to us?”
Phee’s eyes open wide, and I look away or else I think I’ll lose it. We can’t read you Charlotte . It’s in the safe in your abandoned apartment. What about your journal instead?
“I’m kind of tired, Mom,” I mumble into my lap. “Maybe we can just go to bed, and start over tomorrow.”
“All right,” she says quietly. “I understand. I guess it’s been another long day.”
* * *
Later I lie in bed awake. Moonlight dances across the water-stained ceiling, creates the illusion that we’re sleeping under a slow, lazy tide. It reminds me of the river at home, back on Wall Street, of the way the water stretches so long and wide that you can almost hear the waves beat Freedom if you listen closely.
I readjust my pillow and turn to face Phee. She’s wheezing softly, already sound asleep, not a care in the world. Her mouth is turned up in a little smile, as if even her dreams are working out for her. It makes me think of what she said earlier today. About joining the warlords, becoming one of them. Not that she’d said that exactly, but she didn’t have to.
And it haunted me all day.
I watch her sleep. Strong, bold, brazen Phee, protector of the family. A future leader of the Park. A seed of worry takes root in my stomach.
If she becomes a warlord, what happens then? Do I become a year-round fieldworker? Do I just keep following her around like a shadow? Continue to shrink and shrink as she burns brighter, until one day I’m gone completely?
And what’s really bothering me: Am I more upset that Phee would make the crazy decision to become a lord, or that I’ll never have the chance to?
I flop on my back to watch the rippling ceiling. I think of the street-fights, of the rules of the Park, of the way I float through here unnoticed. My mother’s favorite attributes of mine rattle inside my head. Balance. Patience. Control .
Am I really patient? Do they really see me as in control?
Or am I just defined by what my younger sister isn’t?
The worry blooms, works its way from my abdomen and curls up my spine, until I can’t sit still anymore. I need air. And space. I need to be outside myself, to burst out the door, to dive into someone else’s world and hide there.
But of course, I won’t do it alone.
I shake Phee’s arm gently and she wakes with a start, but I’m quick to put my hand over her mouth. I poke my chin over her towards our mother. If we don’t want to wake her, this all needs to be in the sister sign language I taught Phee—a mix of basic ASL I learned from a textbook, plus a few of our own trademark gestures.
Phee rubs her eyes and then looks over her shoulder. Mom’s sound asleep, snoring in the darkness. Phee’s eyes light up as she figures out why I’m waking her. She puts her hands out, palms facing up, and then turns her left wrist back and forth, like she’s flipping invisible pages. I nod. Exactly. The journal.
She points to the bathroom.
I shake my head no, point to Mom and then to my eyes. Not the bathroom—she’ll wake up if we light the firecups .
She throws her hands in the air. What do you want, then?
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I solemnly point towards the door. I want to sneak out, down the hall.
Her index finger shoots up to her temple and twirls around. What are you, loony? Then she swipes her thumb across her neck. Suicide .
I just shrug and ignore my shaking hands. I carefully dislodge my legs from the pile of frayed blankets and sheets. I’m not sure if I’m bluffing, until Phee’s hand wraps around my wrist.
She shakes her head slowly. No .
And for a moment, the first moment in perhaps our entire lives, I’m ready for something dangerous. And she isn’t. It empowers me, chops at my weed of self-loathing, excites me to the point of recklessness. I take a deep breath, point to her, and then bring my hands to the side of my head in prayer position. Go back to bed then .
I give her a small wave, crawl the rest of
Phee’s eyes open wide, and I look away or else I think I’ll lose it. We can’t read you Charlotte . It’s in the safe in your abandoned apartment. What about your journal instead?
“I’m kind of tired, Mom,” I mumble into my lap. “Maybe we can just go to bed, and start over tomorrow.”
“All right,” she says quietly. “I understand. I guess it’s been another long day.”
* * *
Later I lie in bed awake. Moonlight dances across the water-stained ceiling, creates the illusion that we’re sleeping under a slow, lazy tide. It reminds me of the river at home, back on Wall Street, of the way the water stretches so long and wide that you can almost hear the waves beat Freedom if you listen closely.
I readjust my pillow and turn to face Phee. She’s wheezing softly, already sound asleep, not a care in the world. Her mouth is turned up in a little smile, as if even her dreams are working out for her. It makes me think of what she said earlier today. About joining the warlords, becoming one of them. Not that she’d said that exactly, but she didn’t have to.
And it haunted me all day.
I watch her sleep. Strong, bold, brazen Phee, protector of the family. A future leader of the Park. A seed of worry takes root in my stomach.
If she becomes a warlord, what happens then? Do I become a year-round fieldworker? Do I just keep following her around like a shadow? Continue to shrink and shrink as she burns brighter, until one day I’m gone completely?
And what’s really bothering me: Am I more upset that Phee would make the crazy decision to become a lord, or that I’ll never have the chance to?
I flop on my back to watch the rippling ceiling. I think of the street-fights, of the rules of the Park, of the way I float through here unnoticed. My mother’s favorite attributes of mine rattle inside my head. Balance. Patience. Control .
Am I really patient? Do they really see me as in control?
Or am I just defined by what my younger sister isn’t?
The worry blooms, works its way from my abdomen and curls up my spine, until I can’t sit still anymore. I need air. And space. I need to be outside myself, to burst out the door, to dive into someone else’s world and hide there.
But of course, I won’t do it alone.
I shake Phee’s arm gently and she wakes with a start, but I’m quick to put my hand over her mouth. I poke my chin over her towards our mother. If we don’t want to wake her, this all needs to be in the sister sign language I taught Phee—a mix of basic ASL I learned from a textbook, plus a few of our own trademark gestures.
Phee rubs her eyes and then looks over her shoulder. Mom’s sound asleep, snoring in the darkness. Phee’s eyes light up as she figures out why I’m waking her. She puts her hands out, palms facing up, and then turns her left wrist back and forth, like she’s flipping invisible pages. I nod. Exactly. The journal.
She points to the bathroom.
I shake my head no, point to Mom and then to my eyes. Not the bathroom—she’ll wake up if we light the firecups .
She throws her hands in the air. What do you want, then?
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I solemnly point towards the door. I want to sneak out, down the hall.
Her index finger shoots up to her temple and twirls around. What are you, loony? Then she swipes her thumb across her neck. Suicide .
I just shrug and ignore my shaking hands. I carefully dislodge my legs from the pile of frayed blankets and sheets. I’m not sure if I’m bluffing, until Phee’s hand wraps around my wrist.
She shakes her head slowly. No .
And for a moment, the first moment in perhaps our entire lives, I’m ready for something dangerous. And she isn’t. It empowers me, chops at my weed of self-loathing, excites me to the point of recklessness. I take a deep breath, point to her, and then bring my hands to the side of my head in prayer position. Go back to bed then .
I give her a small wave, crawl the rest of
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