Skyscraping (4 page)

Septembers and Octobers we used to find

sequins on the soles of our bare feet,

feathers in the laundry.

Dad and Mom made their own costumes

every year before they met,

and every year after,

except the year she was gone.

They were always closest in the fall,

him poring over her sketches,

her handing him beads, a hot glue gun, a needle,

gifting him splinters of red glass

to glue on his shoes, wands, masks.

The past few years,

Mom and Dad

made costumes of all the

Aztec gods.

This year, they’ve made nothing.

This year, no one needs a costume.

Masks of Quetzalcoatl, Xochipilli,

big-beaked and feathered,

stare down at me,

line the hallway,

and just like you never really know

what’s on the inside of anyone

or any family,

on the outside

they are powerful, beautiful gods.

On the inside they are lifeless:

faces covered with fabric,

bones carved from Styrofoam.

This year, Halloween night:

April, dressed as an angel,

goes to the parade

with a devil-horned Mom and Dad.

They invite me to come,

even made some wings for me.

I stay uptown, leave my wings at home,

a group of us weave through the Upper West Side.

Bart Simpsons and Madonnas blend in

with the vampires and princesses,

we pass a couple in matching Axl Rose bandanas.

Last year, Adam and I, matching troll dolls,

my hair pink, his orange,

sipped Coke from Solo cups,

R.E.M. blasting from the radio.

We went to the roof,

troll hair blowing up,

he told me he loved me,

loved how alike we were,

his eyes gleaming above me,

surrounded by all those skyscrapers, that navy sky.

I used to think I’d lose my virginity to him.

Now Dylan, in his pirate patch,

calls me Matey, breaks out his flask.

Asks me if I want a sip.

I take two.

Chloe meets us on the street—

a roller-skating candy cane.

Asks what Dad came up with this year

and why I’m not in costume.

I lie, tell her I’m tired, spent all night

helping him sew.

Say my dad’s going

as his favorite flower,

one species disguised as another,

a bird-of-paradise.

I follow through the streets,

matching Chloe and Dylan sip for sip,

watch as kids litter

candy wrappers everywhere.

Yearbook staff ’s on board

with the outer space idea.

They brainstorm like lightning:

classes in constellations,

faculty in rocket ships,

give each Senior an astronomical mission.

Somehow the theme has given them inspiration—

they draw and choose and pick and label.

As they work,

I feel myself floating

above them,

like Cassiopeia

hanging upside down

in the fall sky.

Try and keep myself focused, occupied,

anything to be away from home.

They ask if I want to see their work,

if I need to check it, I wave my hand, say
it looks okay.

They ask questions over and over,

I have no answers, I shrug, say
whatever.

After they’ve left:

My eyes wander over

their neatly laid piles of layouts,

pause at the one they worked hardest on,

a “field day fun day” collage.

Everyone looks so happy, carefree.

I crumple each corner.

Make a tiny rip through the center,

then keep ripping it to bits.

Just shreds of people

scattered at my feet.

After school,

I walk right past the unsorted mail.

Dad says we need to talk college—

if I’m serious about not going to Columbia,

then I need to see other schools.

He’s trying to pretend things are the way they were,

that I’ll be there, hanging on his every word.

I tell him I don’t need his help,

I already know where I’m going to apply.

All small schools, away from the city.

He says we should visit one this weekend,

have an informational interview

while there’s time.

I sputter a
fine,

anything to get out of here.

Go to my room.

April knocks,

asks if I’ll help her memorize lines

for the school play.

Mom comes in, watches.

April listens eagerly

as Mom offers her advice.

I roll my eyes,

leave them in my room, rehearsing.

I take a shower,

think about spending the weekend

with Dad at some random college,

about Mom helping April,

as if she’s always been there

for her,

us.

I make the water icy cold,

then all the way

back to

hot.

Sneak out,

Dylan asks if I want to smoke up.

I always say no,

but the way Dylan looks at me tonight,

squinting eyes behind shaggy hair,

his John Lennon glasses on,

I say yes.

We climb the Big Rock

in Riverside Park,

reach the top.

Dylan says I seem different.

I tell him I think he’s right,

we’re all in Existential crisis.

He says he misses me nagging him about

his college apps, I’ll be happy to know

he’s thinking of applying early to NYU.

Not long ago, I thought I’d apply early too.

Instead, tomorrow, off to visit some college

in rural Pennsylvania.

I think of telling Dylan about my parents,

how I do feel like a totally different me.

That I don’t know what to do with all this change.

Instead, I inhale,

take in the heavy smoke

from the swirly blue pipe.

Breathe in.

Out.

It feels like my head is caught          in a cloud.

Thoughts

fly away

as quickly

as they come.

Dylan opens his

mouth,

it forms a

half crescent

against the sky.

Goes for another hit.

Exhales loudly,

smoke spiraling from our mouths,

he looks into my eyes,

his pupils full moons.

We lie back

together

on the wet rock,

thoughts shooting in and out.

We would look for stars—

if we could find any.

Dad and I,

Saturday to Sunday,

visiting Dickinson College.

Scared to be alone with him

in a car, trapped.

Wish I could

just apply to places, not have to see them,

try to get out of it, say

Chloe needs my help,

there’s a Yearbook deadline.

Nothing works.

Dad asks if I want to practice my driving,

I tell him no way.

I haven’t gotten behind the wheel

since failing my road test last year.

Turn on my Walkman,

wait for Manhattan to vanish

into the Pennsylvania hills.

Somewhere between here and there Dad asks

if I’m nervous.

A month ago, I would’ve been.

