SKYSCRAPING
Cordelia Jensen
PHILOMEL BOOKS
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Copyright © 2015 by Cordelia Jensen.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jensen, Cordelia.
Skyscraping / Cordelia Jensen. pages cm Summary: In 1993 in New York City, high school senior Mira uncovers many secrets, including that her father has a male lover.
[1. Novels in verse. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Secrets—Fiction. 5. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 6. Gay fathers—Fiction. 7. New York (N.Y.)—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.5.J46Sky 2015
[Fic]—dc23 2014035150
ISBN 978-0-698-17256-2
Version_1
Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
1993 | FALL
PILOTING
MIDAIR
TIME FLIES
OUR LAST FIRST DAY
MY INNER EYE
INTO SPACE
WHERE WINDOWS ARE STARS
CAPTURING TIME
REAL-LIFE THINGS
TIME TO REMEMBER
ON AGAIN, OFF AGAIN
OTHER PEOPLE’S WINDOWS
RECORDING SESSION
UNKNOWNS
NEWBORN STARS
TURNED
MISMATCHED
SOMETHING STELLAR
SHADOWING
HIDING
A UNIVERSE AWAY
BLURRED
THE MILKY WAY
FLOATING
FREEZE-FRAME
THERE ARE NO STARS
ABSOLUTE MAGNITUDES
NOWHERE
BEFORE
AFTER
THEN
NOW
OUT OF ORDER
EDGES
REARVIEW MIRROR
DREAMING INTO A DREAM
RECORDING SESSION
NO SPARKLING GOD
COSTUMES
CASSIOPEIA
HOT AND COLD
IF WE COULD FIND ANY STARS
BREATHE AND SWALLOW
GRACE
CHANGES IN BRIGHTNESS
SHREDS
DEFLATING
CHIMES AND CRYSTALS
WINTER
SUMMON A STORM
WINTER LIGHT
DEAFENING
WINDSWEPT
CONSEQUENCES
RECORDING SESSION
COLD GROWS COLDER
EVERY TRIANGLED SIDE
HUBBLE’S LAW
OUT TO SEA
AS THE CITY LOOMS
STORM HALO
STARS FALLING
BLANKETS
TUNNELING
YELLOWED, GRAY
NO SIGNS OF STOPPING
CLOUDY GLASS
TOGETHERNESS
KINDLING
COUNTING STARS
RECORDING SESSION
CRYSTALS DANGLING
STARLESSNESS
EXCAVATION
WHAT’S ALREADY GRAY
WINTER DUST
PLAYING PRETEND
DELETE ALL
DARKENING SKY
TWO CLOUDS INTERSECTED
NORTHERN LIGHTS
BLIZZARD
FLIPPED
RECORDING SESSION
HIS PUNK ROCK FACE
THE SPACE BETWEEN
WINTER’S GLAZE
CHAOS
THOUGHTS ORBIT
BARELY SWERVING
SOLAR FLARE
HOT WATER
DIZZYING ME
CORNERED
WHAT’S FAIR
OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE STREET
HOLD FAST TO THIS TIME
STREETS OF HEAVEN
CONSIDERATION
SUPERNOVA
WHITEOUT
SKYSCRAPING
SPRING
INDIGO GLASS
UPSIDE-DOWN KINGDOM
RECORDING SESSION
LIT BRIGHT
ANOTHER LAYER
SIXTY MINUTES
A REVERSE CRYSTAL BALL
SQUINTING UP
TO FIND THE SKY
SO MUCH LIGHTER
INNER-DISTANCE
CRASH
STRANDED
DRENCHED
SOAKING
OUT MY WINDOW
WHAT WE ARE MADE OF
A BOMBARDMENT
WHAT THEY THINK
HOW MUCH TIME
CONSUMING
THE HOURGLASS
BLUESHIFT
BECAUSE THE PEOPLE INSIDE IT ARE
CONNECT FOUR
SPRING WIND
SPROUTS FROM SKELETON TREES
PINK WAKE
BUT, FOR A WHILE
EXOPLANET
LIKE LIGHTNING
RAIN ON THE DASH
RECORDING SESSION
WISHING STAR
GLUE, SCISSORS, TAPE
TWO CITY GIRLS
COUNTING TIME
OPEN STAR CLUSTERS
MORNING STAR
SIP SWEET SIPS
OVERLAPPING LIVES
INSIDE OUR SELVES
MOVING THE AIR
THE BLANKET OF THE MOON
FLYING
OUR OWN SKY RAINBOW
SUMMER
FIREWORKS
WATCH IT FLY
IN A FLASH
ORION’S BELT
BIRDS IN PARADISE
RECORDING SESSION
ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS
NEVER LETS GO
IN TUBES
THE SOUND OF IT
DECLARATION
CHECKMATE
THROUGH WINDOWS
FROM DULL TO LIGHT
MORPHINE DREAMS
COMA
THROUGH TEARS
GATHERING
THROUGH GASPS
SPINNING CLOUD OF LIGHT
THE NEUTRAL, YELLOW DARK
SILVER, EMPTY
WHAT’S FALLING
SOMETHING SOLID
NOTHINGNESS
NIGHTTIME
THE MAN IN THE MOON
ON REPEAT
ALMOST
HOLDING NEPTUNE
AS HIMSELF
CUT FROM SKY
BLIND SPOTS
STARSHELLS
WITH CAUTION
REPAIRED, IN PLACES
TAKEOFF
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dedicated to my family—past & present
1993
FALL
PILOTING
I have everything I need.
My bag. My key.
The security man knows my name,
lets me in.
Soon the school will be full;
for now, quiet, empty.
Climbing stairs,
the room halfway between floors.
Just the way we left it:
A tidy stack of blue layout sheets in the corner.
Two long rulers.
Side by side.
Font book in the drawer.
White counters flank me,
like plane wings.
In the corner, the books.
In order, from year to year.
Expecting. Believing.
I open my favorite:
1976,
the year I was born.
I spiral into their past:
girls with ironed hair,
boys in bell-bottom jeans.
Wonder who’s still friends with who.
If they kept their yearbook.
Shutting it gently,
it’s my time now.
I unpack:
new erasers, set them in a row,
paper clips, labels.
Take out a rag.
Wipe the layer of dust from the counter.
White can always get brighter still.
Wings after the rain.
In just two days,
we launch.
And maybe, years from now, some baby,
born today, will grow up to be an editor like me:
Someone who knows how to turn the present into memories.
Someone who knows how to capture time.
She will see our faces.
Me. Chloe. Dylan.
Wonder who we grew up to be.
Then, she’ll sit,
use her own silver ruler, draw her own lines
like I’m doing now.
Taxiing just before
takeoff.
MIDAIR
In my windowseat—
midair—
spying on Riverside:
a ponytailed jogger, an old man walking a poodle,
a balcony of trees sweeping over the Big Rock,
cars breeze up the Henry Hudson,
four boats bump down the river,
Manhattan’s skyscrapers dwarfing North Bergen.
Dad peeks in, giantlike, fills the whole doorframe:
his round face, his fading tan.
Mira, he says, it’s time. It’s a big day.
I watch New York City blaze by.
The sun almost swallows the sky.
I’m ready.
Touching the window,
the glass warm,
I leave my very own mark,
floating up, high
into
the pulsing orange sky.
TIME FLIES
Today, I’m a Senior.
My sister, April, a Freshman.
Dad pecks our cheeks,
Mom, still sleeping.
He claims she said
have a nice day.
Outside,
April hands Sam
the homeless man
a Pop-Tart tucked in a paper towel.
Dad would be proud.
Past Cafe 82, Celestial Treasures, Harry’s Shoes.
Past a yellowing leaf twirling with a Burger King wrapper,
floating, then falling together, on the cracked curb.
Time flies—
once we were little girls dancing to the Go-Go’s,
mirrored walls showing us ourselves,
matching long blond ponytails,
April arms out, voice open, singing loud.
Me, taking the slow part, spinning in circles.
