I Am Water Read online

  I’ve had a

  few too many

  red plastic cups

  and didn’t feel it

  until now.

  Until the music from

  car radios is pounding

  the inside of my skull.

  Like water beating

  against a boulder.

  And the darkening sky is

  blurring like everything

  is underwater.

  Images seem bent.

  Sound is wet and slurred.

  103

  I lost track

  of Renny

  an hour or so ago.

  When Victoria

  showed up

  in a leather jacket and

  rose-red lipstick.

  I stumble toward

  the spinning

  oaks and maples.

  Because

  I think

  I need

  to pee. Or

  get some air. Or

  not be

  slammed with

  all this noise.

  A branch

  snaps

  behind

  me.

  Bo

  backs me

  against

  a broad tree.

  His arms

  blocking

  my escape

  on

  either

  side.

  104

  His torso

  presses

  heavily

  against mine.

  Pushing me

  into the trunk.

  His breath

  smells rotten

  as

  his mouth

  bites

  my

  collarbone.

  I can’t kick or

  move my arms or

  even speak.

  Just a

  grumble.

  Then suddenly,

  a miracle.

  It stops.

  Strong arms

  yank Bo

  off me.

  Throw him

  to the ground.

  Strong arms.

  The arms of

  a baseball star.

  Arms of

  a carpenter.

  105

  Arms of

  an older brother.

  “If you ever

  touch

  my sister again,

  I will personally

  show you why

  they say I have

  the best swing

  in the county.

  You

  understand?”

  Bo coughs

  and spits.

  Throws up

  in the dirt

  before nodding.

  We leave him

  on the

  forest floor.

  Renny flips

  the matted hair

  out of his face.

  He stretches

  my arm around

  his shoulder

  and takes

  me home.

  106

  An Understanding

  This is why

  there is a

  comfort

  in seeing

  a woman’s

  eyes

  gaze back

  from

  within

  a boy’s

  body.

  If he knows

  what it is

  to be

  rough-

  handled

  for being

  too strong

  in the

  wrong

  ways.

  For being

  not strong

  enough

  in the

  traditional

  ways.

  107

  If he knows

  what it is

  to fear

  a man.

  To both

  love

  and fear

  his own

  softness.

  To fear

  rough

  hands.

  Then he is

  not

  to be

  feared.

  He is

  like

  me.

  108

  A Heartbreak

  It’s late

  on a Sunday night

  and I follow

  the sobs

  to Renny’s door.

  Dragging

  my stool

  behind me.

  He gives a

  half-hearted

  nod.

  I enter.

  Victoria

  broke up

  with him.

  He

  discovered

  she’d been

  cheating

  with a

  football player

  from the

  community

  college.

  I can see

  the hurt

  and

  109

  confusion

  on his face.

  Though

  I knew

  something like

  this

  would happen,

  the protective

  anger

  waterfalls

  inside me.

  It grows

  tentacles.

  Until

  it is

  a sea monster.

  Tearing

  the

  U.S.S.

  Victoria

  apart.

  Board

  by

  slimy

  board.

  My anger becomes

  a creature

  of the deep.

  Scaled

  and

  finned

  and

  terrible.

  110

  I want to

  spear her.

  Or

  swallow

  her whole.

  Or

  drag her down

  to an

  ocean trench.

  Where

  she can see

  nothing

  but darkness.

  So her vision

  will match

  her

  stupid

  terrible

  heart.

  111

  A Disagreement

  “Well,

  things like that

  happen,”

  Ezra says,

  with a shrug.

  “It sucks, but

  you have to

  let people

  be people.”

  I’m taken aback.

  “How can

  you say that?

  She cheated on

  my brother.”

  My brother who

  adored her.

  Who

  was nothing

  but

  kind

  and gentle.

  Who

  she

  didn’t

  deserve.

  Renny.

  My brother.

  112

  “That sucks,

  I know,” Ezra says,

  “But

  people have

  different needs.

  Changing needs. And

  maybe she and

  your brother just

  didn’t have what

  they once had.”

  Then

  it happens.

  I run

  out

  of

  words.

  In fact, I

  can’t

  say

  anything.

  My face becomes

  the top of

  a still lake.

  Alive with unseen

  snapping turtles. Or

  a river pool hiding

  deadly currents

  just below

  the surface.

  “I have to go,”

  I say coldly.

  113<
br />
  Makeshift Horoscope for Today

  Later that day I

  find a scrap piece

  of paper

  tucked inside

  my locker.

  Pisces:

  Today is not a day

  to be ruled

  by anger.

  Forgive

  those

  around you.

  (Especially

  cute Capricorns

  who

  don’t like

  being

  on your

  bad side.)

  114

  A Proposal

  “You know

  what would

  really put you

  on my good side?”

  I whisper

  in the hallway

  into Ezra’s ear.

  He perks up.

  A wicked grin

  spreads across

  his face.

  “What?”

  I grab his hands

  and hold them

  lightly

  in mine.

  “Come

  down

  to

  the

  river

  with

  me.”

  115

  April

  The scent of

  spring rain and

  damp earth

  fills the gorge.

  The leaves

  have returned,

  green and

  youthful.

  The water is

  crisp and

  eager

  to race,

  free

  of ice.

  We take

  the first drop

  head on.

  I peek

  at Ezra with

  sneaky,

  smiling eyes.

  The spray

  messes up his

  dark curls.

  He shivers and

  laughs

  nervously.

