I Am Water Read online

  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

  Sam and me

  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