Elevated

APRIL RAIN SINKS IN SHEETS,

Forces me to squint against the chaos in the sky,

Makes the WALK signal blurry, almost invisible.

Umbrellas shield others,

But not me.

I don’t deserve to be dry,

To be under that cocoon of safety,

To be protected.

You’re a great friend, El,

Whispers the wind,

Replaying what Honesty’s mom said.

A verbal punishment I’ll never escape.

I’d been standing in the produce section,

Staring at mangoes,

Staring at arugula,

Staring at the lint on her shoulder.

I’d nodded,

Trying to decide if I should speak or not.

Eenie, meenie, miney, mo, catch a tiger by the toe…

I stayed silent.

There wasn’t anything to say anyway.

I’m not a great friend,

Or even a good one.

Doesn’t matter
, I tell myself.

Honesty and I aren’t friends anymore.

MY STOMACH CLENCHES,

My fingers tremble,

My legs feel weak,

As the traffic light turns green.

The bagged salad with pea pods

Drips rainwater

Onto my ballet flats.

I don’t care.

I feel like weeping too,

Adding my tears to the water

Crying from the sky.

MY SHOULDERS COLLECT RAIN

As I dash down the street,

As it drips from my hair,

As I duck under the awning in front of our building.

Harold, the doorman, bustles outside,

Wields an open umbrella,

Scolds me for going out “in this weather,”

Though he knows Mom sent me to the grocer.

“Wipe your feet, El,” he says.

“You get your salad?”

I hold it up,

Smile,

But it feels wrong on my face,

Like maybe it’s pulling too tight,

Or not stretching enough.

Harold notices,

Knows,

Returns the gesture.

But his smile is sad,

Filled with pity.

I HATE THAT.

I don’t want to be pitied.

Not by him,

Not by Mom.

Not because of Honesty.

And kindness?

I certainly don’t want it

From Honesty’s mother.

Some people deserve to be pitied,

Like Honesty for getting hit by that car.

Like my dad for going to war.

But me?

No pity

Or kindness

Necessary.

SIXTEEN FLOORS

Is
a long way

Not long enough to avoid my thoughts.

I avoid a lot of things now.

Like elevators,

Like speaking.

THE ELEVATOR IN MY BUILDING

Hasn’t seen me since New Year’s,

Five months ago,

When I decided climbing stairs

Wasn’t punishment.

Just necessary.

I MOVE AWAY FROM THE LOBBY,

Down the hall,

To the stairs.

“The stairwell is closed. Maintenance.”

The overhead lights blink,

Swirl,

Darken,

Come back on.

I blink back at the bulbs,

Panic about what to do.

Footsteps patter down the stairs,

Coming closer.

My hand rests on the rail,

My heart pumps through the anxiety,

But my feet don’t move.

A handyman pokes his head around the corner.

“Sorry, but we’re replacing all the torn up linoleum.

You can’t get past the second floor.”

When I still don’t move,

He tries again, this time in Spanish,

Though it’s plain by my light hair,

Fair skin,

That I don’t speak the language.

I swallow hard,

Breathe,

Turn around.

Down the hall, the lobby is too bright,

The pea pod salad feels like barbells tied to my fingertips.

The elevator doors are shiny,

Silver,

Metallic,

Cold,

Stretching up to meet the ceiling.

The steel chills me from ten feet away.

BUBBLE GUM, BUBBLE GUM

Runs through my head

Even though I have no other choice.

I move across the hall,

Press the UP button.

A GUTTURAL RUMBLE

Shakes the closed doors,

Vibrates through the soles of my feet,

As the car begins a slow descent from above.

I close my eyes,

Inhale deep,

Deep,

Deep.

The promise of laundry detergent,

Brown sugar,

Oranges,

Teases my nose.

His scent.

It hides in every crevice on the elevator,

A permanent passenger.

THE OVERHEAD LIGHTS FLICKER AGAIN

While Harold talks in the lobby,

While I wait for the doors to open,

While I brace myself.

The flood comes.

Memories of him I want to erase,

Snatches of conversation I’m not ready for,

Dreams of a family that will never be.

The lamps burn steadily when I step toward the lobby,

When the elevator dings,

When the doors begin to slide open,

Gaping and wide,

Wide and gaping.