  Too nervously.

  116

  I take in his

  wide eyes.

  The hands

  groping for

  a grip on

  the side of

  the boat.

  He’s

  afraid.

  I watch him

  closely

  for the rest

  of the trip,

  making sure

  not to

  knock his seat

  too hard

  on any

  rocks.

  The other guests

  climb out.

  Roaring with

  laughter.

  Wildly

  recapping

  every bend

  and brace.

  I ask

  what he

  thinks

  of the river.

  My river.

  117

  I motion toward

  the light rippling

  across

  the water’s surface.

  The home the

  beaver built

  off the bank.

  The stillness

  pierced by

  the sharp cry

  of a hawk.

  “It’s okay,”

  he says.

  My mouth

  drops like

  a ledge rapid.

  “Just okay?”

  “It’s not really

  my thing.

  But thanks

  for taking me.”

  The river

  inside me

  stops

  gushing.

  A worry pops up:

  what if we’re

  not the same,

  not at all?

  118

  A Concern

  I pick

  chocolate hazelnut,

  to Sam’s

  dismay.

  “Why do you

  have to ruin

  a perfectly good

  chocolate milkshake

  with nuts?”

  he grumbles.

  “Because

  it’s my turn and

  you can have it

  your way

  next week.”

  It took some

  time and

  convincing. But

  Sam has seemed

  to finally

  warm up to the idea

  of Ezra and me

  together. Which is funny,

  because

  we’ve been that way

  for half a year now.

  119

  “He’s going

  to art school,

  Sam.

  Three hours away.”

  “Well, does that mean

  you’re not

  dating anymore?”

  “No,

  no,” I say.

  “We’ll just

  see less

  of each other.

  But

  he says

  he’ll visit

  every other weekend.

  And

  I can come stay

  with him

  when I want to.”

  “Okay,” Sam says.

  “So

  there’s

  nothing really

  to worry about then?”

  He looks up from

  the milkshake glass,

  straw still in mouth.

  A slight frown

  from the hazelnut.

  120

  I look away

  and

  blow the end

  of my

  straw wrapper

  into

  his

  freckled face.

  “No.

  There’s

  nothing

  to worry

  about.”

  121

  Summer Montage

  I’m not sure

  exactly

  what

  happiness

  is.

  But

  the summer

  passes by

  in a string of

  beautiful

  barefoot

  hours.

  Stones

  are skipped

  to the beat of

  the music

  of a late dusk.

  A soft guitar riff

  is made from

  the twangy

  feeling of

  grass

  between

  our toes.

  We have

  time

  122

  to not

  overthink

  thinking.

  Just

  admire the

  bustling traffic

  of forest floors.

  Tire swings

  dangling from

  oak arms.

  And the way

  his fingers

  brush across

  my back like

  the little green

  inchworms

  I’ve been finding

  all over.

  Every day.

  I’m not

  exactly sure

  what perfect

  happiness is.

  But this

  has got

  to be

  close.

  I say

  the

  inchworms

  will make me

  123

  think

  of him.

  Of the

  stinging sweetness

  of August,

  when we laid

  in the grass and

  counted

  the

  remaining

  days.

  Inchworms.

  Small

  green

  reminders

  of

  a

  beautiful

  green

  boy.

  Full of life.

  Full of growth.

  Full of earth.

  I’m no
t sure

  which is harder:

  not knowing

  someone you love

  is leaving,

  or knowing it

  124

  and still

  holding

  him.

  He makes

  me promise

  to care for

  the greenhouse.

  It’s now bursting with

  every color in

  my vocabulary.

  I make him promise

  to come back for

  my art display.

  The coffee shop is

  letting me have

  it there in the fall.

  “I promise,” he says.

  125

  Quarry, Sturgeon Moon

  The night before

  Ezra leaves,

  we sit

  by the quarry.

  He plays

  me a song

  he wrote on

  the mandolin.

  “It’s for you,”

  he says.

  “A water song.”

  I close my eyes so

  I can really hear it.

  Swells and currents

  stream through

  a loose,

  floating melody.

  With notes that

  plink

  like raindrops.

  And some that

  ebb and flow

  like great

  sweeping tides.

  “I love it,” I say.

  126

  He looks up

  while

  still playing.

  And says,

  “I love you, Hannah.”

  We curl up like

  a wave

  on the ground.

  Arms wrapped

  around

  each other’s

  bodies.

  Under a full moon

  he

  did not pray to

  tonight.

  But,

  then again,

  I think

  this

  is a kind

  of

  prayer,

  too.

  127

  After, Day 1

  The sky is

  an empty shell today.

  Color sucked out

  like an oyster.

  Foggy, like

  the remains

  of a dream.

  Like it will

  wake up

  any second

  now

  to take

  inventory

  of what’s

  missing.

  Ezra took

  the colors

  with him

  when he left.

  Which makes sense,

  I guess.

  They flocked to

  the ones inside him.

  Drawn to

  like company.

  Migrating too soon.

  Too soon.

  Where

  did he learn

  to do that?

  128

  And

  when

  will they

  come back?

  129

  After, Day 10

  Who was I

  before

  that did not know

  this feeling?

  I was whole and

  self-contained,

  sure.

  But

  I woke up

  every morning

  without

  trying to remember

  the smell of

  someone else’s skin.

  Like

  recalling a dream

  on the tip

  of my tongue.

  Or just behind

  the eyelids.

  Without the fingers’

  hazy memory