Maybe that's why she called 28

me. She wanted to be put in her place. I didn't really put her in her place, per se. But I definitely didn't say anything nice. I just listened with my mouth shut. After a few minutes of silence, Rooster said, “Bye, Aislin. You're a good friend.” I said, “I know,” and she hung up.

10.

I got suspended from school when I was in seventh grade. I remember every detail. I overheard Annis Evangalisti talking about a girl in our class, “She's just so gay! I mean, no offense to, like, gay people or anything, but she is seriously the gayest thing I've ever met. Did you know she's in core group? SO GAY! People who know the teachers always get in because they have families who tie strings to get them enrolled.”

“Annis, I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'pulled strings.' On a side note, just because you say 'no offense' doesn't expunge your arrogance. Using the word gay as a derogatory term is rude regardless what you say afterward. That's like saying, 'You're a piece of uneducated white trash. No offense.'”

I might have shoved her into her locker on my way to class. In my defense, she was in my way.

She caused a big ruckus and said I was harassing her. She cried to the guidance counselor. The school principal told me if I said another word to her, I would be expelled. I got a two day suspension and a week of morning detention after that. She transferred schools two weeks later. I haven't heard anything about her since then, but I hope parochial school treated her well. I hope a nun cracked her in the knuckles with a wooden ruler. My parents weren't mad about what I did. They like when I stand up for what I believe in. The name Annis means unity. I prefer to think it means condescending bitch.

11.

Sometimes, when it's late at night, the phone rings. My parents always answer before anyone else can get to it. Meilley says she has a little heart attack every time this happens, because she always thinks it's the police calling to tell her they found our dead bodies, or something like that. The phone rang approximately thirty minutes ago. My room is right next to my parent's room, so it's usually pretty easy to eavesdrop. It is currently 4:25 AM and something is going on.

When the phone first rang, I heard Meilley answer it in a panic. After that, she hushed her voice and I couldn't really make out what she was saying. Dad kept asking, “Who is it?” Meilley kept ignoring him. I heard Meilley hang up the phone about ten minutes ago, but now I just hear whispers. I can't imagine what could possibly be the matter. I think Meilley is crying. Maybe another one of her crazy aunts died. She'll be fine in the morning.

12.

All the T.V. shows on the learning channel say that grief takes five steps, the first step being denial. I skipped that step, but Cory's having a rough time getting through it. Today I saw my brother cry for the first time that I can remember. He came into my room holding his baby blanket, and asked me for a hug. I held my big brother, his chest was heaving, fighting for just one good breath of air. I held my big brother until he cried out all the tears he had built up for the past seventeen years. I held my big brother until his giant hand, shaking, wiped my single tear away and told me it was going to be okay. After he cried an ocean, my big brother worried about the lone tear that sneaked its way out of the corner of my eye. He got to it before it peaked over my cheekbone.

The second step of grief is said to be anger. I think this step has manifested itself in Meilley quite well. Meilley was never one to yell. She was always the mild-mannered parent, and Dad would be the yeller – if it came down to yelling – which it rarely did in my house. Ever since the call that night, Meilley has been the yeller. She yells at Cory for being sad, and she yells at me for not caring, and she yells at Dad for not yelling. I feel really bad for her, but Meilley needs to realize that these things aren't our fault. Being sad is always okay, and not caring on the outside usually means you just don't know how to show it, and I think Dad is just compensating for all the yelling that she's doing. I'll give Meilley another week, and she'll be running a tight ship again. I know Meilley. She always bounces back.

Bargaining is the third step of grief. I think the high school is doing some bargaining. As a 29

school, we've already collected two thousand dollars to help alleviate the funeral costs. Funerals are much more expensive than I would have imagined. If you ask me, charging for a funeral is a sin. I don't even want to imagine what happens to people who can't afford to be buried or to be blessed by a priest before making their way through the pearly gates. Catholicism scares me. It turns otherwise smart individuals into mindless drones who begin to believe in things they cannot see. Catholicism changes good, charitable people into zombies who won't even bury you unless you can cough up the cash for your coffin.

The fourth step of grief is depression. Dad definitely is having an issue with this one. I haven't seen Dad out of bed all week, except to pee. I've gone in there to try and cheer him up, but I haven't even made him smile yet. It really frustrates me to see Dad like this because he's a happy kind of guy, but I suppose it happens to everyone sometimes. Death is a hard thing to deal with for most people. It has never really been too hard for me.

Acceptance is the final stage of grief. I reached this stage about ten minutes after Meilley told me what happened. If I ever told Cory what really happened, he would never speak to me again. I wouldn't say that I killed the girl, but I most certainly didn't help her live. When Rooster told me she wanted to die, I didn't tell her she shouldn't. Does that mean I'm to blame? I don't think so, but Cory would probably think otherwise right now. I'll wait. Until then, my big brother needs someone to hold him and I have two empty arms waiting for his company.

13.

When I was twelve, I met a hobo. His name was Frank and I called him Mister Frank. I was walking home from school alone because Cory had to stay late for tutoring. Mister Frank was sitting on the edge of a dumpster singing show tunes. He had a pretty good voice. I asked Mister Frank what he was doing on a dumpster, and he told me he had nowhere else to sit. I sat in a back alley with Mister Frank for almost an hour. He told me stories about being in a war, and how he lost his job because the company wanted to hire more black men so their hiring statistics looked less racist. I told him about the volcano project I had just handed in for science class. When I realized what time it was, I said bye to Mister Frank and met up with Cory at the school. I made Cory promise to tell Meilley that I was with him all afternoon. I told him I went on a walk and got lost. He seemed skeptical, but agreed to our little white lie.

The next time Cory went to tutoring, I stopped by the old dumpster. Mister Frank was sleeping behind it. I poked him with my foot. When Mister Frank woke up, he looked delighted to see me. We sat and chatted about business ethics and politics. Mister Frank was a very smart man. I brought him a brochure for a shelter a few towns away. He laughed at me and told me he loved being homeless.

Mister Frank said he'd never felt happier in his life. The name Frank means free, and out of all the people I've ever met, Mister Frank was definitely the free-est. He got arrested four days later for “stealing� doughnuts out of a dumpster. I read all about it in the Sunday paper. I didn't know it was considered stealing if someone had already thrown them away. Sounds more like recycling to me. I hope Mister Frank wasn't put in jail, but I know he'd make the best out of it. If anyone could make jail fun, it would be Mister Frank.

14.

Ever since he found out about Rooster, Cory sleeps in my bed with me. He goes to his bed at night, but as soon as Meilley and Dad go into their room, he sneaks over here. I think he feels weird about the whole thing. It's not a big deal. Sometimes, everyone feels lonely. I don't mind sharing. I don't even mind his raunchy breath at five in the morning. The whole situation is kind of nice. It's like I'm paying him back for all the times he let me sleep in his bed. It's also preparing me for marriage. . . well, kind of. I'm not learning what a real husband tries to do in the middle of the night (if you catch my drift), but I am learning how to share a bed with another grown person. At first, it was really hard to sleep through the night, but it's a lot easier once you get used to it. Now I'm just worried that once Cory starts sleeping in his own bed, my bed is going to feel huge and empty. I don't think I want to get used 30

to falling asleep in an empty bed again.

15.

I have always been an A student. Cory needs to work really hard for his grades, but I can just breeze by and get A's. In fifth grade one quarter, I got a D. It was in Social Studies. I hate Social Studies. We were learning about the Oregon Trail, and I thought I was doing really well. When I got my report card, I wanted to cry, but I knew Meilley would be able to explain it. So, I walked to her work after school that day.

I pressed the big red intercom button on the door outside of her building, and a nice lady's voice came cracking across the air, “Hi honey. What can I do for you?� I realized there must be a camera somewhere and looked up. There it was. I waved and told her my full name, and that I needed to speak with my mother. She told me Meilley worked on the seventeenth floor, and buzzed the doors open.

