Chasing Brooklyn Read online

  how hot I get,

  how hard I try to lose him,

  he’s behind me.

  His footsteps now

  more familiar to me

  than my own voice.

  Like a soldier at war,

  being chased by the enemy,

  I search for places to hide.

  But there aren’t any.

  So I

  just

  keep

  running.

  Then, suddenly,

  like an unexpected break

  in the storm,

  the footsteps stop.

  I glance behind me,

  and there’s nothing to see.

  I stop

  and breathe

  a sigh of relief.

  Until I look

  in front of me.

  He’s there.

  Right

  there.

  “Fear controls you,” he tells me.

  In that moment

  my heart is

  a ticking bomb,

  ready to explode.

  I will myself awake,

  gasping for breath,

  feeling like I ran for miles

  even if I was in my bed

  all night long.

  Sun., Jan. 15th—Nico

  Spaghetti Sunday

  is my favorite day of the month.

  The third Sunday of every month,

  Ma makes a big batch of spaghetti with meatballs,

  and relatives fill our house like fish fill a net

  on a good fishing day.

  The guys eat and watch football or basketball or baseball,

  depending on the season,

  while the girls eat

  and talk births or weddings or funerals

  depending on the month.

  Ma’s spaghetti slid into Lucca’s heart as a toddler

  and never left.

  I know when she makes it,

  she thinks of him,

  how he’d come in and ask for a sample of sauce

  as it simmered on the stove.

  She’d fill a wooden spoon just for him.

  He’d slurp the sauce.

  She’d reach up and wipe his chin.

  He’d say, “Perfection, Ma.”

  She’d smile, looking at him, and say, “Yes. It is.”

  I always wondered,

  did he know she wasn’t talking

  about the sauce?

  Sun., Jan. 15th—Brooklyn

  After I go

  to the comic book store,

  Kyra and I meet up

  at the movies

  to escape life

  and death

  for a couple of hours.

  We always get there early

  to sit in the way-back,

  where the seats are roomy

  and our whispers are safe.

  The box of Junior Mints

  passes between us,

  keeping time with our words.

  She tells me about this new guy, Tyler,

  who’s in her English class

  and how he has eyes

  the color of sea glass

  and hair the color of sand.

  “Maybe he’s a merman,” I tell her.

  “Well, he can take me under the sea any day,” she says.

  With eyes as bright and warm

  as a sunflower

  and smooth, dark skin,

  Kyra is by far the prettiest girl in our class.

  I don’t know if boys are intimidated by her

  or afraid of her or what,

  but I know her heart is open and ready

  for a special guy to walk in.

  She’s telling me more about her merman

  when we see Gabe’s sister, Audrey,

  and two of her friends walk in.

  They take their seats.

  Audrey sits quietly

  while her friends chat and laugh.

  Kyra and I exchange a look

  without words,

  and we know our minds

  have traveled to the same place together.

  The lights dim,

  while anticipation rises.

  I hope the movie is spectacular.

  Because for some people,

  it’s not quite so easy

  to escape life

  and death.

  Sun., Jan. 15th—Nico

  My cousin Michael

  gets my attention from across the room

  of noodle heads and waves me outside.

  Michael goes to a different school.

  “What happened with Gabe?” he asks.

  I shrug. “He’s dead.”

  “But how?”

  “Drugs,” I say, like it’s so simple,

  which of course it’s anything but.

  “It blows,” he says. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I was pissed for a while.

  But I’m trying to get over it.”

  I grab the football from the lawn

  and motion to him to go long.

  “Nico. Seriously. Are you okay?”

  Concern covers his face like a ski mask.

  I smile.

  “I’m fine, Michael. I even signed up for a sprint triathlon.

  Now I just need to start training.”

  “By yourself?” he asks.

  “Unless you want to do it with me,” I say.

  The ball spirals toward him

  and falls into his arms

  like it belongs there.

  “No way,” he says. “Not my idea of fun.”

  It may not be fun all the time.

  But it’s better than thinking about

  dead people.

  Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn

  I watch the merman

  from afar.

  He floats around the library,

  waves of eyes

  watching him as he goes.

  There’s something about him.

  Something that captures

  your attention and holds it

  like a beacon at night

  in the strongest of storms.

  What is it?

  What is it about him?

  When he suddenly turns

  and his sea-green eyes meet mine,

  in that instant

  it’s like my toes hit the

  cold Pacific ocean,

  and I know.

  He is not of the ocean.

  He is the ocean.

  A sea of life

  full of all things mysterious

  and beautiful

  and alive.

  What a wondrous thing to be.

  #284

  Dear Lucca,

  Remember how we talked about going to the beach together? We planned to go in the summer, when it was warm. I wanted to walk along the beach with you, holding hands, our bare feet making footprints until the waves quietly washed them away.

  I loved dreaming with you. Making plans with you. We had things to do, places to go, things to see.

  Now there’s no more plans for me. So, I’ll just sit here, dreaming of the cool, blue ocean. And you. When I’m daydreaming, I always dream of you.

  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Mon., Jan. 16th—Nico

  My talk with Brooklyn

  last week doesn’t seem to be enough.

  All weekend,

  A Cry for Help

  made the rounds in my room.

  Every time I entered,

  the book was somewhere new.

  On my pillow.

  In my sock drawer.

  Between my old Little League trophies.

  Tired of the game,

  I threw it in the trash can.

  Outside.

  As I sit in class,

  I think back to this morning.

  I woke up

  to the loud, angry noises

  of the garbage trucks on the street.

  I woke up

  to goose bump
s all over my body.

  I woke up

  to my hand gripping a book.

  A Cry for Help.

  Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn

  I know what I’ll find

  when I get home.

  Daddy on the sofa

  with his feet on the coffee table,

  the newspaper in his hands

  and the TV turned to ESPN.

  I know

  what we’ll talk about

  while I make dinner.

  He’ll ask about my day

  and I’ll say it was fine

  and then he’ll tell me about

  some of the animals he helped

  at his veterinarian practice.

  I know

  what will happen

  during dinner.

  We’ll watch TV

  until I get up and take our dishes

  to the dishwasher.

  Then I’ll go to my room

  and supposedly do homework,

  which I sometimes do,

  and sometimes don’t.

  I know

  what will happen

  when it’s time to go to bed.

  He’ll say, “I love you, angel.

  Sweet dreams.”

  I’ll say, “I love you, too”

  all the while thinking,

  Why’d you make them go?

  Mon., Jan. 16th—Nico

  Over dinner

  Ma asks me if I’ve seen Audrey at school.

  “Yeah. A few times.”

  “Does she look okay?” Ma asks.

  I shrug. “Looks fine to me.

  Hanging out with her friends. Like usual.”

  Pop nods. “She’s a strong girl. She’ll get through this.”

  “That’s what we thought about Gabe,” Ma says softly.

  And she’s exactly right.

  Later in my room, I think about that.

  And I think about Brooklyn and how

  I thought she just needed a shoulder to cry on.

  But maybe she needs more.

  Maybe she can’t put out a call for help,

  so Lucca’s doing it for her.

  I start to call her.

  And then I stop.

  Because it’s so bizarre.

  I can’t just call her out of nowhere

  and tell her I think she needs help.

  I mean, what the hell does that sound like?

  I’m pretty sure it sounds like

  she’ll hang up on my ass.

  Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn

  Over dinner

  Dad tells me

  about an old cocker spaniel

  named Barnaby

  who died today.

  He was old and sick,

  blind and going deaf,

  and his owner

  wanted to give him

  peace.

  I say, “See. That’s exactly why I don’t want a dog.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll just die.”

  “Everybody dies, Brooklyn.”

  Like that makes it okay or something.

  Mon., Jan. 16th—Nico

  Pop’s been on my back

  like a hump on a camel

  about getting a job again.

  I worked over the summer

  as a waiter and when my

  fall course load was heavy, I quit.

  Couldn’t stand the whining customers—

  the meat’s too red

  the gravy too cold

  the cake too rich.

  Won’t be doing that again anytime soon.

  I’d get a job as a grease monkey if I could,

  except they have guys

  with years of experience under their hoods

  lining up for work, and what have I got?

  What kind of dressing would you like on your salad, ma’am?

  As if that’s going to help me.

  Anyway, I really don’t want to work.

  I just want to run.

  Wish I got paid for doing that.

  Running’s my kind of work.

  Mon., Jan. 16th—Brooklyn

  Mom calls to talk

  and when we’re caught up

  on her and the twins,

  she asks

  about school,

  about Kyra,

  about my art.

  Art?

  Color?

  Beauty?

  They’re all foreign to me.

  As foreign as the Taj Mahal.

  That which used to be

  a drawing table

  is now a

  dirty clothes receptacle.

  Apparently, I’m

  airing my dirty laundry

  in the truest sense

  of the words.

  Tues., Jan. 17th—Nico

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subj: Just checking

  Brooklyn,

  Everything going okay? Just wanted you to know, if you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. Anything at all …

  Nico

  Tues., Jan. 17th—Brooklyn

  While Mr. Ingalls

  drones on in Algebra 2,

  I sit in a bathroom stall,

  drawing a rose on the wall.

  Bathroom art is all about

  killing time and nothing else.

  Two girls come in,

  talking about a party

  Friday night.

  I draw the last leaf

  and go out,

  wanting to see who they are.

  Melinda and Bree,

  two of the biggest

  stoners in school.

  “Hey,” I say.

  They both return the greeting

  while I approach the sink.

  “You and Gabe were friends, right?” Bree asks.

  I nod.

  They look at each other,

  then back at me.

  I focus on the soap

  lathering in my hands.

  I know they’re trying to decide

  what to say.

  Perhaps how much to say.

  “There’s a party Friday night,” Melinda says.

  “At Ben’s house. You should come.”

  “It’s to honor Gabe,” Bree says.

  “The band’s gonna play.

  It’ll be good. You know?”

  I turn the water off

  and reach for a paper towel.

  “Thanks,” I tell them.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  They smile, then turn back

  to each other and whatever

  business they have

  in the bathroom

  together.

  A party.

  To honor him.

  Interesting idea.

  Tues., Jan. 17th—Nico

  A Cry for Help

  is on my pillow again,

  like a good-night chocolate,

  but not quite as sweet.

  Okay.

  I get it.

  You’re obviously trying to tell me something.

  When I take the book to my desk,

  I hear music.

  My computer is playing a CD.

  The song?

  Fix You by Coldplay.

  “I’ll talk to her tomorrow, Lucca,” I whisper.

  “I promise.”

  Wed., Jan. 18th—Brooklyn

  I’m swimming

  in the light, bright ocean

  under the waves,

  with hundreds of

  vibrantly colored fish

  all around me.

  The colors are more vivid

  than anything I’ve seen

  in a dream before.

  I swim slowly with the fish,

  tranquility gently

  guiding us along.

  Until the sea darkens.

  The fish scatter.

  And I’m alone.

  No footsteps to hear.
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  No desks to hide under.

  No streets or fields to run in.

  I know he’s coming.

  And only then do my lungs

  fill with water,

  and I scramble to the surface.

  There, I gasp for breath,