situation.
SOS
. Sibling over shoulder. Almost as bad as parents, but twice as likely to pee on your sheets.
Paul has little brothers. He’ll get it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. At least I hope I will.
Maybe that kitten screen-hider thing will work and I can risk talking to Paul for a few minutes before everyone goes to bed. CONTROL-ENTER twice. I can hit that pretty fast, right?
My eyelids drift shut.
I hadn’t realized how sleepy I was getting when I was in the closet, before Lauren scared me to death. Two late-night chats in a row … but I’d make up for it on the weekend, when I wasn’t practicing or talking to Devin or working on the Emily paper outline.
Oh, crap. The paper. I didn’t do a thing on it tonight.
Lauren jerks and lands another major kick to my thigh.
My eyes pop open and I rub my leg.
That one might leave a bruise.
I sigh.
In the little sister lottery, I think I came up short.
At least I’m doing better in the hot-online-guy department.
When Lauren nails me with another bruise-worthy kick, I get up, grab my poetry notebook, and dig my flashlight out of my bedside table drawer. I don’t worry so much about Mom catching me up in the middle of the night writing at my desk, since Lauren’s invaded my bed. Besides, Mom’s never gotten too upset about my poetry, or snatched it away from me or anything—though she did offer to take me to a shrink once after reading one called “Blood and Tears.”
I love writing after dark. I really love writing late, late, late, when everyone’s out of my face. Everything always seems easier in the middle of the night, when I’m the only person awake in the world.
For a second, I stop writing and think about Paul.
He got my message.
I’m sure he did.
Will he show up in chat to find me late tomorrow night, after the game?
The poetry-feeling gets hold of me, and somehow it seems like everything’s going to be all right. That I’ll get everything I want, and more.
So, yeah, Paul probably got that last message I sent. And he understands.
But … will he show up tomorrow night?
Yes
, I scribble in the margin of my paper.
He’ll be there. I know he’ll come.
The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I’ve known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
Emily Dickinson
REALITY
Endless, ceaseless, faithless
There is no depth to the water
Splashed across the bathroom floor,
The water that won’t wash you away.
Broken, shattered, twisted,
There is no hope in the acrid fire
Eating away the letters and notes,
The fire that won’t burn you away.
You, you’re alive but you died.
I don’t want to see you.
I don’t want to touch you.
I don’t want to feel you
All around me.
I don’t want to remember your eyes.
The joy, running to you in the autumn air,
Dry leaves swirling as you let me in,
As you throw your arms around me.
Do you know how much I miss you?
You walked away.
You left me
With the scars of your actions,
And I shower and burn and try again
Not to stare at the line in my life,
The line that cuts down the center
Of before and after You.
Chan Shealy
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 17
“Maybe you just need to try something new—something fresh.” Stroke, the new drummer who transferred to WEHS from Northside, keeps trying to grab Devin’s arm as we head to the gym parking lot to do our game walk-through. He’s tall with really long arms, and his fingers brush her elbow. “Give me a chance. Come on, baby.”
Devin stops so fast I almost trip when I put on my own brakes.
She props both hands on her hips and winks at Stroke, but her voice comes out low and quiet. “You call me baby again and we’ll see who cries.”
Devin’s smile makes
me
step away from her.
“Besides,” she says, “I’m
SOS
. Sibling over shoulder. Almost as bad as parents, but twice as likely to pee on your sheets.
Paul has little brothers. He’ll get it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. At least I hope I will.
Maybe that kitten screen-hider thing will work and I can risk talking to Paul for a few minutes before everyone goes to bed. CONTROL-ENTER twice. I can hit that pretty fast, right?
My eyelids drift shut.
I hadn’t realized how sleepy I was getting when I was in the closet, before Lauren scared me to death. Two late-night chats in a row … but I’d make up for it on the weekend, when I wasn’t practicing or talking to Devin or working on the Emily paper outline.
Oh, crap. The paper. I didn’t do a thing on it tonight.
Lauren jerks and lands another major kick to my thigh.
My eyes pop open and I rub my leg.
That one might leave a bruise.
I sigh.
In the little sister lottery, I think I came up short.
At least I’m doing better in the hot-online-guy department.
When Lauren nails me with another bruise-worthy kick, I get up, grab my poetry notebook, and dig my flashlight out of my bedside table drawer. I don’t worry so much about Mom catching me up in the middle of the night writing at my desk, since Lauren’s invaded my bed. Besides, Mom’s never gotten too upset about my poetry, or snatched it away from me or anything—though she did offer to take me to a shrink once after reading one called “Blood and Tears.”
I love writing after dark. I really love writing late, late, late, when everyone’s out of my face. Everything always seems easier in the middle of the night, when I’m the only person awake in the world.
For a second, I stop writing and think about Paul.
He got my message.
I’m sure he did.
Will he show up in chat to find me late tomorrow night, after the game?
The poetry-feeling gets hold of me, and somehow it seems like everything’s going to be all right. That I’ll get everything I want, and more.
So, yeah, Paul probably got that last message I sent. And he understands.
But … will he show up tomorrow night?
Yes
, I scribble in the margin of my paper.
He’ll be there. I know he’ll come.
The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I’ve known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
Emily Dickinson
REALITY
Endless, ceaseless, faithless
There is no depth to the water
Splashed across the bathroom floor,
The water that won’t wash you away.
Broken, shattered, twisted,
There is no hope in the acrid fire
Eating away the letters and notes,
The fire that won’t burn you away.
You, you’re alive but you died.
I don’t want to see you.
I don’t want to touch you.
I don’t want to feel you
All around me.
I don’t want to remember your eyes.
The joy, running to you in the autumn air,
Dry leaves swirling as you let me in,
As you throw your arms around me.
Do you know how much I miss you?
You walked away.
You left me
With the scars of your actions,
And I shower and burn and try again
Not to stare at the line in my life,
The line that cuts down the center
Of before and after You.
Chan Shealy
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 17
“Maybe you just need to try something new—something fresh.” Stroke, the new drummer who transferred to WEHS from Northside, keeps trying to grab Devin’s arm as we head to the gym parking lot to do our game walk-through. He’s tall with really long arms, and his fingers brush her elbow. “Give me a chance. Come on, baby.”
Devin stops so fast I almost trip when I put on my own brakes.
She props both hands on her hips and winks at Stroke, but her voice comes out low and quiet. “You call me baby again and we’ll see who cries.”
Devin’s smile makes
me
step away from her.
“Besides,” she says, “I’m
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