Chasing Brooklyn Page 4
their first date was a trip to the art museum
and an Italian dinner afterward.
Being Italian, he wanted to see if she liked the food.
Turned out she loved it.
Turned out he loved her.
And the feeling became mutual.
I look out the window and see her
walking up the front path.
Her wavy brown hair is tucked behind her ears
and there’s a hint of apprehension in her sad, dark eyes.
She hasn’t been here since he died.
I wonder what she’s thinking.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn
I tell myself
it’s just a house.
A house with walls,
windows,
doors,
and a roof on top.
I tell myself
don’t think about the window
up there on the second floor,
the one he looked out of
while he talked to you on the phone,
telling you how much
he loved you.
I tell myself
don’t think about the front door
he walked through a million times
or the welcome mat
that no longer
welcomes him.
I tell myself
don’t cry.
But I do.
Because it’s
so much more
than just
a house.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico
Oh no.
She’s crying.
I opened the door,
she fell into my arms
and she’s standing here crying.
I gently move her to the sofa
in the living room.
What do I do?
I’m not good at this.
I mean, come on.
A crying girl?
In my house?
The one time Ma might actually be useful,
she’s not here.
Help!
Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn
When he opens the door,
I step in
and an army of memories
comes at me from all sides.
Meeting his parents for the first time.
Studying for finals together, munching on peanut
M&Ms.
Making out in his room when no one was home.
A trickle becomes
a sprinkler.
Nico looks like he wants to call
for a rescue party.
To rescue him.
Not me.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico
She finally stops crying.
“Sorry,” she says. “Just what you needed, right?”
“You want a glass of water?” I ask her.
She nods and follows me to the kitchen.
“Where are your parents?”
“Work.”
I feel her eyes on my back
as I fill the glass with ice cubes and water
from the fridge door.
Our eyes meet as I turn around and hand her the glass.
The sadness between us is thick,
like smoke.
I take a deep breath.
She does too.
I watch her swirl the glass around,
the ice cubes
clink
clink
clinking together,
trying to separate
but always coming back together
eventually.
“Why’d you ask me here, Nico?”
“Worried about you, I guess. Are you doing okay?”
She shrugs.
Because she isn’t.
But to say it out loud is like admitting defeat.
It’s been a year.
We should be okay.
Somewhat okay, anyway.
“Can I see his room?” she asks.
Damn.
This isn’t good.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn
Up the stairs.
Down the hall.
Third door on the right.
The door is closed.
Nico takes a deep breath
before he turns the knob.
Then he turns it
very
very
slowly.
In the movies
the dead person’s room
is always so neat,
it’s freaky.
This room
is so messy
it’s freaky.
An unmade bed,
clothes all over the floor,
dirty dishes on his desk.
It’s as if Lucca
was just here this morning,
getting ready for school.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Ma wanted to keep it the way he left it.”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
I walk around
his room,
taking it all in.
His drawings,
on his desk,
and his messy handwriting
scribbled on the pages.
His iPod,
full of songs
he listened to and loved.
His pictures,
me and him,
taped to his computer monitor,
smiling, gushing,
totally in love.
His clothes,
ones he used to wear
on a warm, living body.
I pick a shirt up
off the floor,
and hold it to my face.
Unbelievable.
It’s still there.
The slightest scent of Lucca,
the scent of joy, of art, of love,
still there.
I blink fast
trying to keep the tears away
but unable to.
I bury my face
in the shirt
and the tears come
because Lucca
should be sitting at the desk,
listening to his iPod
writing me an e-mail,
wearing this shirt.
He should be here.
And he’s not.
The room is suddenly
a merry-go-round,
spinning faster and faster.
My legs buckle beneath me
from the intensity of it all.
Strong, steady arms
wrap around me,
holding me up
and moving me
to the bed,
where we sit down.
I lean into him.
“He should be here, Nico.”
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
That’s why the room
was left
exactly the same.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico
I let her talk
and cry.
Maybe this is what she needed.
Maybe Lucca was afraid
this Gabe thing might push her over the edge.
Maybe he just wanted me to listen
and tell her it’ll be okay.
During the course of our conversation
she says she feels
shocked
sad
confused
terrible
powerless
empty
and bitter
and a couple more I missed.
“I know. It sucks,” I tell her.
“But it’ll be okay.”
She looks at me like I just told her
I have a ghost haunting me.
Like there’s no way
that can possibly be true.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn
I talk and cry
while Nico sits and listens.
Like we’ve been friends forever.
Finally, I use the shirt
to wipe the tears
and take a
deep breath.
We’re quiet
for a long time
and then Nico points
to a pair of boxer shorts on the floor.
“I’m glad you picked the shirt.”
Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico
Before she goes
I ask her if she wants anything.
Something of his to take with her.
