Impulse

  said that, but it’s true.)

  flickering glimpses, blue

  and white, like ancient,

  decomposing 16mm film.

  Happiness escapes

  me there, where faces

  are vague and yesterday

  seems to come tied

  up in ribbons of pain.

  (There must be

  happiness there

  somewhere, but

  I can’t find it.)

  Happiness? I look for it instead

  in today, where memory

  is something I can still

  touch, still rely on.

  I find it in the smiles

  of new friends, the hope

  blossoming inside.

  (Scary, but accurate.)

  My happiest memories

  have no place in the

  past; they are those

  I have yet to create.

  Those I Have Yet to Create

  That must mean I plan

  to create them. Funny,

  when I got here, coasting

  through life was the best

  I figured I’d ever do—

  managing the seesaw

  with substances

  or the slice of a blade.

  So much blue

  in my days, a spattering

  of white, an abstract of

  emotions, painting every

  choice I ever made, hope

  rarely represented

  on that deviant canvas.

  But here it is, a hint

  of bronze, a shimmer

  of gold frost.

  Can my world fill

  with color? Will I ever

  live shades of red?

  Yellow? Green?

  When I think of Mama,

  it all goes blue; memories

  of Trevor are rooted in white.

  Conner’s hand at my back,

  and the surge of his masculinity

  at the tip of my tailbone,

  made me shiver copper.

  I don’t know what

  that means.

  I only know

  I liked it.

  Suddenly, My Hands

  Begin to shake, just a little

  at first, then building,

  building, tremoring,

  an earthquake.

  My pencil falls to the floor

  with a loud clatter

  and everyone turns to stare.

  I bend to retrieve it,

  but my hand refuses

  to go where my brain

  tries to point it.

  Vanessa? Are you

  all right? Mr. Hidalgo

  jumps from his chair,

  reaches my side almost

  as quickly as Tony.

  Vanessa? What’s wrong?

  Tony’s eyes, frightened,

  tell me I look even

  worse than I feel.

  Vanessa? Conner

  joins the party.

  Let me help you.

  The three of them, all

  talking at once, make

  my brain hurt, trying

  to keep up, churn it

  into dizziness. And that

  makes me want to throw

  up. I feel the blood rush

  from my face and jump

  to my feet. “I have to go

  to the bathroom.”

  No one tries to stop me,

  which is a very good thing.

  I burst through the door,

  into a stall, lean over the bowl,

  let fly.

  Conner

  Ms. Littell Looks Horrified

  Oh, the poor thing, she says.

  Hope it wasn’t my assignment.

  She leans over Vanessa’s

  desk, decides to sit, reads

  the neatly scripted words.

  This is beautiful, she tells

  the entire room. I wonder

  if Ms. O’Reilly would mind

  if I shared her poem. So

  she does, and it is more

  than beautiful—it lets us

  see the inside of Vanessa.

  She’s looking for happiness

  in today, and some unknown

  part of me—some stranger—

  wants to give some joy away.

  I wonder if Vanessa would

  take it from me. When I look

  into her eyes, I find surprise.

  Suspicion. Fear. Curiosity.

  I wonder which of those

  brought her to this place,

  what monsters—internal or

  external—she has fought.

  I wonder what drives her

  to give in to the goddess

  of lust and sharp edges,

  open her skin and bleed,

  to purposely walk where most

  digress, lost in the moment.

  I wonder how it feels

  to possess such courage.

  I Also Wonder

  Why Vanessa got sick.

  She looked fine just a few

  seconds earlier. Of course,

  she’s not one to whine about

  an upset stomach. Still,

  the way her hands shook was

  scary—kind of like how my

  grandfather’s used to betray him.

  They say Parkinson’s isn’t

  genetic, so it probably

  won’t ever affect my

  athletic abilities,

  or hinder my GPA.

  But hey, knowing my luck,

  I’ll beat the odds and shimmy

  my way into an early grave.

  Mr. Sykes, exhales Ms. Littell,

  would you please share your words?

  She sighs, and I try not to

  notice the view of her neckline.

