faster
than blood
in this school.
So by
fifth period,
I’ve had
an earful.
He
moved here
from
the city
a week
ago.
His parents
went
to California
for business.
So he
hauled himself
six hours
to his aunt’s house.
For his last year
of high school.
Rather than adjust
to the West Coast
as a senior.
26
He doesn’t
eat
lunch.
Just handfuls
of nuts
and
locker snacks.
While
everyone else
chows down in
the cafeteria,
he sits under
a tree in
the schoolyard.
Plucking
a mandolin.
A mandolin,
of all things.
The science teacher
made a joke about
his outfit.
Said a gypsy
had come to town.
The new kid asked
what the teacher’s
sign was.
His sign.
When told
Aries,
he hmm’ed
and said,
“I thought so.”
27
His
name
is
Ezra.
28
The Best Class of the Day
I have
the table
farthest
from
the door
all to
myself
in art class.
Just the way
I like it.
Then,
I hear
the stool
next to me
squeak
as it is
scooched
across the floor.
I turn
to see
a cascade of
dark curls.
The boy
adjusts
his
purple
scarf.
29
Water Dream #2
I’m fishing
in the pond
behind
my grandfather’s
cabin.
Everyone
told me
the stock had
run dry.
But I’ve
never much
listened
to everyone.
I get a bite.
It’s the
biggest fish
I’ve seen in
my life.
Scales
shining in
colors
I didn’t know
were possible.
Rainbows
upon rainbows
of shades
30
not yet
discovered.
The fish
doesn’t
thrash
or
struggle.
Just
eyes me
coolly.
Knowingly.
Before
pulling
me
in.
31
Renny and the Woodshop Stool
That week I drag
a stool
to the doorway of
my brother Renny’s room.
The special stool
he made for me
in the woodshop where
he works.
Sometime within
the last year, this
became my signal for
can we talk?
He looks up.
Brown hair, messy
as the bed he sits on,
winding down his face.
It sits beneath
the ball cap
I swear he’s done
everything but shower in
since he was eight.
That’s Renny:
ball caps and drab flannel.
Living proof of
the things in this town
that will never change.
32
He gives me
a quick nod,
flipping his hair
toward
the foot of the bed.
His returned signal.
I drag
the stool in.
Just as I’m
about to spill,
his cell phone rings.
It’s Veronica,
the cosmetology queen.
Miss Americana herself.
Blonde hair long as
the sighs she brings out
of my lovesick brother.
Bright blue eyelids.
Plum lipstick.
Rouge to fake
a shy blush.
They were
high school sweethearts.
He,
the captain of
the baseball team.
She,
a cheerleader.
Bottom of the pyramid though.
Until she became
Renny’s girl.
33
Before
Renny graduated,
he had scouts
from colleges
throughout the state
itching
to give him
a jersey.
It shocked us
when he turned
every last one
down.
Asked
the local carpenter
for a job.
He was a natural,
of course,
whether
swinging wood
or crafting it.
But Veronica
hasn’t seen it
that way.
She’s glad
he’s still in town
for her last year of school.
But she was hoping
to be the kind of
senior girl who dates
a college boy.
A college jock,
no less.
34
Her family
got some money
from a dead, rich
great-aunt
in some big city.
So she started
wearing makeup
and talking big
to match
the glamour
of how
her life would
soon be.
University.
Theater.
A few minor
acting gigs
to start off small.
Suddenly sure
this was all
within her reach.
Loving my brother
until she moved on
to higher society.
It became her
first role,
I fear.
But it’d kill him
if I said it.
And in this case,
I want so badly
to be wrong.
35
They make
a Friday night
date.
He ruffles
his scraggly hair
in absentminded
excitement.
Hangs up.
He adjusts his
ball cap.
Like he does
whenever
he switches
from giddy
to serious.
“So, Hannah,” he says.
“Spill.”
“Well,
I’m not sure
what to say
really,”
I start.
“There’s
this
new kid
at
school.”
36
I Spill Again
In class,
we are learning
conceptual art.
Art that is art
because of the thought
and not the look.
Not because
we’re so
high-minded,
though.
It’s because
Mrs. Bently
got tired of
smashing inappropriate
clay sculptures
students tried
to convince her
were vases
for their
mothers.
She
got tired of
setting up the same
overdone
bowl of pears
or table of
deer skulls
for still-life
paintings.
37
Most of all,
I think,
she got tired of
adding her own money to
the budget for canvas
and other supplies.
The school has cut
a lot of funding.
And concept is
cheaper than oil paint.
Just found materials
and brainpower.
I am painting
detailed, unreal
sea creatures
in watercolors.