“Can I borrow his iPod?”
I nod, so she picks it up and sticks it in her purse.
“I better go,” she says. “My dad’s going to be looking for
dinner soon.”
“Does it frequently hide or something?” I ask.
She smiles.
“Lucca was right. You’re funny.”
I walk her to the door.
She lingers there, her fingers fiddling with the doorknob.
“I still don’t get it,” she says. “Why get in touch with me now?
It’s been so long.”
Right then, I’m tempted.
Tempted to tell her my brother seems to be haunting me.
But if I want to keep her talking to me,
I can’t say that.
So I don’t.
“I just had a feeling. A feeling you could use a friend.”
I tuck her hair back behind her ear. “And I think I was right.”
She looks at me like she wants to tell me something.
But then she looks away, opens the door,
and leaves.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn
He thought
I might need
a friend.
I’m not exactly sure
what I need
but another friend
probably can’t hurt.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico
The perfect thing
hits my e-mail at just the right time.
A sprint triathlon coming up in the next town over.
I click the register button
and dream of losing myself
in the intense training
that will ensue
in the coming days and weeks.
I’ll lose myself in the pain.
It might not make sense.
But it works.
Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn
Half his iPod
is filled with
The Killers
because he loved them.
There’s some
Fall Out Boy,
Linkin Park,
Coldplay,
and All-American Rejects
and it’s like
I’m in Lucca’s head,
being Lucca,
listening to the music
he loved.
The beautiful thing is,
music can be like
a time machine.
One song—
the lyrics, the melody, the mood—
can take you back
to a moment in time
like nothing else can.
And so,
when the song comes up
that takes me back
to a night
in a hot, sweaty gym
where we danced slow
for the first time,
I close my eyes,
listen to You and Me
by Lifehouse
and it’s like I’m there.
I’m there and
we’re dancing.
I look up at him,
he kisses me,
the room is glowing,
my heart is pounding,
my head is screaming
I love you, Lucca!
Music is so personal.
I fall asleep
with the music playing.
It comforts me.
Like he’s lying
right there next to me,
his breath,
the sweetest music of all,
whispering in my ear.
Sat., Jan. 14th—Nico
I wake up freezing.
The window is open again.
I go to close it and when I do,
I see something written on the glass.
It’s faint,
like someone wrote it with a dirty fingertip,
but if I squint my eyes just right
I can see the words.
help her
I spin around and look for any other signs
that he was here.
Nothing.
I don’t get it.
I wish he would tell me how exactly
I’m supposed to help her!
Sat., Jan. 14th—Brooklyn
I’m in a field.
A big, open field
filled with beautiful white daisies.
In the distance,
a forest stands at attention.
I’ll stay here,
feeling sparkly and new,
like laundry hung out to dry
on a warm, sunny day.
It’s peaceful here.
Serene.
It feels like we belong together,
me and these daisies.
But then,
something moves
in the distance,
near the forest.
I feel panic
rise up in me.
Has he found me again?
Am I in danger
no matter where I go?
As the figure approaches,
I see that it’s him.
He’s getting closer,
and I urge my legs
to start moving.
A breeze picks up
and I watch as the
precious, fragile flowers
blow in the wind,
their stems reaching up,
offering me hundreds
of helping hands.
I run through the field,
crushing their helping hands
like a cold, heartless soul.
I run,
knowing they can’t help me.
I wake up,
feeling like no one can.
#283
Dear Lucca,
I feel like you’re the only one I can talk to
about this. About Gabe. About these frightening
nightmares that are more real than any dreams
I’ve ever had. Why is this happening?
Why aren’t you visiting me in my dreams?
Why him? I don’t get it. It makes no sense.
Please, help me. I need it to make sense.
Love always,
Brooklyn
Sat., Jan. 14th—Nico
I’m not really good
at detective work.
Look for clues,
narrow down possibilities,
follow hunches,
identify leads.
I want to know
where to go
and what to do.
Give me a list
with specific things to do,
and I’m good to go.
Otherwise, forget it.
I write a note and tape it to my window—
I’M NOT A DETECTIVE.
BE SPECIFIC!
Sat., Jan. 14th—Brooklyn
I spend the day
by myself,
just walking.
Walking around town
looking in windows
filled with pretty things.
They call it
window shopping.
I call it
window dreaming.
Dreaming of being
the mannequin
smiling,
looking hot,
nothing wrong,
the world
picture perfect
from the window.
Sat., Jan. 14th—Nico
Another Saturday.
Another long run,
hoping to put distance
between me
and everything else.
The farther,
the better.
Only problem is,
the distance is just temporary,
Because no matter how far I go,
I always have to come back.
Sun., Jan. 15th—Brooklyn
A dark, narrow street
void of houses
or buildings
or people.
No matter how fast I run,