  I look down at what I’ve

  written, smile. “I’m not sure

  this is appropriate for

  the rank and file. It’s more

  than a little suggestive.”

  I wait for her to read over

  my shoulder, expect a

  swift, negative reply.

  Instead she says, You are

  a skilled poet, gifted with

  an ear for metaphor. This

  is filled with passion. Read!

  Guess I’ll Excite Everyone

  With my words. Oh, well, she

  asked for it. I glance around

  the room, face-to-face, find

  unmasked inquisitiveness.

  “My happiest memories

  are sun-streaked afternoons

  in the cinnamon arms of my

  Emily—the evening star

  glowing in a dusk-choked

  sky. She wraps me in pleasure,

  silent except for her

  occasional sigh, and I

  whisper, ‘Keep me here,

  beside you, where I can

  breathe you in. Keep me

  here, inside you, Emily.’

  She makes no promises,

  only tells me I can stay

  for now. Sometimes it’s good

  to be lonely, good to feel

  pain. But not now, my love.

  Now I want you here beside

  me, where you can breathe me in.

  And I need you inside me.

  You make me young again.’

  Pressed against the curve

  of her back, my fingers trace

  the contours of one breast,

  and then the other. Such

  perfection in the texture

  of her skin, sublime petals,

  pressed into recollection.

  My Emily.”

  Tony

  Whoa, Baby!

  Who the hell is Emily?

  If I were straight, I’d

  have to get to know her.

  Think she has a brother?

  Wonder why I haven’t

  heard about her before.

&nbsp
; The classroom breaks

  out in applause. “Damn,

  Conner, could you make

  my poem look any

  worse? Here I write about

  getting out of lockup

  and you go and write

  about sex. Why didn’t

  I think about that?”

  Maybe I would have,

  if sex for me had ever

  come close to that.

  Conner’s face flushes.

  It was the best thing

  that ever happened to me.

  “So tell us more. Who

  is she? What does she

  look like? Blond, I bet.”

  An odd smile creeps

  across his face. Yes,

  she’s blond. Everywhere.

  Things could get out

  of control, but Mr.

  Hidalgo reins it in.

  Okay, everyone. I

  think we’ve heard

  enough about Emily.

  Now the room breaks

  out in a chorus of

  boos. Mine is loudest.

  Mr. Hidalgo Takes Control

  Enough, already. Mr.

  Ceccarelli, since

  you seem to be so

  communicative today,

  I’m sure you’ve penned

  a masterpiece. Please read.

  I quit booing, clear

  my throat. “I can’t

  write poetry, not like

  Conner and Vanessa

  can. All I have is some

  words. Scrambled thoughts.”

  Ms. Littell comes over,

  stands behind me, reads.

  You have a lot more

  here than scrambled

  thoughts, and it’s most

  definitely poetry. Please share.

  Here goes nothing.

  “Six years they took

  away. Six years not

  allowed to say much

  but ‘Yes, sir; no, sir.’

  Today, I breathe a free

  man’s air, walk without

  sacrifice anywhere I

  choose. A woman passes

  by. Without hesitation,

  I say, ‘Hello. Beautiful

  day, isn’t it?’ She turns

  my way, smiles, a bright

  hint of hope that all

  might one day be right

  in whatever world

  tomorrow brings me.”

  Still waiting for that.

  No Applause

  But I do get a couple

  Way to go’s. Better

  than total silence,

  anyway. And I guess

  it was good to hustle

  up a halfway decent

  memory. I had one

  or two others, but

  they involved Phillip.

  These voyeurs might

  like hearing about

  Conner’s romantic

  adventures, but I seriously

  doubt they’d want to hear

  about Phillip and me.

  Anyway, that is a very

  private part of my life,

  something I keep stashed

  away and only withdraw

  in moments of weakness.

  I’d rather share tales

  of Ma, the ol’ dead ho’,

  or Larry the pervert,

  who got what he deserved.

  Thank you for working

  with me, says Ms. Littell.

  I hope you’ll all keep

  writing. There’s a lot

  of talent in this room.

  Please don’t waste it.

  Ms. Littell takes her leave,

  and it’s on to algebra,

  or in Conner’s case,

  calculus. I think he knows

  more about it than Mr.

