He asks me nearly every day.
I never wear skirts anymore—
no matter what length—
and my stomach knots
every day before work.
Now when he gives me chocolates
I throw them out.
I ask my new therapist
how I can make him stop
and she says to tell him I thought about it
and that it makes me uncomfortable.
She emphasizes the word uncomfortable.
She says if a manager hears that word,
he’ll get the point and back off.
In his office the next day,
I tell him what I have rehearsed,
but it doesn’t work.
He wants to know why I changed my mind.
I tell him that when he asked,
I spoke too quickly,
and that I was sorry,
but I thought about it
and it makes me uncomfortable.
Maybe he missed that word the first time
so I say it again.
Now instead of asking me out every day,
he wants to know who I talked to,
who changed my mind.
I have headaches every day,
my stomach is always upset,
and all I can think about is my sister
and how I feel guilty
for getting the attention.
I barely see Nate this summer.
I visit him a few times downtown
while he paints.
We talk about how he’s going to Spain
for the fall semester
and he shows me a painting he did
and points to this one part,
a bridge, and tells me he thought of me
when he painted it.
It is so sad
how knowing something
so small
can make me so happy.
New York City skyline
at night, twenty-seven floors up.
In my head I can hear it like a chant,
like a dare.
Jump.
Jump.
Jump.
I don’t want to jump,
but I feel like my body will betray me
and I will swing my legs over the balcony railing
and push myself onto First Avenue.
I cannot trust this body,
or maybe this is what I really want.
Maybe this is the truth.
Backed up against the brick wall,
I hold on to the handle of the sliding door
with one hand and trace the space
in between the rectangles with the other.
I run inside the apartment,
slam the door shut, and get into bed.
The bathroom light is on
and the door is open.
I hear it again, stronger.
You will get up and put your head in the toilet.
What will my parents think in the morning
when I’m found dead,
head in the bowl?
In my head I hear, This is not a choice.
I tell myself over and over,
I am stronger than you,
stronger than you,
stronger than you.
I get out of bed and run to the bathroom.
I switch off the light
and lock the door from the outside.
I am stronger than this,
than you,
than what you think I am.
This is not real.
Not real.
Not real.
I am scared of myself,
I tell my therapist.
I tell her what happened on the balcony
and how I felt like I was at war
with my body.
I don’t think
I want to kill myself, I say.
She tells me this is common
for people who have anxiety disorder.
It’s good to know
that I’m not the only unsuicidal person
thinking about killing herself.
I see Jason
for the first time
in a long time.
We go swimming
and dive around each other
like curious fish.
The lifeguard watches us and smiles.
Jason picks me up and throws me around.
Where it’s too deep for me to stand
I put my arms around Jason’s neck
and my legs around his waist.
Our bodies are still a perfect fit.
There is too much movement.
I bring my stuff from Claire’s apartment
to my parents’ house.
I get a fresh box of garbage bags
and pull out the plastic bins.
It’s time to pack up again.
Part III
i.
Rebecca and I make a pact.
Since this semester Ann is in England,
Rachel is in Italy,
Tara is in Australia,
and Jennifer is in France,
we are determined
to make new friends.
My first new friend is going to be Robyn.
She and I met last semester
while she was showing her new tattoo
to some friends we had in common.
We started talking
and I showed her my poetry.
She loved it and said
she wanted to turn one of my poems
into a book for one of her design classes.
At the beginning of the semester
Robyn makes good on her promise.
She wants to know
which poem she can have.
I give her a few to choose from
and she picks one about
going to Jeff’s apartment for the first time.
She tells me she wants me to give input about layout
and even wants to take photos of me
to illustrate the book.
On Thursday afternoon
when neither of us has classes,
we pack up her camera and props
and go into town to Jeff’s building.
Robyn wants to take photos of me
in the elevator and on the stairs.
I’m a little nervous.
That guy from my poetry class
lives in this building too,
and I haven’t spoken to him
since we hooked up.
What if he sees me?
He’ll think I’m a stalker.
Robyn and I laugh.
We feel like we are on a covert mission
as we sneak into the building.
Every time we hear someone
on the stairs or calling the elevator
I cringe.
When we finish I can’t get away
from the building fast enough.
But it’s fun being with her
and playing like little kids.
Things are good this semester.
I’ve been off medication since last spring
and my life has mostly gone back to normal.
I haven’t seen the inside
of a therapist’s office in months.
Most of the time I just daydream
about going to Paris with Rebecca
and how it’s going to be.
I think about all the countries I am going to see
and how romantic it will be to wander new streets.
I’m tired of how repetitive things are here.
Jason comes to visit
and I’m not sure if it’s to see me
or his other friend who goes to
school here.
Robyn and I go to a party with Jason
where his other friend will be.
It’s not a crowd I would hang out with
if he weren’t here.
At the party, Robyn
and I wander around the house
as Jason makes friends
with everyone in the room.
Robyn and I go upstairs
and before I can even take a seat,
Robyn is gone.
I find her outside on the porch.
I ask what’s going on,
and she says she needs to leave.
I don’t understand.
She says that when we walked upstairs
she saw a guy she has a crush on doing coke.
She’s crying,
and I don’t understand.
Her reaction is too intense.
She says that a year ago
a friend of hers was really depressed,
got into coke,
and killed himself.
She says she can’t be here.
I flip into action mode.
If she needs to leave,
then we will leave right then
and walk the mile back to campus.
Part of me doesn’t want to leave Jason.
I never get to see him, but this is more important.
I find Jason, tell him we’re leaving,
and tell him to call me
when he wants to come back to my room
for the night.
Robyn and I are walking,
arms around each other,
and she tells me about her friend.