When I got on the elevator, the executives looked at me funny. Black suits and black ties made them look slightly intimidating, but Harmony Aislin Teagan Emerson does not get scared. Unless it's dark out, or if I see a bat. Anyway, I got off on the wrong floor, so I decided to take a little adventure. The fifteenth floor was no fun, but I did find a candy dish. Jackpot!

I found the stairwell, and walked up the two flights to the seventeenth floor. The stairs were barren and they echoed. They were dirty. I don't think anyone at Meilley's office building uses the stairs. No wonder she's gaining weight. Anyway, so I found Meilley's office and she looked pretty damn upset. She told me that I gave her another one of those little heart attacks I told you about. I explained that I just needed her to look at my report card. She looked and told me she wasn't mad about my D. She said we'd figure out my number grade when I got home. She promised I was close to a C. In elementary school, there are no pluses or minuses.

By the time I got to the first floor, Cory was waiting at the front doors of the building. He had talked to Rooster and she told him I went to see Meilley. She was never very good with secrets. He walked me home and I didn't say anything about my D. I wanted to tell him my almost-C number grade when we got home. That way he'd be less disappointed in me. He would never say he was disappointed either way, but I would know. I'd see it in his face.

When Meilley got home, she found all my Social Studies tests and homework. I don't know where she keeps all these things. We wrote down all the grades, and she did some crazy math to figure out my real average. I know how to average things, but the tests were worth more than the homework.

Meilley figured out my grade and then was silent. I waited for the answer. She tried to average them all again. Meilley finally told me that I scored under a D, but Mrs. Clark just gave me a D because she knew I was trying. I cried.

The next day, I brought Mrs. Clark all of my tests and homework corrected. I stayed up until eleven just finding all the answers. I paper-clipped them all together and left a note on top that said something along the lines of this:

Mrs. Clark, Thank you for the D. I'm glad you feel I was worth the extra .75 points.

Yours Truly, Harmony Aislin Teagan Emerson P.S. My mom isn't mad about it.

16.

Rooster killed herself with her dad's gun. I'm proud of her. I've never seen that girl do anything brave before. I know I should be upset. I should probably be devastated, but somehow this rectifies some of those things that have been driving me crazy. I feel bad even thinking that. Rooster was a good 31

friend to me, except that she stole the one person who ever meant anything to me. . . with my own permission. . . even though I had never actually told her how I felt. So, maybe it wasn't her fault at all.

Maybe I was the one to blame. About her dating Cory, about her feeling worthless, her killing herself. I love him more than she can. Maybe her parents will take me back now. I want to live with the Lesh family.

17.

Dad has always been overly concerned about our health. I understand that's a father's job, but he takes it a couple steps too far. My dad is an EMT. He helps people live every day, but in the process he watches a lot of people die. Ever since I can remember, I have had a doctor's appointment at least once a month. I've always been a pretty healthy kid, but my dad thinks there's no such thing as too many check-ups. He says when I have kids of my own, I'll understand.

This month, I'm very excited to go to my appointment. I've been feeling pretty shitty. All week I've felt really tired and sore. I've had a killer headache for the past four days. My shins are full of bruises and I don't know what they're from, and I got two nosebleeds yesterday. My dad says that my iron is probably low, but he doesn't want to give me any supplements until the doctor checks me out.

He never does anything without a doctor's permission. He also said my body could just be stressed after Rooster's funeral. Somehow I doubt that's the problem, but I'll let Dr. Rogan decide. My appointment is on Tuesday. It's Friday. I think I can manage until then.

18.

Cory was ten when he broke his arm. It's a great story. There was a hurricane. The Lesh family was over for dinner, mid-June. Our oldest cousin Donnie was staying over for the weekend, so he was eating with us as well. About halfway through Dad's famous spaghetti and meatball dinner, the sky broke open and Cataula seemed to be located smack dab in the middle of a giant gushing waterfall.

After dinner, we all sat on the back porch and got misted by the giant storm. The next morning it was still raining. Instead of watching Saturday morning cartoons, Donnie sat us in the guest room and devised a plan.

After some cajoling from Donnie, our parents let us go. We got in our oldest clothes, packed some tent stakes, a rubber mallet, garbage bags, and a long tarp into a big backpack, and met Emily at house number nine. We walked six blocks to Dr. Rogan's Methodist church. A hundred years ago, the Methodists built that church on top of the only hill in Cataula. They wanted to be able to see the whole city at their church picnics, or at least that's what Grandpa told me. We climbed to the top of the hill with Donnie as our pack leader. He knew what he was doing.

Once we got to the top, Donnie threw down the backpack and rummaged through his pockets.

He plopped down in the soggy grass and lit a cigarette right in front of us. We stared at him. He offered the box to us. We stared at him with even bigger eyes. If Meilley had seen us right then, she would have killed us. We didn't know what to say, so we just stared at him. Once Donnie finished his cigarette, he said, “Let's get this show on the road,� and he got to work.

Donnie walked a few feet down the hill and started hammering a corner of the tarp into the ground with the tent stakes and rubber mallet. He secured all four corners and walked back up the hill, panting, soaking wet. We were all soaking wet. Donnie grabbed one of the garbage bags, smiled at us, and took off sprinting towards the tarp. Three steps before the hill started, Donnie threw himself into the air and lunged at the big blue tarp. Not only did he slide down the tarp, but he slid all the way to the ditch next to Myrtle Street. The ditch was flooded. We could only see Donnie's head sticking out of it.

He sat still for a few seconds, a tiny figure at the bottom of the muddy hill, then turned around and raised his arms triumphantly. His water slide was a success. He gestured for us to try, and we all raced for the garbage bags.

For the next couple hours, we all ran in a continuous circuit, laughing all the way down, gasping for air all the way up, soaking wet, smiling. We were completely covered in mud. It felt good. Every 32

time we flung ourselves down the hill, we did so more violently and haphazardly than the time before.

Surprisingly, though, this is not how Cory broke his arm. That's not until later. So, we're flinging ourselves down this hill with such power that the ditch before Myrtle Street has turned into a jump that launches us clear across the street into the overflowing creek that we swim in when it's really hot out.

We all knew it was getting late, and we all knew Aunt Miriam was driving two hours for dinner to see Donnie, but we were having too much fun to just clean up and leave. We decided on one more slide each.

Cory went first. He ran from the church steps and launched himself at the big blue landing pad.

He changed positions as he was about halfway down the hill and tucked his feet under his butt. When he got to the bottom of the ditch, he used his legs to spring himself off the jump, and Cory was soaring way above Myrtle Street. He landed past the creek – in somebody's yard – with a thud. He quickly sprang up from the ground and waved at us. We cheered. Cory slopped across the creek and onto Myrtle Street where he shaded his eyes and looked up the hill. He wanted to watch someone slide down towards him. I decided to go for it.

I grabbed a garbage bag, and twisted when I jumped, so I was sliding down feet first, on my belly. I was looking up at Donnie and Rooster. We were all having so much fun that we didn't notice Aunt Miriam's rusty grey 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera barreling down the street. The creek was rushing so quickly that its sounds filled Cory's ears. Aunt Miriam was so out of it, changing the radio station, she didn't even notice Cory standing on the road. Cory was too busy jumping up and down cheering to realize what was coming up behind him.

When Aunt Miriam hit Cory, she was going about fifteen miles per hour. The impact from the car only gave him a couple bruises; it was when he hit the ground that was the problem. The car threw Cory a couple feet in the air, and when he was about to land, he put his hands down to save his head.

