Page 13 of Chasing Brooklyn


  as I’m on my way to the pool.

  Her quivery voice makes me wonder

  if we’ll be going today.

  She asks me to come to her house,

  so I quickly change directions.

  When I get there, she’s standing outside

  in jeans and a hoody,

  her arms wrapped around herself,

  trying to stay warm.

  When she climbs in,

  I notice her red cheeks and chapped lips.

  “Man, Brooklyn, how long you been outside?”

  Her teeth start chattering. “A long time.”

  I blast the heat

  and take her hands in mine and rub them.

  She looks at me, her eyes filled with fear.

  “Shit, what is it?” I ask.

  She doesn’t speak.

  Not a word.

  Instead, she slowly leans in

  and kisses me.

  Tues., Feb. 7th—Brooklyn

  What am I doing?

  I’m kissing Nico.

  God, I’m kissing him.

  His lips are so

  warm

  and soft

  and he tastes like

  mint toothpaste

  and I want more

  so I open my mouth

  and softly put my tongue there

  waiting for his to meet mine,

  and when it does,

  heat replaces cold

  and I feel like I’m going to

  burn up

  everywhere.

  His hand runs down my hair,

  my shoulder,

  my back

  and stops there,

  pressing me to him

  and something about that

  makes me pull away.

  When I open my eyes,

  I remember who I’m with.

  Nico.

  Just Nico.

  But he’s not just Nico.

  He’s Lucca’s brother.

  Tues., Feb. 7th—Nico

  As it happens,

  I feel my heart running laps in my chest.

  She’s simultaneously hot and cold.

  Her lips,

  her hair,

  her skin,

  her whole friggin’ body

  is a burning icicle.

  God, I could kiss her forever.

  So when she pulls away,

  my heart stops in its tracks.

  I can tell from her eyes

  she didn’t mean it.

  It was a moment of weakness.

  Needing someone.

  Anyone.

  Not me, specifically.

  A warm body.

  Of course, not me.

  It could never be me.

  Not after him.

  I know she’s going to say

  it was a mistake.

  My heart holds its breath

  and waits.

  Tues., Feb. 7th—Brooklyn

  “I’m sorry, Nico.

  I shouldn’t have done that.

  I’m just so confused.

  About everything.”

  He tucks my hair

  behind my ear like he did

  that first day we talked.

  He’s so tender.

  So kind.

  So good.

  But this can’t happen.

  One Ferrari can’t replace

  another.

  “Brooklyn, you need to know—”

  “Please don’t, Nico.

  Remember what you said about transitions?

  They can be hard.

  But we have to keep them simple.

  We’re in transition.

  Our lives are one big transition.

  Getting used to being without him.

  But this, you and me, it’s not the answer.

  If we do this, I’m afraid we’re making a mistake.

  Just like you said.

  Keep the transitions simple.”

  He starts to say something,

  but I don’t let him.

  “I’m sorry, Nico.

  I can’t see you anymore.

  I have to figure everything out by myself.

  I know that now.”

  And then I get out

  and run back into my house,

  which is pretty much

  the last place I want to be,

  but really the only place I have.

  Tues., Feb. 7th—Nico

  I want to tell her

  transitions in life are different

  from transitions in a race.

  But she doesn’t give me a chance.

  As quickly as she came into my life, she’s gone.

  Now what am I supposed to do?

  Keep running, like always?

  It’s worked before.

  But now?

  I don’t know.

  Tues., Feb. 7th—Brooklyn

  I tell my dad

  I’ve got bad cramps

  and he lets me stay home.

  I stay in the family room,

  on the couch,

  in front of the TV,

  with every light on.

  When it’s time for bed,

  I don’t move.

  I just pretend to fall asleep

  on the couch

  and he lets me be.

  When I fall asleep for real,

  I’m a butterfly,

  floating from flower to flower.

  There’s no color but I still feel

  peaceful and happy.

  At home.

  A nice dream

  until a shadow comes,

  and swallows the warm sunshine.

  Hands are after me.

  Large hands.

  Reaching.

  Grasping.

  Wanting.

  My tiny wings

  move quickly,

  as I fly through bushes

  and over the hollyhocks

  and cosmos.

  Faster and faster I fly,

  not wanting the same fate

  as the moth in my room.

  And yet as I look

  at Mother Nature’s handiwork

  all around me,

  with no color, no life, no texture,

  I think of the gray life

  I’ve committed myself to,

  and realize perhaps his fate

  is my own after all.

  Wed., Feb. 8th—Nico

  I wonder if

  we should try and talk about it,

  about us,

  but Brooklyn is nowhere to be found.

  I decide to give her what she’s obviously asking for.

  Space.

  For now, anyway.

  At lunch, I think about sitting in my truck alone

  with my crazy, mixed-up thoughts for company,

  and decide that sounds as appealing as running in a blizzard

  So I grab a sandwich and take a seat

  next to Charlie and some other guys.

  “Hey, Nico,” he says. “What’s up?

  How’s training going?”

  “You know. Making progress.”

  “Progress is good,” he says.

  Damn it.

  We were making progress.

  Thurs., Feb. 9th—Brooklyn

  Nightmare

  after nightmare

  after nightmare.

  Always gray.

  Disgustingly dreary

  and gray.

  Wake up,

  sleep again,

  wake up,

  toss and turn,

  drift to sleep,

  wake up.

  He’s there,

  around every corner.

  No matter what I do,

  where I go,

  he’s there.

  I cry,

  so tired of it all,

  missing Nico

  and the way he made me feel.

  It’s so right with Nico.

  And yet so wrong.

  Ri
ght and wrong.

  Black and white.

  And many shades

  of gray.

  I want color in my life.

  Color in my dreams.

