Love Rewards The Brave (23 page)

154.

I spend my break at

6-Spot with my spiral notebook

propped on my knee

as I think about the way I see

things now

and how I saw them before

and if there is any way I could even

record

what’s behind me.

Terry told me at the end of our session

yesterday that I should try.

Just try to write some words and

see how it makes me feel.

If it makes me feel more real.

I write three sentences and scratch them out

believing that some things are

better kept

under wraps.

When I found my old journals all it did

was remind me of what wasn’t

and what was.

Nothing good

came out of it.

Toby pops his head in the doorway. “Hey, Louisa, want to get a hot dog next door, with me?”

“No,” I say. “But can you bring one back? No mustard.”

“Sure thing.”

I didn’t want to stop

writing
.

And even if the crossed out part was crap

for some reason this floor is the place

I want to be.

Maybe that’s how Terry feels when

she puts seeds in the

soil.

It all boils

down to what your body says you need.

I look back down at the crossed out page

realizing that I
can
want to do this.

For me.

155.

After work I ask Ms. F

if I can use her computer.

“What for?” she asks.

“Oh, um…this poetry contest thing. It’s not a big deal, it’s just a thing for teenagers.”

“Oh, okay, sure.”

She leaves me alone in the den, letting me type

the address in

to submit my entry.

I have a gut feeling it’s because she’s glad.

Glad

to see me grab

onto something good.

An hour later she brings me a slice

of warm apple pie.

I like the way she

processes.

156.

“So I wanted to let you know I decided to enter.”

“Really? That’s awesome!” Margot gives me a hug.

She came over to Ms. F’s on a rare

Saturday afternoon when we’re both

off work.

“I guess, but I was looking at the website. At the rules and everything, and I’m super confused. Like, how it all works.”

“Oh, right. Okay. So here are the rules.”

Margot sits on the couch

pulling up her now bright orange hair

(think safety cones)

into a ponytail

revealing a new tattoo

under her collarbone.

It reads:

Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat.

“What does that mean?” I ask, pointing to the script.

on her neckline.

“Fortune Favors the Brave,” she says.

I repeat the words

letting them resonate deep

knowing that connection

everyone seeks

in life

is found with Margot and me.

“That’s beautiful,” I say.

Ms. Francine walks in. “Whatcha guys talking about?”

“Just my new ink.”

Margot lifts her chin up high

to more easily let Ms. F spy

her
heart
art.

“I love it, Margot. I can’t believe you did it without me, though,” she says, pouting.

“You want a tattoo, Ms. F?”

I look at her, with what must have been

shock and a scowl

because the two women laugh.

“Girl, you have a lot to learn about my sister!” Margot says. “But we need to talk about the rules. You only have a few weeks!”

I listen as Margot explains in

detail

everything I need to

to excel.

I listen closely, intently

but keep finding myself looking at Ms. Francine

wanting to know

who she is

realizing (again) there’s more

to her

than what I see

and wondering why

it’s taken me so long to

show

an interest.

157.

Do I start at the beginning or do I

start at the end?

The parts in the middle seem to blend

together so much that I can’t tell what

bit I should say

or what year was more significant

or which way

I should go.

I scratch out and restart and try to decide

how I want to use my three minutes on stage.

Margot said the rules are:

Three minutes on stage,

to pour out your heart.

Three minutes on stage,

if you go over and under you are docked points

and points added together

give you a passing, a failing or a soaring grade.

Three minutes on stage

just me, myself and I ––

I can’t bring out an instrument,

a costume or a prop.

Three minutes on stage

to give it all I got.

Three minutes on stage

to tell an original poem about

whatever I choose,

but most winners always use

the most important plot:

Truth.

“No pressure,” I told Margot after she went through the list of do’s and don’ts.

“It is
no pressure
,” she said. “Because it can be whatever you want.”

Some poets focus on something happy

something political

something scary

something radical

whatever resonates with the artist is the

thing that matters most.

I keep thumbing through my journals

trying hard to see

what part of my story

means the most

to me.