His left arm almost snapped in half. By the time I got stuck in the watery ditch by Myrtle Street, I knew something was wrong by the way Donnie and Rooster were running down the hill. They weren't launching themselves. They were running, trying not to slip. I peeked my head out of the muddy water and saw Aunt Miriam, looking angry (and not concerned), at my big brother lying on the concrete. He was in the fetal position, nursing his left arm.

Donnie sprinted to get my dad. I held Cory's head in my muddy lap so it wasn't resting on the concrete. Meilley's car pulled up within five minutes. Dad ran straight for Cory. While he carried Cory into the car, he yelled at Aunt Miriam. Meilley kept apologizing to her over Dad's yells. While we drove to the hospital, Dad yelled at us for playing in the street. We really weren't playing in the street, the street was more like a sideline. Donnie walked Rooster home and probably smoked cigarettes in the garage or something until we came home that night. The name Donnie means world leader. He may not have ruled the world, and I doubt that he ever will, but Donnie definitely was in charge that weekend.

He ruled our worlds. Donnie wasn't ever invited back for another sleepover. Meilley says he isn't worth the trouble. I saw Aunt Miriam bum a cigarette off him after dinner. He was only fifteen years old.

They laughed and smoked by the tree in the backyard all night.

19.

I guess I should tell you about Rooster's funeral. I cantored the event. I stopped singing in the church choir a few years ago, but Rooster's parents said it would mean a lot to them if I came out of retirement for the day. They had all the classic funeral songs; it was a real drag. Mr. Lesh tried to pay me afterward, but I wouldn't let him. It's church policy that funeral cantors get paid, but I wouldn't do that to Mr. Lesh, not after everything he's done for me.

During communion, when people had to pass by my lectern, a lot of them stepped up on the altar to grab my hand, as if to give me strength. I didn't ask for their strength because I didn't need it.

Most of them didn't genuflect or even look at the cross before they stepped onto the altar. It's funny how most Catholics don't even know how to properly act in their own church. After the funeral almost everyone from Cataula walked over to me, one by one, and told me how strong I was. Everyone 33

expected me to be in pieces.

“Harmony, it was very brave of you to do this for your friend after what has happened.”

“Dad, shut the fuck up. This has nothing to do with bravery because I've never been scared to sing in front of people and today isn't any different.”

“Aislin, I'm surprised you were able to sing so beautifully with all of those emotions welling up inside of you.”

“Mrs. Clark, no need to be surprised because I'm not feeling any strong emotions. Shut the fuck up. The only impulse I have right now is to run out of here to avoid the rest of these loonies who have lined up to tell me how superb I am.”

“Apollo says you were Emily's best friend. You can make it through this.”

“I was Emily's best friend, sir. But I was a terrible friend. Please stop trying to comfort me by kindly shutting the fuck up.”

“You did all you could to help her, Aislin. This was your last duty. She's free now, and so are you.”

“I did nothing to help her, Mrs. Prebish. Actually, I told her a lot of terrible things. ACTUALLY, she asked me to come over the night she killed herself, but I lied and told her I had too much homework. I stayed home and played Uno with my brother instead. And please shut the fuck up about Rooster being free. You don't believe a word of that. I've never seen you near a church before. You don't believe in any sort of afterlife. Your words of comfort mean nothing to either of us and you know it.”

I admit, those were not verbal responses. To be honest, I don't think I said a word to anyone who talked to me after the funeral. I was afraid to speak with those kind of thoughts running rampant in my brain. I just faked a small toothless smile and nodded. Everyone seemed to “understand” my silence. I assume they all just took my awkward behavior as being sad. Maybe that's just what they wanted to think, or maybe I really am a good actress. This week has been pretty annoying.

20.

I just got back from Dr. Rogan's office. He says I'll be in tip top shape by next week. I told him everything that's been going on, and he said that I probably just dropped too much blood with my period this month. I guess when girls bleed a lot they lose iron, just like Dad said. Dr. Rogan did do some blood tests, though, as per Dad's request. I should get the results soon. He said it's nothing to worry about.

21.

When I was fourteen I started a babysitting business with Rooster. We printed out fliers at the library and hung them on telephone polls all over town. Cataula was littered with advertisement. We left fliers in the grocery store, at the church, and the dentist office on Myrtle Street. One Friday afternoon when the upper campus got out of school an hour before the lower campus, we waited outside the elementary school and handed fliers to the parents who were picking up their kids. Rooster and I spent nearly thirty dollars printing out all the fliers. I imagine we must have wasted more than five hours spreading the fliers all over town. The only business we got was from Rooster's long lost Aunt Paula.

Mrs. Lesh had told us about Aunt Paula a few years earlier. When Mrs. Lesh was fifteen, Paula was eighteen. She eloped with a man named Joe and never came back. When we moved to Cataula, Mrs. Lesh ran into Paula at the grocery store. Long story short, they both cried and apologized for being children. Since then, Aunt Paula has been super nice to Mrs. Lesh and Rooster. I think she wants to make it up to them. Abandoning your family is not something that is forgiven after a quick cry.

Families take time to heal.

34

Aunt Paula was overweight. She had nine kids and a bodybuilder husband. Paula means small.

Nothing about Aunt Paula was small. Over the summer she paid Rooster and me to play with Rooster's seven and eight-year-old cousins while she cleaned the house on Sundays. I realize now that she could have just made one of her older children clean the house. Or, she could have had one of the older children watch the younger ones. There were a lot of free options for Aunt Paula to choose from. But Aunt Paula was a sweet lady. She knew our business was failing, so she took care of it. Not only did she pay us each five dollars an hour, but she made us dinner every Sunday, too! My favorite was the chicken Parmesan. It was delectable.

Aunt Paula died that winter of a heart attack in church. I pretended I was sick on the day of the funeral. I stayed home and wrote a letter to Chuck Palahniuk. Sometimes when I'm bored, I write letters to my favorite people that don't know how much they mean to me. I invited Ellen DeGeneres to one of my birthday parties a few years ago. She didn't write back in person, but I did get a ten dollar Visa gift card from the company inside a generic 'Happy Birthday from Ellen!' card. I can't remember exactly what, but I'm sure the card said something silly. Ellen wouldn't allow her signature on a birthday card that wasn't silly.

22.

It's really hard to do schoolwork when your teachers don't expect it from you. For the past month I've had teachers telling me it's okay if my assignments are late. They're trying to make the grieving process easier for me. I haven't handed in one assignment on time since Rooster put that bullet in her brain. If nobody cares, why should I? I know I'm not taking the time to grieve like I'm supposed to, but at least I'm not being destructive. I'm being creative. I'm writing. I'm drawing. I'm jogging early in the morning. Things are looking up.

23.

The doctor called Dad last night. He said I may have Aplastic Anemia. Dad is doing a lot of research. I'm going back to the doctor's office tomorrow for tests. Meilley keeps telling me not to worry. I keep telling Meilley I'm not at all worried. Meilley keeps telling me it's not a big deal. I'm beginning to wonder who she's trying to convince. Cory thinks that Aplastic Anemia sounds “super cool.” I'm glad one of us is happy with my new title.

24.

For my thirteenth birthday, I was allowed to take a friend on vacation. We went to Cancun.

Rooster had never even vacationed out of state. She brought six disposable cameras because her parents couldn't afford to buy her a digital camera. I imagine she spent three rolls of film taking pictures of the water and the sand. In Cancun, the water is very blue and the sand is very white. It's nothing like any of the beaches you'd find back home. We spent five days waking up at six A.M. to watch the sunrise and staying up past midnight gabbing away. It was the most exhausting vacation I have ever been on.

