Page 10 of Chasing Brooklyn


  If you need help and don’t know what to do.”

  As he gets up and takes stuff to the counter,

  I think about that.

  And what I think is that

  when you’re completely alone

  and deep inside yourself

  with feelings no one else can understand,

  there really aren’t a hundred places to go.

  It’s like if I woke up one day

  and looked outside and saw purple trees

  and red grass and green dogs,

  is there anyone I could tell who would understand?

  No.

  There’d be no one.

  It’s exactly like that.

  He saw purple trees

  and red grass and green dogs

  while no one else did.

  And maybe,

  he just got tired

  of seeing them.

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Nico

  I decide we need

  to lighten the mood,

  so I ask her to show me some of her art.

  She doesn’t say a word.

  Just looks at me with eyes of uncertainty.

  “You really want to see?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I really do.”

  She leaves and returns with a big black book,

  and we sit together on the love seat,

  the book laid in her lap

  as tenderly as if it were an infant.

  On the first page, on the left side, is a photo of a sunflower,

  and on the right, her artistic version.

  The colors and the lighting,

  so right on,

  all I can say,

  in a whisper of wonderment,

  is “Wow.”

  Page after page of

  blues and purples, oranges and yellows,

  mums and lilacs, daisies and daffodils.

  The last one is a single rose,

  on top of a casket.

  My brother’s casket.

  So much for lightening the mood.

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn

  I haven’t drawn

  in so long.

  Since he died.

  Looking at these pictures,

  I wonder,

  did that part of me

  that flourished around him,

  like prized perennials

  under a tender gardener’s care,

  die along with him?

  Or am I just dormant,

  able to bloom again someday

  when love finally decides

  to shine on me

  again?

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Nico

  When her dad comes home,

  she introduces me as her friend.

  She doesn’t tell him I’m Lucca’s brother.

  Would he think that’s weird,

  us hanging out together?

  Is it weird?

  Do I care?

  Sat., Jan. 28th—Brooklyn

  After Nico leaves

  Dad drills me.

  I tell him he’s just a friend

  I know from school

  who’s helping me train for a race.

  Then he wants to know what kind of race

  and why I’m doing that

  and do I like this guy and is that why I’m doing it

  and blah blah blah.

  I guess it’s good he’s interested

  because most of the time

  it seems like he cares more about ESPN

  than me.

  After I’ve told him

  what he wants to know,

  he says, “And look, he brought you roses.

  What a coincidence.

  You saw the rose I left you this morning, right?”

  “You left the rose?”

  “Someone sent us flowers at the office.

  To say thanks.

  I let one of the admins take them home.

  But I brought one home for you.

  And then I forgot to give it to you last night.”

  My dad left me a rose.

  Not a ghost.

  Thank God.

  Not a ghost.

  Sun., Jan. 29th—Nico

  This morning I found

  A Cry for Help

  in my gym bag.

  He’s still worried.

  And I wish I knew

  what to do about that.

  Sun., Jan. 29th—Brooklyn

  This morning I found

  a few of the letters to Lucca

  torn up and tossed around,

  like confetti.

  Why?

  My words,

  my heart,

  my soul,

  shredded by someone

  who seems intent

  on hurting me.

  Why?

  Tears slide down my face

  as I pick my heart

  off the floor.

  Fear controls you.

  Stop the fear.

  Love is the answer. Not fear.

  Does Gabe want me to love him?

  How can I love him

  when right now,

  I hate him more

  than I’ve ever hated anyone

  in my whole life?

  I sob into a fistful

  of shredded words.

  Because words matter.

  And so do I.

  Sun., Jan. 29th—Nico

  When we meet up

  at the pool,

  she’s cold and distant.

  It’s like one step forward,

  two steps back with her.

  Just when it feels like

  we’re making progress,

  something happens

  and we’re running backward.

  I don’t know what else to do.

  What else can I do?

  Sun., Jan. 29th—Brooklyn

  The water

  feels extra cold today,

  matching the temperature

  of my heart.

  I swim,

  hoping the water

  might smooth things out

  once again and

  wash my troubles away.

  But nothing is smooth today.

  It’s choppy and hard

  and I tire easily.

  When I finally can’t take

  the failure anymore,

  I get out.

  Nico’s in a swimming trance.

  Doesn’t even notice me.

  I slip out quietly,

  away from the cold, harsh water

  into the cold, harsh world.

  Sun., Jan. 29th—Nico

  When I realize she’s gone,

  I start to go after her.

  But I change my mind.

  Because obviously, she doesn’t

  want to include me in whatever’s going on.

  Whatever’s bringing her so much pain.

  She starts to give, then pulls back,

  gives, then pulls back.

  I hate tug-of-war.

  It seems so pointless.

  And I’m not sure I can pull any harder.

  All I can do is keep showing up.

  Keep engaging her in life.

  Keep trying.

  Sun., Jan. 29th—Brooklyn

  I’m standing

  at a crossroads

  in the middle of nowhere.

  One path leads into

  thick, black trees

  with weird noises.

  It’s dark.

  Creepy.

  The other path

  leads into the sun,

  with colorful wildflowers

  growing on both sides.

  Birds are chirping,

  and farther down the path,

  a large oak tree

  with plenty of shade awaits.

  I have to choose one.

  Any second, I’ll hear

  his footsteps behind me,

  and I’ll have to choose.

  The choice seems obvious.

>   But something tells me

  it’s a trick.

  The sunny path that looks safe

  can’t be as it seems.

  Nothing is ever as it seems.

  So I begin running,

  through the dark forest,

  branches reaching out

  and grabbing me as I do.