Waiting,

Willing,

To swallow me whole.

I could call Dr. Tickson.

He’d know what to say to stop the tremors in my hands,

The thrumming pulse in my neck,

The fear pimpling my skin.

I fumble in my pocket for my cell as the elevator doors reveal a huge,

Empty

Car that used to

Transport hospital patients.

The elevator is large enough to house two elephants,

With room to spare for a gurney in the middle.

But it’ll never be big enough for me.

I HOLD MY BREATH

As I step into the car,

Lean against the unyielding metal,

Punch the button for my floor,

Close my eyes.

Honesty loved to play in this elevator,

Riding from the sixteenth floor,

To the second,

The third,

The ninth.

Never to the lobby.

Harold doesn’t like “horseplay.”

Sometimes we’d race,

Her on the stairs,

Me in the car.

If she won,

She got to ride and I had to run.

Age eleven found us with

Worries about Harold catching us,

About winning the race,

About which teacher we’d get for history,

And if our moms would finally buy us training bras for our twelfth birthdays.

Now,

I worry about breathing for one more day,

One more minute,

One more second.

Now,

There is no more us.

THE HYDRAULICS OF THE ELEVATOR WHEEZE

As I release my breath,

As I accept this too easy ride to the sixteenth floor,

As the doors shut,

As the car lurches,

As the doors hiss open

Again.

I open my eyes,

Look up,

See Travis Carpenter with his olive skin,

Hazel eyes more green than brown,

Dark hair the color of my mom’s new mahogany floor.

Silence stretches into long,

Thin strands,

Shattered by Travis clearing his throat,

By my pea pod salad swooshing to the floor.

“GETTING OFF OR GOING UP?”

His words make my heart

Beat against my ribs like they’re prison bars.

“Going up,” he answers for us both,

Knowing I’ll never make a decision that fast.

He steps into the car,

Stoops for my pea pods,

Infuses the air with his delicious mix of laundry detergent,

Brown sugar,

Oranges.

I HAVE TO GET OFF THIS ELEVATOR.

I can’t ride with him,

Can’t look at him,

Can’t be this close to him.

Can’t,

Can’t,

Can’t
.

FIVE MONTHS OF SILENCE

And I—just—can’t

Be here,

Do this,

Talk to him.

“I—I—have—”

The doors slide shut,

Seal off any escape,

Any excuse,

Drown my voice in silence.

Travis stands at the back of the elevator now,

Pinches the bag of salad between two fingers,

Wears a black hoodie over his lean body.

Under that he’ll have on a T-shirt.

Gray,

Blue,

Maybe even pink.

I used to have them all memorized,

Back when we were all friends.

I YANK ON A LOCK OF MY HAIR,

Twirl it around my pinky finger.

My mom hates it when I do this,

Says I shouldn’t show my nerves so easily.

Maybe she’s right,

But I would never say that out loud.

“Fourteen,” Travis says,

His voice heavy with frustration,

As if I don’t know,

Like I could’ve forgotten.

I turn away from him,

Feel the same frustration as him,

Jam my thumb against his 14,

Imagining it’s his eyeball,

Before lightly tapping the button for my floor again.

“Elly—”

“Don’t,” I choke out.

Because I know he’s really saying,

I’m sorry,

I miss you,

I love you,

Please, please listen.

While I want to hear those words in his voice,

Only his voice,

They hurt so much,

Make unseen wounds crack,

Bleed.

Those words

In his voice

Make the impossible seem possible.

I CAN’T MAKE A DECISION ABOUT ANYTHING,

But it doesn’t matter.

I’ve chosen this,

Our silence,

Our separation.

I crave it the way I crave solitude,

The way a fish craves water.

I press my forehead to the cool metal wall,

Wondering how long it’ll take to get to the fourteenth floor,

Wondering if I can make it before I puke.

But I know how long it takes:

Three minutes,

Twelve seconds.

I timed it once after—

I can’t let myself think like that,

Can’t breathe properly,

Can’t get his smell out of my memory,

Can’t hide from his gaze settling on the back of my head.

The elevator jerks upward,

Groaning as if I were one elephant,

And the words we won’t say

The other.

LAST YEAR,

Honesty and I still talked,

Laughed,

Planned weekend activities together.

Last year,

I used to have friends,