  Hidalgo, but that’s just my

  uneducated opinion.

  Vanessa

  Kate Finds Me

  In the bathroom.

  The heaves are gone,

  and I’ve blown my

  insides out the other end.

  My hands still shake

  and I try to comfort

  them with cool water.

  Dr. Starr heard you

  weren’t feeling well

  Kate’s tone is almost

  apologetic. She wanted

  me to let you know it’s

  probably a side effect

  of the lifetime

  I knew there were

  side effects but didn’t

  realize they could be

  so intense. Depression

  is bad. This is worse.

  My brain feels like it’s

  squishing through mud.

  “Can I quit the lith?”

  You have to give it

  a chance. We’ll reduce

  the dosage until your

  body adjusts. It might

  take a few weeks.

  Nausea. Diarrhea.

  Tremors. Thick head.

  Mouth like cotton balls.

  “I need water. And I need

  to lie down.”

  No Wonder

  Mama refused to stay

  on the lithium. Yes, she

  was diagnosed bipolar,

  with a tendency toward

  schizophrenia. They tried

  to correct her brain’s mad

  zigzag with medication.

  But she was stubborn—swore

  the only thing wrong

  with her was her damnable

  sidekick, the angel.

  When they locked her up,

  force-fed her pills,

  she cleared up. Sooner

  or later, they always let

  her out, and she’d be

  the mama we always

  hoped she’d be.

  For a few days.

  That last day, she’d only

  been out of the hospital

  for a few hours.

  Still had the bottle

  of Xanax in her pocket.

  The only problem

  was she swallowed

  a few too many.

  One extra is one too

  many. She yacked

  down a half dozen.

  Her doctors said

  she wanted to die.

  I thought so too.

  And who was I

  to argue?

  My Own Overdose

  Or whatever the problem is,

  is making me sick again.

  I don’t want to go

  to the bathroom, chance

  prying eyes or questions.

  So I lay very still

  on my bed, give myself

  to the thrashing

  surf inside my body,

  my brain.

  Quick, Vanessa, think

  of something still,

  something serene.

  Sand. I think of sand.

  Lying on a thick carpet

  of sand, somebody warm

  beside me. My memory

  holds Trevor. I replace

  his face with Conner’s.

  Drowsy. I am drowsy

  in his arms, feel his bloom

  against the small of my back.

  Like today. It is bright

  in the desert sun—beneath

  magic clouds of white.

  Sucked into the white,

  I give myself to Conner.

  “Make love to me,” I tell him.

  And he answers,

  I can’t deal with your

  freaky mood swings,

  Vanessa. One minute

  you’re solid, the next

  you’re like water.

  Boiling water …

  It’s Trevor’s voice, and

  I scream.

  Conner

  Thursday P.M.

  Dr. Starr calls me to her

  office, points me into a chair,

  laces her fingers under

  he
r chin. Where is this going?

  Conner, I’m pleased with your

  progress, the bulldog says.

  But I really think we need

  to address the issue

  of your not wanting to go

  home for a visit this weekend.

  The Easter holiday provides

  connection with your family.

  I know that frightens you,

  but I don’t know why. There’s

  no history of abuse.

  Why shut yourself off from them?

  “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m

  not afraid of going home.

  It’s just that I’m happier here,

  where I don’t have to evade

  questions no one wants the

  answers to. At least when you

  ask me something, it’s because

  you want to know what I’ve

  got to say. Mom and Dad

  expect only what they want

  to hear, and only then if

  it’s said with total respect.

  Going home can only

  lead to confrontation. Why

  would I want that when I’ve

  finally freed myself of it?”

  As I Wait for Her Reply

  I study her face, find an

  odd blend of amusement

  and understanding. But she

  doesn’t pretend sympathy.

  You have to face them sometime,

  Conner. No parent is

  perfect, no child always right.

  Climb into their shoes, take

  an honest look at yourself.

  Do you like what you see?

  Can you try just a little to

  understand their point of view?

  Their son tried to kill himself—

  a parent’s worst nightmare

  because they must accept blame.

  They want to forgive you, but first