On day two, Rooster and I took a walk as far down the coast as we possibly could. When we stopped for lunch, we met two boys from Butler. They were fifteen. When we realized how close we lived to one another, we decided to stick together for the remainder of vacation. They were best friends, Pravin and Darius. Pravin was almost sixteen. He was tall and handsome. With long dark hair that covered most of his ears, tan toned skin and bright green eyes, Pravin made my heart dance like a barefoot child on hot pavement. The name Pravin means expert, and Pravin was an expert woo-er. He had me at, “You have a stick in your hair.” I understand the saying is he had me at hello, but Pravin didn't say hello. He told me I had a stick in my hair, and pulled it out with his long beautiful fingers. He pulled a few hairs out in the process, but I didn't mind.

Darius was short and stocky. He was half Puerto Rican, and he played football. The name Darius means upholder of the good. From the vibe I picked up, Darius dated the “good” girls while Pravin got all the hot ones. No surprise there, as Pravin was smokin' hot. Anyway, they both fell in love with Rooster and she kissed Pravin goodbye the day we left. The boys walked us to the van to say their goodbyes, and Rooster went right in for a sloppy wet one. It broke my heart and it made my parents pretty mad. Apparently it's against the rules to make friends with strange boys on the beach. Nobody 35

ever told me that.

Darius came in for Rooster's funeral and told me if I needed anything I could always call.

Pravin sent me an email and told me he had a graduation party to be at. He said if I wanted to hang out I should give him a call sometime. He has a pickup truck now. I'll probably call him next week because I don't want to seem desperate. On a side note, I am incredibly desperate.

25.

This just in: I have an inexplicable disease, for sure. The doctor says I shouldn't worry about a thing. The internet says I could die within six months. The doctor says my disease may just resolve itself. The internet says more commonly, young otherwise-healthy sufferers must undergo a bone marrow transplant in order to be “cured for all practical purposes.� I've been looking up bone marrow transplant information, and it's not looking good. Most people don't get the marrow they need to live.

Cory keeps swearing up and down he'd donate for me but I know it won't happen. I've been doing some research. I want to find out if I could take bone marrow from a corpse. It's been dead for almost a month now. I'm not finding any answers.

I asked my librarian because he's good at keeping secrets. He said that if the body isn't on machines to keep the organs and marrow fresh, the marrow will be no help. He didn't ask any questions, he just answered mine and went on with his day. That's why I like the librarian. I should really find out his name sometime. Ever since I can remember, I have called him Mister L. The L stands for librarian.

26.

I have typed and deleted tons of pages of memories already. I planned on making things up so I could remember things that never really happened, but my real memories are the stories worth telling. I tried to write about going to Disney. I want to remember Disney, but I've never been to Disney, so I have nothing to say about it. Like I said, I admit I'm not a great writer. I just wish I had more exciting things to write about. I know most people have it worse off. I know that my life is full of excitement compared to some kids who grow up in poverty and stuff like that. My life is obviously better than what Rooster's was; I'll assume that much. I want to be able to write about Disney, and fast cars with hot boys, and snorkeling, and having a dog when I was a kid. Maybe it's not a big deal, but I've never been able to talk about these things. I've tried so hard to invent the memories on paper but it just won't work.

27.

Ever since my diagnosis, Cory and I have gotten even closer. I know he's afraid I'm going to die. The kids at school are starting to talk. We haven't told anyone about my diagnosis yet because Meilley says it's going to go away. She's convinced it's going to disappear. The internet shows the chances of disappearance are low. Anyway, so Cory can't spend an hour away from me or he starts getting all finicky, thinking I'm dying.

The kids whisper about incest when they think we aren't listening.

I'd like to make this clear for once and for all: Cory and I are not in love. We love each other, but no more than a brother and sister should. I admit I know my brother is going to be a fantastic husband some day. He's sensitive and smart and he knows how to make a girl laugh. Cory is going to be a great father someday, too. I admit that I'm going to be jealous of whatever girl marries my brother.

Whoever she is, she's going to be marrying the best man ever to walk this planet. If I wasn't his sister, I would kill to marry Cory Emerson. But the fact of the matter is, I am Cory's sister. The truth is, I don't want to kiss him or see him naked or wear his ring. I just want everyone to know that he was mine first.

He learned how to take care of a girl by taking care of me. No matter who my brother marries, he's going to treat her like he treated me when I was growing up.

When Cory proposes to his girlfriend on a camping trip near the ocean, I want her to understand that was my idea. When my brother kisses his wife's eyelids because she's feeling sick, I just want her to know that he did that to me first. When Cory brings her ice cream and snuggles with her after a hard 36

week of work, I want her to know that we've been doing that since we were in diapers. When my sisterin-law gags at his raunchy breath at five in the morning, I just hope she knows I dealt with it all my life and I didn't complain. I don't care if she hates me for it, I just want her to know.

As for Cory, he's just really vulnerable right now. He would never have slept in my bed if he wasn't bawling his eyes out. He would never have felt the need to be so close to me all the time if he didn't think I was dying soon. I admit Cory and I are closer than most siblings, but we were just raised that way. Meilley says we always got along like no brother and sister could. It's true. No brother and sister could. Siblings are usually just too similar to get along and they are forced to live in close quarters. With Cory and I it's different and it's something he doesn't even understand. I know. It's nothing he would ever even think about.

28.

I didn't plan on ever telling anyone what I knew. I never wanted anyone to know. If anyone else knew I knew, I wouldn't be able to erase the memory. This was not in my original plan. Regardless, I had to tell them. I needed their help.

At this point, there's no way I could forget.

I walked to Rooster's house after dinner tonight and knocked on their big green door. Mrs. Lesh answered the door and looked pleasantly surprised to see me. I asked her if she and Mr. Lesh had time to talk. By the look on her face, I'm going to assume she thought I wanted to talk about Emily's suicide.

She definitely didn't want to, but she was going to take one for the team. She called Mr. Lesh downstairs and I'm fairly certain he thought I wanted to talk about Cory molesting me that night in the basement. He looked frightened. I guess if Mrs. Lesh ever found out what he saw and realized he had never told her, she'd be pretty pissed. Women can be impossible sometimes.

“First of all, I want you two to know that I love you, and I've always loved you, and I'm always going to love you.”

I had been rehearsing the speech for almost a week at this point.

“I know why we all moved to Cataula. I know why Meilley always wanted me to play here. I know why you hugged me the hardest after Emily died. I know what happened. I just don't know why.”

Mrs. Lesh looked like she just saw a ghost and Mr. Lesh was staring at the table. It was silent for a minute then I started talking again. This time, I was noticeably holding back tears.

“I'm not coming here to ask you questions or to try and make you feel bad. I have a disease. I'm sure Meilley told you about it already, but she probably told you it's going to go away. I'm here because there's a good chance it won't just go away. There's a good chance I'm going to need a bone marrow transplant and I need your help.”

Mrs. Lesh got up and walked into the living room, she was trying not to cry. I knew she was still in earshot so I kept talking. Mr. Lesh just sat completely still, his eyes had not moved from the table right in front of him.

“If my disease progresses, I will be put on a list to find a donor match. Bone marrow is very hard to find a match for if there are no family members to donate. Cory is more than willing to donate but you know as well as I do that Cory will not be a match. I have not discussed this with Meilley or my . . .”

Mr. Lesh looked up from the table at me and I caught his eye. We sat in the kitchen on opposite ends of the table and our eyes, exact replicas of one another, locked. “. . . Dad.” Mrs. Lesh, whose head had been peeking through the doorway, let out a sob. I had lost my tears as soon as I met Mr. Lesh's gaze, but my tears were much calmer than Mrs. Lesh's. My tears crept out of the corners of my eyes, slowly and silently. Mrs. Lesh's tears burst through her eyelids screaming.

They showed no mercy on this devastated woman's face. Her tears were real and they hurt. It was like 37

everyone in a five mile radius could feel Mrs. Lesh's tears.