I try to get her to think about happy times
they had together and she calms down
a little.
We only get a few blocks
when we hear Jason behind us.
As the three of us walk back to campus
we pass a giant pile of leaves.
It is calling to be played in.
Jason dives in first,
then Robyn,
then me.
The leaves smell amazing,
dried and smoky.
We look like little kids
as we swim around
and toss leaves at each other.
I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.
Jason and I drop Robyn at her dorm
and go back to my room.
This is it.
We haven’t talked about it,
but it’s hard to imagine we won’t hook up.
After all these years
this will only be the third time
we’ve spent the night together.
When I change for bed,
I just turn around,
let him watch me.
We get into the twin bed,
and I feel like I am sixteen again.
Jason picks a bit of a leaf out of my hair
and that starts us kissing
Kissing him is like kissing myself.
He was my first boyfriend—
I learned to kiss from him.
He tastes the same as he did
two and a half years ago.
His body is different, though.
There’s more muscle,
more strength.
We fall asleep for a while
and when I wake up
I look at him sleeping
and just smile.
A spell has been broken.
ii.
Four months go by quickly.
Everything I do
is just another milestone
that gets me closer to Paris.
Like always, the snow comes
before Halloween,
then there’s Thanksgiving,
and final exams,
and then I am packing to go home,
and packing again for Paris.
I feel like Paris is going to mark the start
of a new chapter for me.
My anxiety has been at bay for months
and I finally feel far enough away from it
to gain perspective
on everything that’s happened to me
and everything I’ve done.
Rebecca and I
are in the airport with our parents.
It’s overwhelming
to have them here waiting with us.
At first the flight is delayed
two hours because of bad weather.
When we finally board
we end up sitting on the runway
for several more hours
because the plane needs to be de-iced.
Rebecca and I pass the time
by attempting to speak broken French.
When we are finally ready to go,
a voice comes over the loudspeaker.
The plane is delayed again.
The pilot is sick and needs to be taken off board.
I just want to get there.
We finally take off at the same time
we should have landed in Paris.
In the hotel in Paris
the night before our host families pick us up,
everything is surreal.
I open the long windows in my room
and look out.
The street below is narrow
and the way the light hits
the buildings across the street
makes them look flat,
like part of a movie set.
In the morning Rebecca and I wait
in the lobby with all the other students.
We are like puppies
hoping to be given a good home.
When my name is called,
there is a tiny woman waiting for me.
I am scared that I won’t understand
the very first thing she says to me,
even though I have taken three semesters of French
and have been practicing
basic phrases all morning.
I turn back to Rebecca
and mouth au revoir.
I know we are both praying
our families will be nice.
The coordinator introduces me to my host mother.
Her name is Laurence and I am horrified
to learn that she speaks no English.
Laurence and I take a taxi home
and it is sweet how she speaks slowly to me.
She needs to repeat nearly everything she says,
and even then I only understand every few words.
I am embarrassed by my accent
and how I stammer out broken sentences,
but she just smiles at me.
She tells me about her kids.
From what I can make out, there are three,
but I can’t tell how many are sons
and how many are daughters.
The words fille and fils sound too similar.
This surge of energy
and excitement is amazing.
I can’t wait to see my new home
and meet the rest of the family.
I feel like at any moment
I could start jumping up and down
and clapping my hands like a little kid.
When we get to the apartment building
she directs me into a tiny elevator.
I barely fit inside with my suitcase
while she takes the stairs.
We meet on the fourth floor
and she leads me inside.
The apartment is beautiful
in a shabby sort of way.
She shows me my room first.
It has a fresh coat of yellow paint
and is filled with light
coming in from those long windows
that look like doors.
There is a view of a courtyard
and looking down makes me feel
like I have gone back in time.
I am in the sixth arrondissement, on the Left Bank.
This neighborhood is chic,
with high-end clothing stores on my block
like Yves Saint Laurent and Miu Miu.
As Laurence and I walk around the neighborhood
she shows me all the little shops:
the bakery just downstairs,
the cheese shop, the butcher shop.
It is adorable how each type of food
has its own store.
My body is exhausted from the flight,
but inside I am buzzing.
Later in the day,
her two sons come home.
Augustin is thirteen and Alexis is sixteen
and I finally understand
what Laurence was trying to tell me about Alexis.
He is handicapped.
He has a prosthetic hand
and a blank look on his face.
When the boys are not staring at me,
they are talking fast, not enunciating,
and using so much slang that it is useless
to try to understand them.
I am surprised at how calm I am
while I sit in a room
with complete strangers
speaking a different language
and all I can manage to say is quoi? and oui,
like a parrot with poor vocabulary.
That night I meet Laurence’s daughter.
Phyllis is only a few years older
than me and she speaks nearly fluent English.
Knowing that she’ll be around
to help me is such a relief.
Nate and I talked today.
He’s been in Spain since the fall semester.
We talked for a long time
about how being out of our neighborhood
and away from his family has changed him.
He’s opening up
and learning to be himself.
Nate will only be in Spain for one more week
and all I want to do is go and see him.
If I don’t see him now,
I won’t see him for another five months.
But it’s too soon.
There are too many things happening in Paris
and I’m not even sure he wants me there.
Rebecca and I
and a few other girls
are shopping near my apartment.
It’s colder now that the sun has set
and I leave them in a café
to go home and get a heavier jacket.
On my way home
I take a wrong turn and get lost.
I ask people where rue du Cherche-Midi is.
I know I can’t be more than a few blocks away,
but no one knows.
How could no one know where it is?
Is it my accent?
Am I not making any sense?
I go into a men’s clothing store.
I am nearly in tears.
I say,