Page 4 of Chasing Brooklyn

their first date was a trip to the art museum

  and an Italian dinner afterward.

  Being Italian, he wanted to see if she liked the food.

  Turned out she loved it.

  Turned out he loved her.

  And the feeling became mutual.

  I look out the window and see her

  walking up the front path.

  Her wavy brown hair is tucked behind her ears

  and there’s a hint of apprehension in her sad, dark eyes.

  She hasn’t been here since he died.

  I wonder what she’s thinking.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn

  I tell myself

  it’s just a house.

  A house with walls,

  windows,

  doors,

  and a roof on top.

  I tell myself

  don’t think about the window

  up there on the second floor,

  the one he looked out of

  while he talked to you on the phone,

  telling you how much

  he loved you.

  I tell myself

  don’t think about the front door

  he walked through a million times

  or the welcome mat

  that no longer

  welcomes him.

  I tell myself

  don’t cry.

  But I do.

  Because it’s

  so much more

  than just

  a house.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico

  Oh no.

  She’s crying.

  I opened the door,

  she fell into my arms

  and she’s standing here crying.

  I gently move her to the sofa

  in the living room.

  What do I do?

  I’m not good at this.

  I mean, come on.

  A crying girl?

  In my house?

  The one time Ma might actually be useful,

  she’s not here.

  Help!

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn

  When he opens the door,

  I step in

  and an army of memories

  comes at me from all sides.

  Meeting his parents for the first time.

  Studying for finals together, munching on peanut

  M&Ms.

  Making out in his room when no one was home.

  A trickle becomes

  a sprinkler.

  Nico looks like he wants to call

  for a rescue party.

  To rescue him.

  Not me.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico

  She finally stops crying.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Just what you needed, right?”

  “You want a glass of water?” I ask her.

  She nods and follows me to the kitchen.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Work.”

  I feel her eyes on my back

  as I fill the glass with ice cubes and water

  from the fridge door.

  Our eyes meet as I turn around and hand her the glass.

  The sadness between us is thick,

  like smoke.

  I take a deep breath.

  She does too.

  I watch her swirl the glass around,

  the ice cubes

  clink

  clink

  clinking together,

  trying to separate

  but always coming back together

  eventually.

  “Why’d you ask me here, Nico?”

  “Worried about you, I guess. Are you doing okay?”

  She shrugs.

  Because she isn’t.

  But to say it out loud is like admitting defeat.

  It’s been a year.

  We should be okay.

  Somewhat okay, anyway.

  “Can I see his room?” she asks.

  Damn.

  This isn’t good.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn

  Up the stairs.

  Down the hall.

  Third door on the right.

  The door is closed.

  Nico takes a deep breath

  before he turns the knob.

  Then he turns it

  very

  very

  slowly.

  In the movies

  the dead person’s room

  is always so neat,

  it’s freaky.

  This room

  is so messy

  it’s freaky.

  An unmade bed,

  clothes all over the floor,

  dirty dishes on his desk.

  It’s as if Lucca

  was just here this morning,

  getting ready for school.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Ma wanted to keep it the way he left it.”

  “Yeah. Obviously.”

  I walk around

  his room,

  taking it all in.

  His drawings,

  on his desk,

  and his messy handwriting

  scribbled on the pages.

  His iPod,

  full of songs

  he listened to and loved.

  His pictures,

  me and him,

  taped to his computer monitor,

  smiling, gushing,

  totally in love.

  His clothes,

  ones he used to wear

  on a warm, living body.

  I pick a shirt up

  off the floor,

  and hold it to my face.

  Unbelievable.

  It’s still there.

  The slightest scent of Lucca,

  the scent of joy, of art, of love,

  still there.

  I blink fast

  trying to keep the tears away

  but unable to.

  I bury my face

  in the shirt

  and the tears come

  because Lucca

  should be sitting at the desk,

  listening to his iPod

  writing me an e-mail,

  wearing this shirt.

  He should be here.

  And he’s not.

  The room is suddenly

  a merry-go-round,

  spinning faster and faster.

  My legs buckle beneath me

  from the intensity of it all.

  Strong, steady arms

  wrap around me,

  holding me up

  and moving me

  to the bed,

  where we sit down.

  I lean into him.

  “He should be here, Nico.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  He doesn’t have to.

  That’s why the room

  was left

  exactly the same.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico

  I let her talk

  and cry.

  Maybe this is what she needed.

  Maybe Lucca was afraid

  this Gabe thing might push her over the edge.

  Maybe he just wanted me to listen

  and tell her it’ll be okay.

  During the course of our conversation

  she says she feels

  shocked

  sad

  confused

  terrible

  powerless

  empty

  and bitter

  and a couple more I missed.

  “I know. It sucks,” I tell her.

  “But it’ll be okay.”

  She looks at me like I just told her

  I have a ghost haunting me.

  Like there’s no way

  that can possibly be true.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn

  I talk and cry

  while Nico sits and listens.

  Like we’ve been friends forever.

  Finally, I use the shirt

  to wipe the tears

  and take a
deep breath.

  We’re quiet

  for a long time

  and then Nico points

  to a pair of boxer shorts on the floor.

  “I’m glad you picked the shirt.”

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico

  Before she goes

  I ask her if she wants anything.

  Something of his to take with her.