We talked for hours. My parents called to make sure I was okay because I had only told them I was stopping by to pick up an old tee shirt. Mrs. Lesh told them not to worry. I told the Leshes how I found out I was adopted and how upset it made me. It's not that I didn't like the Lesh family, it's just that my entire life has been based on being an Emerson. Mrs. Lesh explained how the only reason they didn't keep me was because they simply couldn't afford another child. I guess when Rooster's grandma was sick Mr. Lesh took out a bunch of loans to keep her alive. They've been in debt since way before Rooster was even born. When Meilley and Dad said they would raise me, the Lesh's knew it was the best option. They could still watch their baby girl grow, just from across the street instead of across the hall. The talk ended with me realizing for the first time that my sister died a month ago. I cried harder than I can ever remember. Mrs. Lesh sent me home at 10:30 promising we could talk more. She said she would gladly give me some bone marrow. They both hugged me just like they did after Emily's funeral, but this time they were smiling.

Dodie Smith is one of my favorite people. Nobody has ever heard of her, but she was the original writer of One Hundred and One Dalmatians. Dodie once defined family as, “that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.” Although I never really considered them my family, the Leshs never unwrapped their tentacles from me whether I knew it or not.

29.

The aforementioned worst week of my life was less of a week and more like three days. It was finals week at Cataula High School. I had three finals on Thursday. Hell began on Wednesday night. I realized I had to make a family tree (in high school! This is ridiculously elementary, I know,) so I went into Meilley's office to look for some birth certificates and pictures to tape into the accompanying binder. Cory's records were all in a file marked “Cory's records.” My files were nowhere to be found. I ransacked the closet and found an old cardboard box on the top shelf covered with dust. It was behind a bunch of files that had nothing to do with my birth. I couldn't imagine what Meilley would be trying to hide, so I had to take a peek.

I shut the office door and began to rummage through the box. First I found pictures of Mrs. Lesh pregnant at cookouts and parties in what I assumed was the old house in Ohio. Then I found my birth certificate which I hardly looked at and just put aside. I didn't even think about why my information would be hidden in the deepest darkest spot in Meilley's office closet. Eventually I realized that I was the baby in Mrs. Lesh's belly. I felt really lightheaded and my heart had fallen even below my stomach. I shoved everything back in the box and threw it onto the shelf. I ran out of the office and into my bed. I didn't study for any one of my finals and I never made that family tree. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to sleep. I don't think I slept at all that night.

Due to the incredible diarrhea-like shit that God had just dropped on me, I was in a bad mood.

And that's putting it lightly. Cory came in to check on me at tenish because he hadn't heard from me in a while. I told him to fuck off. That was a bad choice. He told our parents. That was also a bad choice. I smacked him in the face. I got grounded.

When Rooster asked me why I was grounded, I told her, too, to fuck off. She didn't speak to me for a few days. Eventually she forgave me. Anyway, to put it lightly, God shit on me and then I pissed off everyone in my life who would want to help. I failed all three of my Thursday finals and passed the classes with a B- and two Cs. I got grounded for my bad grades, too.

Rooster and Cory started arguing because they were both worried about me but neither of them wanted to admit it. They both wanted to be mad at me. I wanted them to break up. In my mind, I just found out my brother was dating my sister. Maybe this is why all the incest comments about me and Cory bothered me so much. When Rooster and Cory stopped arguing, I wanted to break them up so badly. The thought of them being together made me nauseous. I wanted them to stay away from each other. Like a good sister, I kept my mouth shut.

38

30.

My disease has disappeared just like Meilley said it would. The doctor said there would be one big change in my lifestyle though; I'd have to attend monthly checkups to make sure it didn't come back. I guess Dad's neuroticism wasn't so bad after all. I stop by at the Lesh house every day after school and we have dinner together on a regular basis. There's no reason for them to lose both their baby girls. I told Cory about Emily's phone call the night she killed herself and he cried with me, but he doesn't hate me like I predicted he would. He told me not to blame myself, just like all the guidance counselors told me. I've finally begun to understand what it's like to lose someone. I didn't mean to let her go so easily.

31.

Last night, Cory and I went camping. He took me to the top of the highest mountain he'd ever seen in person, and we pitched a tent. We built a fire and spent the entire night talking about our childhood together. We told stories involving Emily, and we laughed, and we cried. I told him a week earlier that he wasn't my brother, but Cory still acted like he was.

I'll never understand why Emily killed herself because I know how much her parents loved her.

They gave me up so she would be financially and emotionally sound. I'm not mad at her, though. She did what she had to do. My big sister was only doing what she felt was right. It still makes me cry sometimes. I suppose I never properly grieved when I should have.

Anyway, the truly amazing thing about our camping trip happened right before we fell asleep.

We had talked the night away, and we were lying in our sleeping bags, half asleep, staring at the sun rising. All of a sudden, we heard a cock crow. I immediately got goosebumps. We were on the top of a mountain. Roosters don't usually live in high elevations. This was the first time I'd ever believed in any sort of afterlife.

Emily Amanda Lesh, I was listening, and I heard you.

Kelly Langan

39

40

Crooked Teeth Mr. Colby’s face resembled the wrinkly skin of a white, furry pug. Only his age-spotted cheeks and smiling eyes showed through that rippling sea of stubble. Even the surface of the old man’s button nose had white sprouts that matched his eyebrows. His teeth perfectly reflected his stained and crooked journey through a world that shows no mercy. In fact, if you ever saw Mr. Colby’s dental set up, you’d be appalled by just how merciless the world can be. And yet, he smiled. Mr. Colby always smiled. His lopsided jaw sat just so, especially when that riant grin crawled across his face; only his right teeth were visible on the top and only his left on the bottom. I’m still not sure whether or not he actually had teeth where I couldn’t see. His thin lips did curl under like the toothless old men in cartoons, so I would say they’d somehow gone missing.

When he smiled, the fleshy patches around his eyes transformed into maps—the type of aged, crumpled map that has been in the glove box since the week you bought the car five years ago. The deep creases from his scrunching face traced his taken paths from here to there and back again. The sun spots marked designated make-shift shelters that he was—at one time or another—perfectly comfortable referring to as home. Though he wore a black and gray plaid scarf and hat that matched, the collar of his coat was torn—shredded really. A dog that didn’t know him probably mistook him as a threat. That happened, sometimes, when Mr. Colby left Greggarton for a little while. He always seemed to come back a little disheveled. That’s probably what kept him here. The afternoon sun always revealed the fuzzy pellets and scuff marks on his blazer from curling up beneath the Under Street Bridge—not that he was ever trying to hide the evidence of his filthy forty winks. For a homeless man, he was proud of what he was, who he was, and how he was. He may have been a little dirty. He may have been homeless. But he was Mr. Colby. He was a good man and he always smiled.

Mr. Colby had lived on our block since before I was born, but not too long before. He settled here in Greggarton when my parents were high school sweethearts. They weren’t the quarterback and head cheerleader type who broke up every two weeks or so. They were the quiet couple who knew they were going to get married from the very beginning. Mr. Colby was archaic even then. He had always worn the same clothes since I could remember and he always said the same thing when I walked by, “Hey, chickadee. Gotta love that beautiful smile!” No matter my destination, there was always time for a chat with Mr. Colby. Always.

My dad used to tell the same Mr. Colby stories that I do, because we both got them from Mr. Colby himself. There’s the one about the snow storm in Maine. He fell asleep under an eighteen wheeler truck when the tiny flakes began to fall about a foot away from one another. By the time he woke up, giant collections of snowflakes were dropping in clumps. Only an inch or so of free space was left between the top of the snow heap and the trailer. He peered through the sliver of light while the white mound of soft ice filled in the gap like vanilla cream icing between two sheets of cake. Then, he curled up in a ball and went back to sleep until he heard the engine ignite. That was my mother’s favorite story, short and uneventful as it was. It always amazed her that he lived through such a frosty slumber. When I first heard it, I wasn’t remotely surprised. It was Mr. Colby, after all.