For a minute

I think about Columbia,

life before,

and something like a lozenge           gets stuck in my throat,

I try to

breathe

swallow

around it.

Wonder how forest and highway

can simultaneously exist,

wind the cords from my headphones

tight to tighter

around my wrists.

A brick town square, a flag, a church:

the small town of Carlisle,

the college at its heart,

cradled in farmlands

and Central Pennsylvania hills.

Grace, the Admissions interviewer,

shakes my hand, smiles warmly—

Sitting there,

in this greenhouse of an office,

full of plants and light wood,

I try to put back on my old self.

Talk to Grace enthusiastically

about Astronomy, Yearbook, Peer Mentorship.

She asks about New York City.

Flash to the cyclones of trash,

the homeless, the rush of crowds.

I tell her the city is vibrant, energetic,

but I’m ready for a change,

I need the peace

of small town life, for a while.

I ask her if students can see the stars at night.

And she smiles.

I.

On the ride home

watch the trees and hills,

think of Grace and the stars,

wonder if

pushing time forward,

racing past this part

could be just what I need.

If college in the country

will be my bright place,

and I just need to get from here

to there.

II.

Home.

Notice how messy

the house has become.

Laundry unfolded,

dishes left undone.

I pick up a shirt

to fold it,

hear

April and Mom

on the couch, laughing,

throw it back down.

They’re eating chips, watching a home video—

the one where April and I made up a play,

Barbies attacked by our Pound Puppies,

enemies first then friends.

They’re laughing at one of the songs we made up.

April sings along with the movie.

Dad sits down, right away, to watch,

Mom’s hand on his knee.

Video Dad comes in,

so tan and young, with his old friend Manuel.

Sneak a look at Dad, smiling,

I wonder if he’s a former lover.

I watch as young Dad touches my head. Young Mira leans into him.

Try to remember now how it felt,

being with him,

feeling like the world was safe.

III.

Video Mira is all smiles, bright.

But the star Mira changes in brightness

1,400 times in a year.

Half the time it’s visible

to the naked eye,

the other half it can’t even be seen

with binoculars.

Standing there,

amidst a family I don’t recognize,

I fade, go dim.

Even the flicker of lightness I felt,

the hopeful promise of a new life in the country,

seems to darken.

Sit down,

Dad says.

And April, too, asks me to come watch, please.

Mom pats a spot next to her.

I whisper

no thanks.

Flicker.

Fade

out.

I.

Dad asks if I will make the stuffing

on Thanksgiving.

Usually he does the whole meal without our help.

He says I’m old enough, he trusts me.

I don’t want to,

but I do it.

Chop the celery, the onions,

methodically, evenly, like he taught me,

but soon my wrist tires,

the smell of turkey sickens me,

all my pieces go jagged.

When I go to do the bread,

it gets burned, curls up,

blackening the bright red pan.

I touch my finger to the heat, unthinking,

it stings for a minute, then forms

a small white planet bubble.

I don’t shred more bread,

don’t run my finger under the water,

I just let it all

burn.

II.

We eat, turkey without stuffing,

Mom, Dad, April,

all pretending

nothing is different.

They ask me questions, I say little.

Not knowing what would come out, if I really spoke.

Not wanting to yell at them, in front of April.

Instead, between bites, I squeeze my burnt finger.

At the end of the meal,

I look down to find my napkin shredded,

like torn clouds on my lap.

Later April and I walk

to Central Park West,

the parade floats, deflating:

Mighty Mouse with shrunken arms,

Olive Oyl’s huge foot waves in the sky.

April asks me why did I

burn the stuffing.

I tell her I didn’t do it on purpose,

she asks am I sure.

Raggedy Ann falls at the waist.

Kermit dives headfirst.

April says that she likes it better, knowing the truth

about Mom and Dad, that they seem happier now.

Olive Oyl’s other foot falls, deflated.

I say
well, you aren’t the one who walked in on Dad and James.

Her face falls. I regret my words.

She says she misses me.

I tell her I’m still here, for her.

We pass people parading home,

hordes of stores sit closed,

streetlights perched like spy cameras,

watching the crowds go,

until April and I are the only ones left

on these abandoned streets.

We’re almost back to our street

but I can’t go home yet.

On Broadway:

an OPEN sign.

Celestial Treasures.

Dad calls it a woo-woo store, full of New Age junk.

April and I pause,

chimes and crystals rainbow,

tiny unicorns and fairies

freckle purple felt.

I want to reach

through the store window,

sit there, play

with the creatures.

Tell April to be the tallest unicorn,

I will be the fairy who just earned her wings.

Who cares what Dad thinks?

Push open the door,

a shrill woman’s voice whinnies

over the sound of bagpipes,

April and I smile at each other,

move further in.

We flip through Goddess Tarot Cards.

Sniff jasmine, sandalwood, eucalyptus.

Spy rows of medicinal herbs, vitamins.

Try on mood rings,

look up our birthdays on charts.

There’s a huge star map,

like Mr. Lamb’s,

but this one’s exploding colors and pictures:

myths that explain the names of constellations.

I read to April,

point out each planet.

But when I turn around,

she’s near a woman

with auburn hair

and lilac scarves.

Her name is Gloria,

she can help us,

if we need anything.

April moves toward her,

I pick up a rain stick.

April now

on the other

side of the store,

light as a leaf,

happy she said

with what our family’s

become.

I shake the stick

the sound pours over me

like being trapped inside

a waterfall—

April: on one side,

out of reach—

Me: on the other,

enclosed in a pounding curtain of rain.