Still Life with Tornado(59)

“I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s not the only reason I left school. It’s a big part, but not the only part. Okay?”

Bruce paces and burps for a while. He says he misses Philadelphia and says Portland smells different. He talks a little about how he’s thought about moving back home one day. I yawn. I don’t mean to, but I guess I’m tired and I want to go home, too.

My home. I live in ruins. I have always lived in ruins, but I only found out today. “I missed you,” I say. I say this because I realize Bruce is probably the only person who ever really saw what I am. I am a human being. I am sixteen years old.

“I wish I could go back six years and change everything,” he says.

I consider telling him about ten-year-old Sarah, but I don’t.

But I decide they should meet.





It’s a Hole



I tell Bruce, “You’re wearing too much aftershave.”

He says, “I am not.”

“Do you plan on picking up a date at the Mütter? Because that’s creepy.”

“You’re my date. And aftershave isn’t for dates. It’s for feeling fresh after you shave. That’s why they call it aftershave, smart-ass.”

“What’d you do this morning?”

“I slept off my jet lag and then ate a really stellar breakfast. You?”

I think about telling him about meeting Earl and how Mom saved his life and how everything is art. Instead, I say, “We should get going. They close at five.”

“Can’t leave the skulls waiting.”

“But I have to tell you this one thing,” I say. “I think Mom and Dad are getting a divorce right now.”

“Right now?”

“Like—right now.”

“People can’t just get divorced,” he says. “You can get married fast, but you can’t get divorced fast.”

“Well, they are. Right now.”

“Did you hear this?” he asks. “I mean, did they tell you or something?”

I think about telling him about the Sarahs. There is no way to tell him about the Sarahs. So I say, “Mom told me today was the day.”

I don’t want to get him too excited. I’m not even sure if I’m right. And Mom didn’t tell me anything. But she told me she didn’t love him. I never thought I’d wish for something bad like this. But then I realize that the only person who thinks divorce is bad is me. It’s my idea. But sometimes divorce can be good.

I think about playing tooth fairy to Bruce in Mexico. I ask him, “Did you ever get your tooth replaced?”

He presses on his cheek with two fingers. “No. I wanted something to remember him by.”

It’s a hole. In his mouth. A hole where a rat used to be.





The Whole Stupid Story



I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to look my parents in the face today. How do I do that? How do I look at them? Two chefs who made this lie-stew I’ve been simmering in for sixteen years.

The clock says 6:55 a.m. I don’t hear anyone awake in the house. I slept in my clothes again. I get up and pull my hair into a braid and tiptoe out the front door to find ten-year-old Sarah.

? ? ?

I walk around the block a few times. I walk to Broad so I can sit in a bus shelter. I loop back through Rittenhouse Square. I can’t find ten-year-old Sarah anywhere.

I lose my breath thinking about never talking to her again. I don’t know where to find her. She can’t just leave.

“I’m not going anywhere,” ten-year-old Sarah says.

I am so elated, I hug her. She’s not fond of hugs. I know this because I’m not fond of hugs. She squirms a little until I let her go.

“I want to see Bruce.”

“You can’t see him yet. But maybe later. Tonight.”

“Why’d you hug me so hard?”

“Because I thought you were gone.”

“What do you care if I’m gone?”

“I don’t know,” I say, but I think about it for a few steps. “I guess because I wouldn’t have remembered anything about when I was you. And I wouldn’t have figured out what was wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says.

“There’s a lot wrong with me,” I say. “And you know it.”

“Does this mean you’ll go back to school and not throw our future down the toilet?”

“Not going back to school until summer,” I say.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

I stop walking. I sit on the sidewalk with my back to the side of a building and she sits down next to me and I tell her the whole stupid story.

“Sounds like some * was jealous.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like that whole art club is full of bitches.”

“Carmen is nice,” I say.

“Carmen didn’t have your back, though. Did she?”

I look at her and try to figure out how she’s so honest and how she’s me but not me. I remember being honest. I can’t remember when I stopped.

“Do you remember Bruce getting hit?” I ask.