I’m glad so many people were told the same stories. It will make it much easier for me to remember them when I convince myself that it’s okay to write them down. I’m not sure if writing a book about Mr. Colby would be an appropriate publication, though I’ve always wanted to be an author.

Mr. Colby knew I wanted to write a New York Times best-seller, so he’d probably be honored if the book flying off the shelves was about him and his crooked teeth and admirable smile. I always imagined Mr. Colby accompanying me to each and every book signing. Once I earned enough money, I was going to buy him a new suit to match his black and gray plaid hat and scarf. He wouldn’t have given them up easily. And nobody would have wanted him to.

I took it upon myself to take guard of his hat and scarf until the viewing. It will be an open casket and he wouldn’t want to be seen without them. Dead or alive. They were his prized possessions 41

and I was his prized chickadee. It’s only fair that I get to keep them safe until they’re buried right along with Mr. Colby. I’m not sure why he loved me so much. I wasn’t the only person in Greggarton who adored Mr. Colby and I wasn’t the only person in Greggarton who Mr. Colby adored. But, everyone knew I was his favorite person to talk to. Maybe it was because I loved him for being more than a happy hobo who has always been there. Maybe it was because my parents had died. Maybe it was because I loved him for going on adventures and gracing anyone who would listen with his stories.

Maybe it was because I actually believed him. And I did believe him.

One of my many favorite stories of his was about the time he spent in Alaska. Mr. Colby was a smart man. He was educated and quite well read. One day—before his legs wouldn’t work so well anymore—he read an article about a young guy named Christopher McCandless who ran away from society and into the wild. McCandless eventually got to Alaska where he camped out in an old transit car in the Yukon. Or something to that effect. Either way, he died there, in that transit car and that transit car is still there. When the story about McCandless hit the newsstands, Mr. Colby decided he would like to visit that transit car. And so he did.

He hitchhiked from Montana to Alaska. Then, he borrowed an ATV from a man with a big blue pick-up truck with a two-inch lift and enormous tires. Mr. Colby had a certain way about him. My dad always used to say that he could talk a dog off a meat wagon but would let it back on for being such a good dog. It was obvious that he could be trusted, so loaning a homeless man your eight-hundred dollar quad was really no big deal. Not when it was Mr. Colby. So anyway, he drove that quad right to the transit car and sat right down on the bed McCandless died in. He leaned over, pulled his feet up, and rested his head. Like my mother’s favorite story, it seems uneventful. But, it shows the kind of guy he was.

I think I’ll use that story to explain him at the funeral. I hope it reminds people of how honest and trustworthy he was and how most of the mothers in this town probably would have asked them to watch their kid for a minute while they ran into the grocery store. And they would, that is, if it weren’t so unthinkable. Kids always loved Mr. Colby, because kids can sense when a person is good and when he isn’t. Kids knew that he was a good man and that there was no reason for them not to be left alone with him. Let this sink in, though. Hypothetically speaking, what would you think if you found out Mrs. Sheltie let an old bum watch her perfect little girl while she did her weekly grocery run? You’d probably say she’s lucky her little princess is still alive and unmolested. You never would have guessed that when Mrs. Sheltie did leave her princess with Mr. Colby that he told her stories about riding horses in the mountains and about all of the cute little kittens he gets to play with around the dumpsters in the spring time. No. You’d assume he mounted little girls and played with mommy’s princesses around the dumpsters in the spring time. But, he didn’t. Definitely not.

I hope the story about Mr. Colby visiting the transit car reminds people of how much he cared about the well-being and happiness of complete strangers, especially the ones he read about in the newspapers. A few years ago, the Morgans had a terrible thing happen to them—their house burned down. They lived a few towns away, but we all read about it in the paper. Everybody felt bad and talked about how they felt bad for the Morgans for days. In less than a week, the government passed some law and that was the new disaster to talk about. It was that very day that I saw Mr. Colby walking back into Greggarton. Three days earlier, he had gone off with a cooler he had borrowed from Mrs. Sherwood. He had a whole bunch of different foods crammed inside. While everyone else talked about their bad feelings, Mr. Colby went from house to house collecting food for the Morgans: something nobody had ever seen him do for himself. He packed the cooler with some ice on the top and the bottom and walked all the way to the Morgans in Breaker Lake with the personal delivery from Greggarton’s favorite bum.

I hope the transit car story reminds everyone about Mr. Colby’s respect for things more often thought of as disgusting, revolting, or just plain old ugly. He could find the beauty in everything, especially the death bed of an innovative mind like McCandless. Every now and again, my neighbors 42

and I would realize that our recycling bins were empty. Mr. Colby would set the recyclables up in such a way that even my dad would have seen the beauty in a bunch of empty bottles. Then, Mr. Colby got arthritis. Well, he couldn’t go to the doctor because he didn’t have insurance or anything. But, Dr. O’Herne came by one day to check things out and said his best guess under the circumstances was that it was arthritis. Since then, Mr. Colby hasn’t been able to make his sculptures. I tried to, once, but it wasn’t the same.

So, anyway, the best story I can think of to explain Mr. Colby as a man is the story about the transit car. I’ll have to keep thinking about it, but it seems like a good one to me. I know it’s one of his stories that he told many people, so I wouldn’t be spreading a story he told to a special someone.

Maybe I should ask everyone around town about their favorite Mr. Colby story. It’s hard for me to tell which stories were for everyone, which stories were for certain people, and which stories were just for me. He had a way of knowing what story to tell. Somehow, he knew which story of his would engage a perfect stranger and which story of his would bore a perfect stranger to death. About a year ago, I caught him telling one of my guy friends some story about how he was crossing the street and almost got run over by Peter Dooney from Dooney & Bourke. I thought to myself, “Why on Earth is Mr. Colby telling Toby a story about a fashion designer?” Now, this may sound stereotypical, but bear with me. A few months later, Toby came out of the closet. He’s gay. Nobody knew this when Mr. Colby told the story, and yet he knew Toby would enjoy it because it was about a fashion designer. The best part is that Toby has been accepted by FIT—the Fashion Institute of Technology. I’m telling you, Mr. Colby had a sense for it. I heard them all, though. Like I said before, I was Mr. Colby’s favorite.

Everyone has been scrambling to find a picture of him to put on the back of his prayer cards. I suppose most people don’t take pictures of old bums. But, I’m not most people. For my birthday one year, I asked Mr. Colby if he would mind if my mother took a picture of us together. He really liked the idea—mostly because he couldn’t make a recyclable sculpture for me like every other year. So, I wore my birthday outfit and sat next to Mr. Colby on the curb on the corner of Kelly Street and Under Street. We had figured out that this was exactly the middle point between our homes. My mother had loaded her 35mm single lens reflex that morning with fresh color film. She had been old fashioned in that way. She told us to smile, which wasn’t any difficult task for either one of us. We smiled until we heard the shutter release and then we smiled even bigger. We started to laugh at our smiles and heard the shutter release again. We weren’t even looking at the camera, but my mother saw the shot and took it. It was the second picture she took that I taped to my mirror, not the first. I’ll offer the first to be cropped and copied onto the back of the prayer cards, but not the second.

I had never noticed the contrast between Mr. Colby and me until those pictures were developed.

He almost blends into the slate of the sidewalk and the blacktop of the street—imperfect as a person can be. His shabby clothes are dusty like the pavement and the tears in his coat match the cracks in the stone pathway. His scruffy face is highlighted with white stubble like the cityscape behind us is highlighted in certain places by the sun. I swear, if the picture was printed black and white, nobody would even notice he was there. I am, on the other hand, wearing a perfectly clean and obnoxiously bright, pink, blue, and green striped sundress that makes me stand out like a parrot hanging around with a city pigeon. My hair is curled into sausage-like ringlets; my skin looks as fair as that of my baby cousin Sarah. Even my eyes are an unnaturally saturated flood of green, while Mr. Colby’s are the dullest shade of gray. For the prayer cards, I think it would be best to cut myself out of the picture.