  The colors of

  buttercups and pansies,

  poppies and chrysanthemums,

  lilies and hydrangeas.

  Color, beautiful color.

  Fri., Feb. 10th—Nico

  Lucca is haunting me

  like never before.

  Every night,

  in different ways,

  whispering,

  moving,

  breathing,

  writing,

  Brooklyn,

  Brooklyn,

  help her,

  help Brooklyn.

  Tonight,

  he plays Fix You

  over and

  over and

  over again

  until I can’t take it anymore.

  I get up, take the CD out, and snap it in half.

  “Don’t you get it, I can’t!” I yell.

  A minute later, Ma and Pop come running.

  “It was just a nightmare,” I tell them.

  Ma gives me a hug before they shuffle back to bed,

  while I lie in mine

  covered by feelings of worry and guilt.

  Brooklyn doesn’t want to see me.

  She doesn’t even want to talk to me.

  How can I possibly help her now?

  Fri., Feb. 10th—Brooklyn

  Best friends

  are together

  through it all,

  like soil and roots,

  one needing the other,

  through chilling winters,

  scorching summers,

  through hailstorms

  and lightning strikes.

  They weather it

  together.

  So when Kyra calls,

  I tell her about Nico.

  How I don’t want

  to be thinking of him

  but I am,

  and why does that feel

  so wrong?

  Talking it through with her,

  not to find a resolution

  but to have someone hear me

  is just what I need

  to help me feel stronger,

  grounded,

  in this hailstorm

  called life.

  Fri., Feb. 10th—Nico

  The hours crawl

  like time has decided to slow down

  and take a vacation.

  I go to the pool before school,

  the water especially cold this morning,

  matching the temperature of my heart.

  I miss her.

  There’s no confusion there.

  As to what to do about it,

  that’s another story.

  Fri., Feb. 10th—Brooklyn

  I managed

  to convince Daddy

  to let me stay home all week.

  He was preoccupied,

  getting stuff ready for a visit

  from the twins.

  He’s missed them.

  So have I.

  But when they arrive,

  I’m barely there

  when we play Clue Jr.

  and watch their favorite

  Disney movies.

  Like a candy wrapper on the ground,

  the best part gone.

  Again and again

  they look in the wrapper,

  wanting something to be there.

  “Brooklyn, come on,

  play with us, play with us!”

  Sorry, boys.

  Nothing there.

  It’s just

  gone.

  Fri., Feb. 10th—Nico

  Not sure what to do

  with myself, I go for a run after school.

  I haven’t gone far when I look up

  at the pale blue sky splattered with clouds.

  She taught me to slow down.

  To look up and enjoy the view.

  To not worry so much about the end result

  that I end up missing things along the way.

  I stop when a bird flies above me.

  I watch him soar, uninhibited and free.

  I want to be like that.

  I think she does too.

  Uninhibited and free,

  soaring to new heights,

  never standing back, afraid.

  Sat., Feb. 11th—Brooklyn

  In this dream

  I’m standing in the toy store,

  the aisles filled with

  dolls and action figures,

  board games and bead kits.

  There’s a twenty-dollar bill

  in my hand so I search the aisles,

  looking for something to buy.

  How do I choose?

  How do I decide?

  What would make me happy?

  I circle the store,

  panic rising in my chest.

  I’m supposed to buy something.

  I know that.

  But it feels like this is a test.

  What I choose means something.

  After what seems like hours,

  I choose a doll

  dressed in a pretty pink dress.

  An old man with big, red lesions

  all over his face and bloodshot eyes

  glares at me from behind the register.

  “You sure that’s what you want?” he asks.

  “No.

  I don’t know.

  I don’t know what I want.”

  “It’s time to figure it out,” he says.

  His face starts to change.

  The wrinkles fade,

  the nose shrinks,

  and the old man

  morphs into Gabe.

  His face is sunken and hollow,

  with bulging, bloodshot eyes

  and yellow, cracked teeth.

  And those sores.

  They open, bleed and scab over

  until his face is so hideous,

  I scream while turning

  and running to the door.

  But it’s locked.

  I look behind me.

  He’s standing there,

  holding my notebook.

  The notebook that went missing.

  The notebook filled with all

  my thoughts and feelings

  from the past year.

  The notebook I want back.

  “You want it?” he asks.

  “You have to come and get it.”

  “I can’t,” I scream.

  God, I’m so afraid.

  “Don’t let fear control you.”

  Why won’t he just stop?

  How can I not be afraid?

  He holds out the notebook

  and steps closer.

  As I stand there,

  looking at him,

  wanting desperately

  to get away,

  I know there’s no other solution.

  I have to face him.

  I have to stop running.

  I take a breath.

  I take a step.

  Another breath.

  Another step.

  When I’m finally

  just inches away,

  I reach out and grab the notebook

  from his hands.

  As I do, he turns from the

  gruesome monster

  to the Gabe I used to know.

  Handsome face.

  Thick, brown hair.

  Warm green eyes.

  “Why?” I ask,

  my eyes filled with tears.

  “I made you a promise,” he says.

  “Don’t you remember?

  We promised to help each other through the pain.

  So I had to get you to see, Brooklyn.”

  “What? That I shouldn’t be afraid?”

  “Exactly. That you have choices.

  Make the right ones.

  Don’t let fear rule you like
it ruled me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gabe.

  I’m sorry I let you down.

  I didn’t keep my promise to you.”

  He reaches out

  and puts his finger

  to my lips.

  “Shhhh. Don’t.

  No more living in the past.

  Okay?”

  My insides are trembling.

  My outsides, too,

  as my brothers call my name,

  shaking me to wake up.

  He’s gone.

  I’m back on the couch.

  Safe and sound

  in my home,

  with my notebook

  in my hands.

  #290