Mixing paint
with water
I took from the river.
My river.
Any muck or grit
adds texture.
Context.
Instead of
getting in the way.
I don’t plan
what the creatures
will look like.
Just let each drop of river
show me what it has seen.
What it imagines.
38
Ezra is
putting together
photographs he
took with
a 35-millimeter
film camera.
They all look
overexposed
or underexposed.
Mostly blurs
of light
and
fuzzy figures.
Or dark spaces.
You can
barely make anything out.
Except for
hazy objects.
They dangle,
mobile-like.
Attached
by wires.
The way a
diagram of
the planets would.
Astrology symbols
are drawn over each.
They have to do with
the time of year,
the people he was with,
and the feeling
it gave him.
39
He says
he makes
the photos
look
that way
on purpose.
Because that is
how his
memory is.
Hazy.
Fuzzy.
Barely
understandable
sometimes.
I wonder
who
these people are,
these bursts
of light
and smudges
of color.
For a minute,
I’m a little
jealous.
They hang
grandly.
Like stars.
Forever frozen
inside
a universe
he made
just for them.
40
For a minute,
I wish I
could be
suspended
there
in the
orbit
of his
thoughts.
A
watery
green-blue
cloud.
I wonder
what his
impression
of me
would
look
like.
There’s a photo
he claims
is a self-portrait.
It looks like a night sky
ripping open with
streaks of
blinding white light.
“It’s not colorful enough
to be you,”
I say.
41
His lips curve into
a sly grin.
“White light contains
all the colors,”
he says.
Above his self-portrait
is an arrow with
a line through it.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Sagittarius.” He winks
like a star twinkling.
“I’m a Capricorn
by birth,” he says.
“But the only truth
to that
is its Earth sign.
Every other bit
of my chart
is Sag.
Fire.
You
are water,”
he says.
“But I
can’t decide
which
symbol.”
“I’m
a Pisces.”
42
His lips
purse.
His perfect
brows
tense.
“Hmm.
Interesting.”
“What?” I ask.
“Well,
the stars
seem to think
we’d be
very
attracted
to each other.
But
not
compatible
at
all.”
I’m so
taken aback.
Delighted
and put out
all at once.
I bump into
my jar
and
the river
comes
pouring
out.
43
It smears
my latest
creature
until I can’t
recognize it.
So it looks
exactly like
it belongs in
one of
the photos
in his
mobile.
“There,”
he says.
“Now
it’s in
my
memory.”
44
Coffee Shop Fridays
Renny
agrees
to drive
to the
coffee shop
before his date.
We don’t have
our licenses
yet.
Every
Friday,
we split
a milkshake.
We take turns
picking
the flavor.
Tonight,
Sam picks
Fireball.
I joke that
he just
likes it
for the
name.
45
Afterward,
we walk
to the
quarry.
To our
secret
spot.
46
The Quarry, Waxing Crescent,
Harvest Moon
I collect
the wood
and Sam
builds the fire.
That’s the deal.
As always.
We laugh
and tease
and gossip
for an hour.
Smiles
crackling
like
the
flames.
Eventually,
a call
from Renny
tells us
it’s time
to put out
the blaze.
47
We walk back
to the open road.
The smell of
wood smoke
and
good secrets
sticking
to
our
clothes.
48
Unexpected Growth
Ezra asked
the science teacher
if he could
take over
the rundown
greenhouse
behind the
gymnasium.
“It looked like
an overgrown
cemetery.
Or a
ghost town
of abandoned
dirt and weeds,”
he said.
“I’m taking
care of it
after school.
I’ve
always been
good
at gardening.
Planting it
using the
lunar
calendar.
49
Come next year
there’ll be
so many flowers
and herbs.
Natives
and exotics.
This town
will have
never seen
anything like it.
They don’t
even know
the variety
of life
that can grow
in this soil.”
I smile at this.
At how quickly
a foreign plant
can take root
here.
At how
naturally
Ezra adapts
to my home.
Even if
he is
the most
diverse life
to ever attempt
growth
in this soil.
50
A Clash
At lunch,
I tell Ezra
to hang up
the
mandolin
and sit
with
Sam and me.
He’s wearing
bronze
eyeliner.
A forest green
pullover
made of
wool.
Burgundy
corduroys.
He beams and
tells stories of
living in the city.
Of equinox
parties
and of
new
moon
gatherings.
I take it
all in,
51
enjoying it
like high water
in the spring.
When the
snowmelt
and rain
turn the river
into a rush
of chocolate
milk-colored
swells and surfs.
And the current is
so fast
you can
barely
stop a boat.
Sam is
quiet.
Not