  “Can I borrow his iPod?”

  I nod, so she picks it up and sticks it in her purse.

  “I better go,” she says. “My dad’s going to be looking for

  dinner soon.”

  “Does it frequently hide or something?” I ask.

  She smiles.

  “Lucca was right. You’re funny.”

  I walk her to the door.

  She lingers there, her fingers fiddling with the doorknob.

  “I still don’t get it,” she says. “Why get in touch with me now?

  It’s been so long.”

  Right then, I’m tempted.

  Tempted to tell her my brother seems to be haunting me.

  But if I want to keep her talking to me,

  I can’t say that.

  So I don’t.

  “I just had a feeling. A feeling you could use a friend.”

  I tuck her hair back behind her ear. “And I think I was right.”

  She looks at me like she wants to tell me something.

  But then she looks away, opens the door,

  and leaves.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn

  He thought

  I might need

  a friend.

  I’m not exactly sure

  what I need

  but another friend

  probably can’t hurt.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Nico

  The perfect thing

  hits my e-mail at just the right time.

  A sprint triathlon coming up in the next town over.

  I click the register button

  and dream of losing myself

  in the intense training

  that will ensue

  in the coming days and weeks.

  I’ll lose myself in the pain.

  It might not make sense.

  But it works.

  Fri., Jan. 13th—Brooklyn

  Half his iPod

  is filled with

  The Killers

  because he loved them.

  There’s some

  Fall Out Boy,

  Linkin Park,

  Coldplay,

  and All-American Rejects

  and it’s like

  I’m in Lucca’s head,

  being Lucca,

  listening to the music

  he loved.

  The beautiful thing is,

  music can be like

  a time machine.

  One song—

  the lyrics, the melody, the mood—

  can take you back

  to a moment in time

  like nothing else can.

  And so,

  when the song comes up

  that takes me back

  to a night

  in a hot, sweaty gym

  where we danced slow

  for the first time,

  I close my eyes,

  listen to You and Me

  by Lifehouse

  and it’s like I’m there.

  I’m there and

  we’re dancing.

  I look up at him,

  he kisses me,

  the room is glowing,

  my heart is pounding,

  my head is screaming

  I love you, Lucca!

  Music is so personal.

  I fall asleep

  with the music playing.

  It comforts me.

  Like he’s lying

  right there next to me,

  his breath,

  the sweetest music of all,

  whispering in my ear.

  Sat., Jan. 14th—Nico

  I wake up freezing.

  The window is open again.

  I go to close it and when I do,

  I see something written on the glass.

  It’s faint,

  like someone wrote it with a dirty fingertip,

  but if I squint my eyes just right

  I can see the words.

  help her

  I spin around and look for any other signs

  that he was here.

  Nothing.

  I don’t get it.

  I wish he would tell me how exactly

  I’m supposed to help her!

  Sat., Jan. 14th—Brooklyn

  I’m in a field.

  A big, open field

  filled with beautiful white daisies.

  In the distance,

  a forest stands at attention.

  I’ll stay here,

  feeling sparkly and new,

  like laundry hung out to dry

  on a warm, sunny day.

  It’s peaceful here.

  Serene.

  It feels like we belong together,

  me and these daisies.

  But then,

  something moves

  in the distance,

  near the forest.

  I feel panic

  rise up in me.

  Has he found me again?

  Am I in danger

  no matter where I go?

  As the figure approaches,

  I see that it’s him.

  He’s getting closer,

  and I urge my legs

  to start moving.

  A breeze picks up

  and I watch as the

  precious, fragile flowers

  blow in the wind,

  their stems reaching up,

  offering me hundreds

  of helping hands.

  I run through the field,

  crushing their helping hands

  like a cold, heartless soul.

  I run,

  knowing they can’t help me.

  I wake up,

  feeling like no one can.

  #283

  Dear Lucca,

  I feel like you’re the only one I can talk to

  about this. About Gabe. About these frightening

  nightmares that are more real than any dreams

  I’ve ever had. Why is this happening?

  Why aren’t you visiting me in my dreams?

  Why him? I don’t get it. It makes no sense.

  Please, help me. I need it to make sense.

  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Sat., Jan. 14th—Nico

  I’m not really good

  at detective work.

  Look for clues,

  narrow down possibilities,

  follow hunches,

  identify leads.

  I want to know

  where to go

  and what to do.

  Give me a list

  with specific things to do,

  and I’m good to go.

  Otherwise, forget it.

  I write a note and tape it to my window—

  I’M NOT A DETECTIVE.

  BE SPECIFIC!

  Sat., Jan. 14th—Brooklyn

  I spend the day

  by myself,

  just walking.

  Walking around town

  looking in windows

  filled with pretty things.

  They call it

  window shopping.

  I call it

  window dreaming.

  Dreaming of being

  the mannequin

  smiling,

  looking hot,

  nothing wrong,

  the world

  picture perfect

  from the window.

  Sat., Jan. 14th—Nico

  Another Saturday.

  Another long run,

  hoping to put distance

  between me

  and everything else.

  The farther,


  the better.

  Only problem is,

  the distance is just temporary,

  Because no matter how far I go,

  I always have to come back.

  Sun., Jan. 15th—Brooklyn

  A dark, narrow street

  void of houses

  or buildings

  or people.

  No matter how fast I run,