Skyscraping (8 page)

In Peer Mentorship,

the theme is bullying.

One girl apologizes to another

for writing “Slut” on her locker

in seventh grade,

another says girls can get away with

bullying because they don’t punch,

they just throw words or

give the cold shoulder—

ignore.

My coleader Michael turns to me

like I should have something to say,

some advice to give,

but everything I can think of

is a cliché.

So I pick one,

mutter it.

I tune them out,

look outside,

windows wiped with winter’s glaze,

count the floating spots,

till it’s all just one big haze.

Later,

the Yearbook advisor finds me in the hallway.

Says we need to talk,

practically drags me to her office.

Says that she knows about the field day collage,

that the rest of the staff met the sports pages deadline,

that they’re taking care of all the Senior pages,

she asks me what’s going on,

if I care about Yearbook anymore.

My heart aches looking at

the old yearbooks,

the stacks of layout sheets.

But I tell her the truth:

What’s the point of celebrating all this

if things can change so quickly—

She says

this is my one warning,

if I don’t start showing leadership,

I will be asked to step down from my position.

She leaves me in the room,

alone,

and I toss all the layouts onto the floor.

There’s no order in space;

only

chaos.

I.

Dylan finds me around the corner with Chloe,

hands me something wrapped in newspaper.

Happy Valentine’s Day
scribbled in Sharpie.

I open it: a joint

and a Phish bootleg from New Year’s.

II.

Home,

click in the tape,

remember last Valentine’s Day,

Adam took me to J. G. Melon for dinner,

bought me yellow roses.

Wonder if maybe he could be there for me now.

I call Adam and say

my dad is sick

to a ring that no one answers.

III.

Lock myself in the bathroom,

light a candle,

take two puffs from the joint.

Thoughts orbit

until I settle on one:

Call Dylan,

ask him to cut out early

from school

tomorrow.

Streets covered in snow.

Dylan says we should ski down the West Side.

The ultimate cutting.

We jet after Astro.

On the bus he says

he feels like something is up with me,

that he’s here if I need to talk,

I’ve always been such a good listener,

he holds my hand.

His fingers are cold and bony.

I tell him I don’t want to talk—

just ski.

He says sometimes not talking

is better anyway.

He squeezes my hand again.

Like I’m going to make out with him or something.

We clip our boots into our skis,

use our poles to navigate city blocks.

A station wagon stops short.

I barely swerve around it.

He grabs my elbow, cheeks red

as his winter jacket.

Snow stuck to his hair, peeking out of

his woolly hat.

Tells me I need to be careful.

I tell him actually
he
does,

throw a snowball at his head.

I think about playing tag with him at recess,

how he would always let me win.

For a minute,

I almost tell him the truth.

But the light flicks

from red to green,

I go,

touch his shoulder,

say
you’re it.

We ski down the West Side,

not thinking about the school I’m missing,

Yearbook, my parents, my sister,

just move across the city

as the snow falls

blurring the beige lines

of every

single

standing

building.

Mom, Dad, the couch,

Dad says the school called.

Where have you been?

I ask him
Why does it matter?

I’m a Second Semester Senior,

who cares what I do?

He asks what’s happened to me.

Who am I?

I say I could ask the same of him.

Mom pats his knee, strokes his hair.

Tells me not to walk away.

I laugh, tell her she’s one to talk.

I pass April drawing a sign in her room:

SILENCE = DEATH

it says.

I slam my bedroom door with a flash,

a solar flare

burning on

the surface of the sun.

Next morning,

James in the kitchen,

white rice in a red pot.

He smells like cigarettes,

black hair sticking up.

I grab a bowl.

Life cereal.

A spoon.

He says I’ve got a birthday coming up,

asks if I want any rice.

I roll my eyes.

Who eats rice for breakfast?

He says he’s making it for Dad.

Mom had to work,

Dad’s been up all night,

in the bathroom.

Dad used to hold my hair back

when I was sick.

Now James is up all night with him.

I pour the milk.

Tell James he doesn’t need to take care of Dad.

He says he wants to, he loves him too.

I don’t give him a chance to say more,

just throw my spoon,

full bowl,

into the sink.

Rice boils over as I leave.

A few days later, swirling down the hallway toward Astronomy,

I hear a sophomore say it:

Her dad’s HIV Positive.

But how? He’s married.

Are they going to get divorced?

Does her mom have it?

They must be scared.

I’d be, like, grossed out.

Did you hear?

Isn’t that awful?

All these questions dizzying me,

but I have one of my own:

How do they know?

My breath comes quick, my head spins,

and I bump clear into Chloe.

She’s been crying.

Her turquoise eyes shining.

She pulls me into the corner of the hallway,

asks why I didn’t tell her.

My insides shrink,

all I can think to say is I didn’t know how.

She asks did I think she couldn’t handle it,

that she wouldn’t understand or be helpful?

I shake my head no, that’s not it.

But I don’t say anything

except I’m sorry.

We stand in strained silence,

then the Yearbook advisor

taps me on the shoulder.

Chloe knows.

Everyone knows.