I think it strange that we’re paying for prayer cards in the first place. I never heard Mr. Colby talk about God, Heaven, or even Hell. I never saw him pray or go to church. I guess they’re a necessary element to a viewing, though. Well, they’re necessary according to the funeral director. I don’t care because I don’t think Mr. Colby would have cared. If his soul can see what is happening here, he’s probably laughing about getting a funeral, never mind prayer cards. He told me once that he expected his body to just fade away beneath Under Street Bridge. He didn’t realize how much this town would miss him when he died. And we do miss him. The whole population of Greggarton misses 43

his smile. Most people miss his stories. Some just miss him being around. I miss him more than anyone.

I’m guessing that prayer cards need a prayer—not just a picture. I don’t know anything about praying or the Bible. My parents weren’t very religious. So, I went on the internet and searched “bible quotes” to see what came up. I found a website with some quotes and narrowed it down to two. I wouldn’t call them prayers, but they’re supposed to be from the Bible. I hope the funeral director accepts one of them. The first one I found said, “The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, and peace.

Galatians 5:22.” I’m not completely sure what that means, but I think what the Bible is trying to say is that love, joy, and peace are the truly important things for a person to have. For instance, if a person has a million dollars, but doesn’t have a friend in the world, the million dollars probably isn’t as awesome as it sounds. On the other hand, if you don’t have money, but you have a friend that you can spend time with, the fact that you don’t have any money doesn’t really matter so much. I think that would be a good thing to say on Mr. Colby’s behalf. The second quote I found went like this, “Happy is the man who finds wisdom and understanding for the gain from it is better than gain from silver and profit better than gold. Proverbs 3:13, 14.” I’ve never met a happier man than Mr. Colby. I’ve never met a man who was poorer, either. I guess that means that from my experience, the Bible had something right. Maybe I can ask to print both quotes on the back, because they’re so short.

No words from Mr. Colby were ever short. His stories were always filled with details. They made his stories come alive in a way that I’d forget I was listening to words. No, I wasn’t listening to words at all; I was watching his memories like a movie reel. Frame after frame, detail after detail, the stories would flash before my imagination and delve into my brain. All I was missing was the popcorn.

I never remembered to bring popcorn.

One summer when I was a little girl, I went to overnight camp for two weeks. My name was on the list for mail call every day but the first. I liked Mr. Colby’s letters better than the ones from my own parents. All three of them wrote a letter every day so I would always have something new to remind of me of them. All of the letters came in the same envelope because Mr. Colby didn’t have enough money to buy an envelope and a stamp every day. My parents’ letter was only ever a page long, at most. It always sounded the same.

“Hi sweetheart, We miss you so much. Blah. Blah. Blah. You must be having so much fun. Blah. Blah. Blah. We hope you’re not feeling too homesick. Blah. Blah. Blah. We’ll see you soon.

Love always, Mom and Dad”

As short and monotonous as they were, I loved the letters from my parents. But, Mr. Colby’s were better. They were actually interesting! He wrote as if he were talking to me like he usually does in person. Every letter had the same format, but they were all so different.

“Hey chickadee, I remembered a story for you and since you’re not here to tell it to, I thought I’d write it all down for you. (Insert an

incredible Mr. Colby story filled with cinematic details that blew my mind.)

I hope you liked the story. See you when you get home.

Love, Colby” 44

Colby was actually his first name—even though I never failed to shove mister in front of it. He deserved respect, and “sir” sounded too European for his personality. Either way, I think Colby is a fantastic name whether it’s first, last, or in the middle. The point is, though, that every letter was a story filled with details. Every letter was exactly what I needed to not be homesick.

I’m realizing the details were important to the stories because they were the parts of the stories that made them all worth listening to. I’m also realizing that they were the type of details that are easy to forget. So, when you try to retell a Mr. Colby story, you forget those special details and they sound average and almost not worth your time. I wish I caught on to this before he died and couldn’t tell me his stories one more time. If I want my book about Mr. Colby to be a New York Times best-seller, I’m going to have to remember those details. Maybe, I’m still in shock. I mean, he did just die a few days ago. Maybe they’ll come back to me. I hope come back to me someday, or I won’t have a book. It makes me wish I could go back in time.

I wish I could go back to before I had to call 911. Before that day, I had never called 911.

Nothing exciting enough had ever happened to anyone in my life that could be called an emergency.

Really. Not once. It wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. Actually, it wasn’t exciting at all. Mr. Colby wasn’t sitting on the corner of Kelly Street and Under Street when I got out of school. He was almost always at our meeting place at that time, because he knew I walked home and he knew I loved to talk to him. He was like my grandfather, in a way. The difference is that nobody looks at you funny when you hug your grandfather, but someone always looked at me funny when I gave Mr. Colby his daily dose of chickadee hugs. He had nobody else to love him, so why not me? People at school sometimes made fun of me for spending so much time with Mr. Colby, even though I never made fun of them for going to eat dinner with their grandfather every Sunday.

I waited on the corner for as long as I could. I had been staying with my neighbor Mrs. Sherwood since my parents died. Mrs. Sherwood didn’t feel comfortable with me spending so much time with Mr. Colby, but I wanted my story more than ever that day. It was a beautiful day for a story—the kind of day where two minutes feels like forty-five when you’re not doing something you want to be doing. So, I waited for some undefined amount of wasted time before I went directly to Under Street Bridge.

I thought Mr. Colby was sleeping, but his body didn’t have the calm up and down movements of breathing in and out. I stood a few yards away and watched. Curled up on a scrap of cloth undeniably referred to as a blanket, his torso took a crescent position. Though the days were hot in Greggarton, the evenings were well known to be chilly. One of his legs stuck straight out and the other draped over the first—forming the kind of pointed number four you see on a keyboard as opposed to the field goal style that most people handwrite. He slept like a sparrow with his head sunken into his shoulders, his neck nowhere to be seen. Was there a way to tell if there was any life left in his body without digging my fingers into his neck to find a pulse? Did he have a spoon somewhere that I could maybe hold under his nose, so I didn’t have to go into cardiac arrest if I touched him and he jumped awake? I looked around, assessing the area for meal time utensils. No spoon. I tapped him, leaned back, closed my eyes tight, brought my fists up to my collar bones, and prepared to startle the Hell out of my favorite old man. He didn’t jump. Still unwilling to pry his chin far enough away from his coat collar to feel for a heartbeat, I touched the back of my hand to his ancient forehead. Ice. Digging and prying, my fingers made their way to his neck—right beneath the jaw bone and in line with the ear. No pulse and still no startled old man wondering what in the world was touching him.

I couldn’t speak. I tried to call my favorite name, but the sound simply wouldn’t generate in my throat. I got to my feet and pulled my cell phone from my right hip pocket. It couldn’t hurt to be wrong about this. If he was alive, it was just a little extra gas mileage on the old ambulance, you know?

45

I dialed the numbers I had always associated with mass destruction, out of control conflagration, armed robberies, and other exciting but devastating events. Yet, there I stood, dialing 9-1-1 beneath Under Street Bridge with a bum who might be dead but could just be sleeping. It wasn’t even raining. No thunder. No lightning. Not a single sign of horror or doom. Just chirping birds, a perfect breeze maintaining a perfect temperature, and threads of sunlight filtering through the bridge and showing off the dust particles in the air. I backed away from Mr. Colby, sat in the grass next to a support beam, and stared until I heard the sirens. I was watching for any sign that Mr. Colby would ever tell another story—gazing so intently at his still body that I missed the flashing lights.