Now, eyes locked, under the glass bus stop,
a sign reads:
In December, not just tokens only, MetroCards too.
Write it down in my planner; make sure April sees.
Our backpacks heavy with possibility,
a million taxis storm by,
blowing our hair up in this September breeze,
the bus yawns, opens its doors to us,
like it has just woken up.
OUR LAST FIRST DAY
I.
April and I sit catty-corner,
back of the bus.
Dylan comes on,
flashes his pass,
flannel heavy with smoke.
Ask if he’s ready.
He shrugs at me.
I tell him I’m psyched,
he mumbles high school’s wack,
I tell April to ignore him.
Dylan scored 16 billion on his SATs,
the rest of us have to work,
he sticks his tongue out at me.
II.
The bus crawls through tunnels,
lands straight on Park.
We file out,
windows above
lighting us,
so bright
we’re fluorescent.
Chloe, at the corner,
somehow earlier than us,
a lit cigarette, fountain Coke,
cutoffs, Sharpie-drawn Converse,
Mother Love Bone T-shirt.
Me in a plain white V-neck,
plain blue blue jeans,
I click my brown clogs together.
Chloe and I, different styles,
friends our whole lives.
III.
I whisper Dad’s go-to line:
let the butterflies into your heart.
Some girls from her class fly by in formation,
she picks up their wind, glides into their frame.
I grab Chloe’s ringed fingers,
no more waiting, let’s start—
we move from sidewalk to gates—
Dylan winks at me,
we swarm in—
our last first day.
I squint back into the sky
knowing that this is the moment
in the movie of our lives
where the prop guy
rains down
confetti.
MY INNER EYE
Adam, white cap, used to wait
inside the school lobby, his palm
gently on my back, steering me
into the school elevator
up.
Now he’s at college,
not with me to celebrate
this beginning, this end.
Not here to steer me
in.
So many afternoons spent with him
at school in our Yearbook office.
Supplies in order,
all our plans
made.
So many evenings
in his beige-carpeted apartment,
yearbook pages spread out around
us.
Watching The Princess Bride,
sipping crushed ice Cokes,
resting gently on coasters,
working, watching, kisses
in between.
Though we aren’t together anymore,
we keep in touch,
my inner eye is locked on Adam’s gaze,
he’s smiling at me, applauding almost,
as I make this steady, even flight
my own.
INTO SPACE
First up, Astronomy,
push in the heavy black door.
Seat by Dylan,
a game of hangman.
I guess the word, Existentialism,
he draws a happy face
on the dying stick figure.
Mr. Lamb projects:
slide after slide,
Earth from the moon,
blue and green swirls of beautiful.
My heart pounds:
I am inside of it.
I am part of the rotation.
Dylan passes a note,
says that he’s been reading
the Existentialists,
that Senior year, by definition,
means we are in crisis:
Questioning what, if anything, has meaning.
Asks me to join him and Chloe after school
to ponder our existence.
I tell him:
I am not in crisis.
I am part of the rotation.
Ask him if he’s thought more
about where to apply for college.
Mr. Lamb’s voice cuts through,
Constellations aren’t just pretty pictures.
I gaze at the star map,
down at my table black as night,
make sure no one sees me
as I constellate,
dotting
Wite-Out
on the table’s edge:
my
sky
own
night
little
WHERE WINDOWS ARE
STARS
Once when we were little
Mom guided us outside—
past Dad handing “little cigarettes”
to his friends from Mexico—
“Gloria” shouting from the record player—
she left us on the balcony and returned to their smoky haze.
Told us to search for stars.
Sisters in matching gold-speckled party dresses
out in the air
a thousand blinking lights
April asked where the stars were.
I moved her hand from pointing up to straight ahead and said
in New York City, April, windows are stars.
CAPTURING TIME
For some, Yearbook meetings
are gossip sessions.
I try and organize the staff
on copy, quotes, Senior pages—
They call me a stress-case
but they don’t know how relaxing
it is to cut and paste
draw boxes of ruler lines
glide a pen down