I realize that my story

won’t ever be complete if

I

don’t go

and see Benji.

Because for me

I need that chapter to be bookmarked

not to close

but it needs to be okay for me to put that part

on hold.

I ask Terry if I can go see him

if she can put in a word

for this one special request.              

She gets me the consent.

I get to go see Benji tomorrow.

158.

The facility is just like the hospital.

Clean, bright.

Lockdown doors so no one can take flight.

Be out of sight.

It’s safer that way.

I stay

in the waiting room until the lady

at the desk calls my name.

She says we have the same

shoes.

I look down and see I’m wearing

brown boots from Christmas

I look at her smiling quietly
trying to act politely

wondering if we’ve walked the

same steps in our same shoes.

She takes me back to a room

where couches line the walls

Ping-Pong table set in the middle

smells like freezedriedfried

chicken nuggets.

Eww.

My response makes me think

I’m morphing into Ms. Francine

in ways I don’t even know.

He sits with

hands on his knees

tapping the beat

beat to my heart.

Seeing him

makes me realize how long we’ve been apart

and more importantly

Just. How. Long.

He’s been away.

“Benji?” I say, questioning everything.

He looks up

with those big brown eyes

and

I see him.

“You came, Lou-Lou?”

My beating heart stops.

It feels so good to hear him say my name.

159.

“Of course I came, Benji. First chance I got.”

I go to the threadbare couch

noticing the man sitting in a chair

surveying the scene.

“Don’t mind me, I’m Geoffry,” he says, smiling. “Just here, doing my job. Your brother Benji and I have spent time together the last few weeks and he’s told me so many things about you. Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

“Water would be good,” I say.

“Great, I’ll be right back. Benji, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m cool.”

We look at one another after Geoffrey walks away.

“Is he your…your doctor or something?” I ask.

“No, he’s like the guy who’s on suicide watch. They come in shifts. He’s here most days.”

“Terry told me. About how you tried...again.”

“Yeah, well did she tell you why?”

“About Mom you mean?”

“Yeah. That’s the understatement of the century. She’s locked up though. Did you hear?” Benji asks me.

“Yeah. I know. I tried to see her, like to say goodbye at the termination hearing. But then...then everything came out...out about her.”

“Out about me is more like it.”

“Why didn’t you say something to me? Ever Benji? You never said a word.”

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve

as Geoffrey walks back in

making me freeze

inside.

“He’s cool, Lou-Lou. I mean, I’m done hiding. I never told you because I didn’t think I could. But after I saw Mom and had my…attempts…I was tired of holding it all in so I told the truth…about Mom…about our family.”

Geoffrey hands me a bottle of water and

sits back down

pulling a book out to read

not making a sound.

“But how did that make you so strong…so brave? I can’t talk about anything, without…without falling or breaking or…feeling like I’m dying.”

My hand flies to my mouth.

“Shit, Benji, I didn’t mean that,” I say.

“It’s the truth though, Louisa. Isn’t it? I tried to kill myself and somehow doing that…it set me free.”

“So you think I should try and kill myself, Benji? What are you talking about?”

Geoffrey lowers his book

giving our conversation a harder look.

“No, of course not, Louisa. I would never, ever want that. I thought I wanted to go…go away forever. Some days I still feel like that. It hurts so bad –– being messed up inside like this.”

His eyes fill

he looks away, breathes in and out.

Steady now, finding his ground

ing.

“But what I’m learning here is that nothing is as bad as it feels. I have things to live for. I have you.”

He has never spoke like that.

Broke

it down like that.

So perfectly.

So intelligently.

“So how am I supposed to unfreeze? Get unstuck. I can’t do what you did to get to that place.”

“I don’t know, Lou-Lou. I just know I wish I’d said something sooner. Told the truth sooner. But I was scared. I’m sick of being scared.”

Me too.

I am sick of living in fear.

Sick of being scared of having people get near

me.

Sick of the girl trying so hard

to sweep up the messes

sweep up the crumbs of myself

bury myself.

I want to sweep up the fear

once and for all

and put it in the

trash.