April.
April told everyone

is all I can think

as the advisor guides me

to her office.

Again.

She says I haven’t shown I care at all,

I can no longer be yearbook editor.

It’s not fair to the rest of the staff,

they can’t have someone in charge

who doesn’t want to be.

Exhausted, I say
fine,

walk out.

Punishment only works if you care.

I bolt out of school,

walk fast to the bus stop

past the diner, the Bagelry.

April calls out to me, close behind,

asks why I didn’t wait.

I whip around, say

how dare you,

the whole school knows now,

about our family.

I’m not ashamed

is all she says.

We board the bus,

she keeps talking:

Just because our family is different, doesn’t mean it’s bad.

I look around at all the people,

all I see is judgment.

I tell April I got kicked off Yearbook.

How Chloe is upset with me

for not telling her first.

Can’t imagine what Dylan must think.

April tells me she’s sorry but I need to start

letting people in and stop fighting.

I tell her to stop

lecturing me.

We walk home

on opposite sides of the street,

hundreds of people walk past me,

but I’ve never felt more

alone.

Sunday morning, a note slipped under my door:

Dearest Miranda,

Happy 18th Birthday!

You’re all grown up.

I’m sorry for how hard things have been.

Hold fast to this time,

you only have one Senior Year.

Celebrate!

Love,

Dad

M
ARCH
21, 1994

The night of my birthday,

Chloe invites me to come over

but I say
thanks, no.

I watch the Oscars, alone.

We used to watch together,

as a family,

place bets.

But April’s with James,

volunteering at the Gay Men’s Health Crisis.

Mom drawing, Dad asleep.

Flip on the TV.

The red carpet, the gowns.

Who will be the winners:

Leonardo DiCaprio for
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape
?

Winona Ryder for
The Age of Innocence
?

Whoopi Goldberg jokes,

Schindler’s List
wins almost everything.

Tom Hanks wins for
Philadelphia
,

says:

The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels . . .

They number a thousand

for each one of the red ribbons

that we wear here tonight . . .

I make a wish,

push OFF.

The TV flashes once

before it fades to black.

I have never been sent to the principal’s office.

Not until today.

My teachers want to talk about my performance in school.

Mr. R says I’ve shown very little leadership in Peer Mentorship,

the Yearbook advisor says how disappointed she is,

only Mr. Lamb reports

I’m doing well in Astronomy.

The principal says that if I don’t shape up,

they will have to take disciplinary action,

that it could jeopardize my college applications.

They also say they know about my situation.

That Mom called them to explain,

told them they should take that into consideration.

They say they’re sorry but it’s no excuse for my behavior.

I was always so responsible, such a good student, such a joiner.

I tell them I just don’t see the point anymore.

I tell them about Hubble’s Law:

Things seem close, but really they are far away.

They say I should see the school psychologist,

maybe she can help me.

Get back on track.

Find my way back.

Before I can respond,

the bell rings.

Astro,

I scan the room for watchful eyes.

Take a seat,

Dylan whispers
happy belated birthday,

asks how I am,

says he’s left several messages,

he’s heard, he’s really sorry.

Tell him I’m fine, try to focus.

Mr. Lamb defines supernovas:

A rare phenomenon

involving the explosion—

The school secretary marches in,

of most of the material in a star,

resulting in an extremely bright—

hands him a note, leaves.

short-lived object that emits

vast amounts of energy—

He reads it.

Mira, come up here.

I can feel all of their stares,

walk quickly to the front.

Could the colleges know how badly I’m doing already?

Mr. Lamb’s face floats above

in a cloud of fluorescent light,

he whispers

Mira, your dad’s in the emergency room.

Go get your sister, here’s your pass.

Then, voice booming:

Class, turn to assignment 5B, and start working.

The white of the hospital blasts

as the dark gray elevator opens.

April chews the side of her lip.

I grab her hand.

We march

down the hallway

caught in a whiteout

our only real guide

vanished.

We open

the closed door:

Dad, greasy hair,

in a blue-checkered gown.

Tubes cometing outward

from his arms.

James stroking Dad’s needled hand,

sobbing,

like this is his darkest white place.

Mom fingers one of her dark curls,

rests her hand on Dad’s shoulder.

He looks up at her, nods.

She looks into his eyes,

tells us the HIV has progressed

to full-blown AIDS—

Dad has contracted TB

and the beginning stages of Kaposi’s sarcoma,

which causes lesions.

He has just a few,

nothing internal.

Dad coughs, reaches up to hold Mom’s hand,

while James, head down, still strokes the other.

Because of all this, they’ve given him

one month to live.

The clock hands spin.

The truth tick-tocks:

school, Dad’s life,

everything’s ending at once.

Dad starts talking but I can’t listen:

All this time I knew things were bad

but he still seemed somewhat stable.

I notice Dad’s toes peeking out

from beneath the hospital blankets

and for the first time I see

a small lesion on the underside

of his pinky.

I try

to escape,

move the bars off the windows

with my mind—

I jump into the cold

weave through countless buildings

dive into other people’s windows

I scrape the sky, scouting for warmer air

fling past rooftops and fly.