  I hear him coming.

  Closer and closer.

  He grabs me and yells,

  “Why do you keep choosing fear?”

  I wake up screaming.

  Daddy comes running.

  Flips the light and

  sits on my bed.

  I crawl out,

  squeeze next to him,

  and let him wrap me up

  in his arms.

  And we stay that way

  for a long time.

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico

  I swear

  I left my keys where I always do.

  The kitchen table, by the napkin holder.

  But this morning, they’re not there.

  I look everywhere—

  jacket, pants, dresser, bathroom, ignition.

  Nothing.

  Finally, twenty minutes later and ridiculously

  late for school, I go back to the kitchen table.

  And there they are.

  Gone before.

  Now here.

  Apparently just like my brother.

  Who always did enjoy making me sweat the small stuff.

  As I walk out the door, I laugh.

  I miss you, Lucca.

  Man, I miss you.

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn

  Nico’s all happy

  and cheerful as we run,

  telling me a story about a guy at school

  who made a fool of himself

  in front his dream girl.

  Apparently, the guy didn’t know

  she was watching.

  God, Nico is just too happy.

  He doesn’t have a freaking care

  in the world.

  Well, of course he doesn’t.

  His world is all about

  running and biking,

  puppy dogs and potato chips.

  When he laughs at himself

  for the third time,

  I stop and yell,

  “Shut the hell up, Nico.

  It’s not funny, okay?

  God. You think everything is funny?

  Well, let me tell you.

  It’s not.”

  He stares at me like I just threw

  rocks at his head.

  And then I turn around

  and go home.

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico

  Our paths don’t cross

  at school, so later, I call her up.

  “I don’t think everything is funny,” I tell her.

  “I’m sorry, Nico. It’s not you. It’s me.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “Some mornings are like that.

  I have an idea, though. A different kind of workout.

  Can you be ready in thirty minutes?”

  “What? Um, yeah, I guess.”

  “Great.”

  “Wait, what should I wear?”

  I almost quip back with something inappropriate,

  but I stop myself.

  “Jeans. T-shirt. Tennis shoes.”

  Silence.

  “See you in a few!”

  Did I really just do that?

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn

  Pirate’s Bay Miniature Golf

  greets us with neon lights

  and eighteen holes of fun and adventure

  in a big warehouse.

  We hit the balls

  through old ships,

  around treasure chests,

  and up and over bridges.

  Four hits,

  five hits,

  six.

  Hole after hole.

  Ten smiles,

  Eleven smiles,

  twelve.

  Hole after hole.

  No ghosts,

  no ghosts,

  none.

  Hole after glorious hole.

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico

  Around hole 7

  I’m all stressed about my score,

  about trying to get the elusive hole-in-one.

  She teases me, asks if my lifelong dream

  is to be king of the putt-putt.

  Before I know what she’s doing,

  she grabs my score sheet,

  rips it into little pieces,

  and throws it in the sky,

  a shower of confetti raining down on us.

  “Now let’s have some fun,” she says.

  And that’s just what we do.

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn

  On the last hole,

  I get a hole-in-one

  which sends me into

  a squealing fit of joy,

  like a little kid at the first sight

  of the tree Christmas morning.

  Nico looks at me,

  looks at the hole,

  takes a deep breath,

  and hits his ball.

  Like magic,

  that neon green ball

  goes right for the hole

  and drops in with a

  resounding plunk.

  I give him a high five.

  “Well done, King,” I tell him.

  He smiles.

  “Actually, hate to burst your bubble

  but I think it’s rigged.”

  “You mean everyone gets a hole-in-one?” I ask.

  They want people to leave

  happy.

  And I’m pretty sure

  we do.

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Nico

  On the way home,

  we’re quiet.

  A song by The Fray comes on—

  How to Save a Life.

  “I love this song,” she says as she turns it up.

  The haunting music and words

  speak about trying to help someone.

  And I know what she’s thinking.

  I just hope she’ll open up and talk about it.

  When we pull up to her house,

  she turns and says, “I didn’t do enough.”

  “I didn’t do enough to help him.”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t play that game, Brooklyn.

  What happened to Gabe has nothing to do with you.

  You were hurting too, and you did the best you could.

  We all did.”

  She nods, and tears well up in her eyes.

  Here we are, the weather changing again.

  “Brooklyn,” I say softly, “listen to me.

  If this is what you’re struggling with, let it go.”

  “I’m trying,” she whispers.

  I reach up and wipe the single tear

  that manages to escape.

  “You can do this,” I tell her.

  “You are so strong, Brooklyn.

  Stronger than you know. Believe in that, okay?”

  Mon., Jan. 30th—Brooklyn

  When he tells me

  how strong I am,

  something flares up inside of me.

  It makes me want to be strong

  even if I don’t feel that way

  most of the time.

  I feel a shift.

  A shift in my heart.

  I don’t know exactly

  what it is

  or what it means

  but I definitely feel it.

  There’s something about Nico

  that makes me want

  to be a better person.

  And so I tell myself,

  I will be.

  Tues., Jan. 31st—Nico

  As I’m getting ready

  to head out to the track,

  I find a note from Pop

  with a guy’s phone number.

  Hey, Nico—

  Give Rob a call.

  He might have a job for you.

/>   Bagging groceries.

  As I go to stick the note in my pocket,

  I notice writing on the other side.

  It says Hey, Lucca—

  And then it’s crossed out.

  He started writing to him instead of me.

  He’s still wanting him back.

  And wanting me out of here.

  Tues., Jan. 31st—Brooklyn