I watched as Mr. Colby’s body got lifted from the ground and zipped up in a big black body bag by two hefty, undisturbed paramedics. He was declared dead on arrival and everyone told me no evidence of foul play had been observed. I guess the medical examiner at Greggarton Heath Center needs to do some kind of autopsy to be sure there isn’t some kind of murderer or something. But, as far as any officials have been able to say, Mr. Colby died of natural causes. That seems reasonable. He had to have been at least eighty years old. Some of the paramedics were confused when I asked if they could have someone call me when they figured out what happened. They probably thought that he was just some bum, but he wasn’t. I wanted to know what happened. I needed to know why I would never hear another Mr. Colby story.

As I’ve said a million times, he had a story about absolutely everything. A while ago, he told me about a buddy of his who lived on the other side of the country. He was a transporter at the state hospital and moved just about everyone from everywhere to everywhere else. He moved pregnant women from their room to what he called the “labor chamber.” He moved cancer patients from the chemotherapy unit to outpatient recovery. He moved emergency room tragedies to the morgue. He moved all kinds. I guess he let Mr. Colby into the morgue one night, so he could see a dead body. I would imagine letting a homeless man into a state hospital dripped with illegality, but Mr. Colby was the exception to every rule.

They had been discussing corpses one night at the local burger place. How anyone could have a full blown conversation about dead bodies while consuming a pound of ground up mystery meat is beyond me. Anyway, Mr. Colby asked what a person’s chest looked like after an autopsy. The transporter gave a response I never would have realized was the truth—even after watching every season there is to watch of CSI, NCIS, and Criminal Minds. He leaned across the table, pounding his forearms roughly enough to make neighboring carnivores jump a little, and excitedly looked Mr. Colby square in the eyes. I imagine Mr. Colby’s grin took over his face with anticipation. Dead people look like superheroes. The medical examiner cuts people open in the shape of a big Y. It only makes sense that when he’s finished investigating their insides, he sews them up to have the same big Y. And it’s not like they can heal up and not have the big Y anymore. So, the transporter liked to think that dead people were branded with the Y sign of some kind of superhero—like the X-Men or something. X and Y are right next to each other in the alphabet and Superman is recognized by the red, blue, and yellow S on his chest, too. This was Daddy’s favorite story. He was always the Marvel Comic fanatic type of guy. He only really liked one song by Black Sabbath. I’ll give you one guess. Yup. You guessed it: “Iron Man”.

I guess Mr. Colby is probably a superhero by now. Nobody has called about his cause of death, yet, but they probably already branded him with his Y. I’d like to think like the transporter across the country and see dead people like superheroes. Actually, that kind of mind set is pretty common even if you don’t know about the Y on their chests. People are always remembered to be better than they were when they were alive. It always goes beyond not disrespecting the dead; it ends up being more like pretending they were perfect when they never really were. I can’t help but think the Y is not an indication of superhero status. Superheroes don’t lie stiff and cold in big metal drawers. They don’t sleep forever in boxes bolted shut, lowered into manmade holes, and covered with dirt. Only superheroes that suck at being superheroes ever die. The Y is more like a big slap in the face to the 46

person wearing it. It shows the status not of being a hero but of being done, gone, kaput, finished. It shows that the person has run out of time. It shows that they will never tell another story. It shows that Mr. Colby will never tell another story. It makes everyone who ever loved them ask that very question: Why? Thankfully, the Y that makes the end of Mr. Colby’s life more obvious than it already is will be covered up by a brand new suit. His old clothes got thrown out by the men at the hospital. I found his scarf and hat in the dumpster once I knew what had happened. They thought he’d just be cremated and that would be the end of it. I’ve collected all but a few dollars I need to buy the solid black suit in the window of Macy’s a few towns over. The town has been really supportive about funding the funeral.

As I said before, Mr. Colby was well loved in our community. Mrs. Sherwood is supposed to take me to get the suit, tomorrow, but she certainly doesn’t like the idea. At one point, she even told me I couldn’t go to the funeral, so why buy him a suit. Obviously, she was being ridiculous. Either way, I should be able to collect the rest of the money in time. Mrs. Sherwood will have to take me. I won’t give her any choice. I’m going to get a nice, gray shirt to go underneath the blazer. That way, the suit will match Mr. Colby’s hat and scarf. Come to think of it, I wonder where the hat and scarf came from in the first place. I’m surprised I never heard that story. I guess that’s a story I’ll never hear.

I still have a lot to think about. The viewing is in two days and I have a lot of decisions to make.

It seems like the whole ceremony got dropped on my shoulders even though everyone claims to have loved him. Mom and dad aren’t even here to help me. As if it weren’t bad enough that I found my best friend dead, Mrs. Sherwood just doesn’t understand why I’m so upset about it. She’s one of the very few people who didn’t warm up to Mr. Colby. She even tries to get her two enormous sons to wrestle me out of my guest room for dinner when I say I’m not hungry. I guess it could be because she cares, but it’s kind of annoying. She dropped some kind of book on the floor the last time she came in. It looks like a journal, so I’ve been trying to fight the urge to read it, but I’m pretty sure it’s a losing battle at this point. It’s been sitting on my desk for what seems like forever. I may as well just get it over with. Staring at it and wondering is only making it harder to concentrate on planning Mr. Colby’s funeral. That’s the to-do at the top of my list, so it’s about time I got on with it.

“April 13, 2010 Today marks Clara Morgan’s fifteenth day at Hopeful Minds. It pains me to have to house such a young girl—only seventeen years old—in a group home.

I got word from Breaker Lake authorities today, assuring us that there are no next of kin to take responsibility for her. Until she responds to treatment enough to live a normal life, she will remain in our custody and not be put up for foster care or adoption. From what I can tell, she would not survive in society in her current state.

“Though Clara has not yet been forced to partake in her therapy sessions, various symptoms have led me to a preliminary diagnosis. It seems she may be suffering from some kind of delusional disorder—perhaps Schizophrenia—brought on by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Both parents— the only family currently known to exist—were tragically killed in a house fire.

When ambulances arrived on the scene, Clara was found sitting on the front lawn, staring at the front door of the home and watching her parents’ bodies burn. It is assumed that she had watched them die, though she has not admitted to such presumptions. This event is currently the only known event devastating enough to trigger PTSD. “Clara will not leave her room for therapy or even mealtime, claiming that she is ‘knee deep in preparing for Mr. Colby’s funeral’ at which she is apparently expected to ‘speak on his behalf.’ The orderlies have been trying to 47

get her from her room but always end up leaving a dinner plate on her bed. My colleagues and I have observed no improvement with regard to what we refer to as the Mr. Colby delusion. The patient seems to believe she knew a homeless man quite personally, that he had recently died, and she is in charge of funeral arrangements.

“Further evaluation is necessary to make a proper diagnosis and ultimately to decide on long-term treatment. If the patient continues to refuse therapy sessions, she will begin regular doses of the psychotropic drugs Loxitane and Anafanil one week from today in an effort to reduce psychotic breaks and obsessive behaviors. If the patient is uncooperative, sedation and involuntary removal from her room will be deemed necessary as per myself, Director Dr. Sherwood.”

Clara’s eyes glaze over as her grip loosens. The spiral bound journal thuds quietly on the carpet as she glances toward the mirror and realizes the treasured picture of parrot Clara and pigeon Colby is a poorly crafted collage—the old man from an advertisement for life insurance and the girl just another pretty face for some new brand of cosmetics. Mouth gaping open—since the first scribbled mention of her name—she slowly turns her head to look at the door. She hadn’t even noticed the tiny window decorated only with the backward number 402.

Kendra Hashagen-Burke

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