Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,15

few days later, swirling down the hallway toward Astronomy,

I hear a sophomore say it:

Her dad’s HIV Positive.

But how? He’s married.

Are they going to get divorced?

Does her mom have it?

They must be scared.

I’d be, like, grossed out.

Did you hear?

Isn’t that awful?

All these questions dizzying me,

but I have one of my own:

How do they know?

My breath comes quick, my head spins,

and I bump clear into Chloe.

CORNERED

She’s been crying.

Her turquoise eyes shining.

She pulls me into the corner of the hallway,

asks why I didn’t tell her.

My insides shrink,

all I can think to say is I didn’t know how.

She asks did I think she couldn’t handle it,

that she wouldn’t understand or be helpful?

I shake my head no, that’s not it.

But I don’t say anything

except I’m sorry.

We stand in strained silence,

then the Yearbook advisor

taps me on the shoulder.

WHAT’S FAIR

Chloe knows.

Everyone knows.

April. April told everyone

is all I can think

as the advisor guides me

to her office.

Again.

She says I haven’t shown I care at all,

I can no longer be yearbook editor.

It’s not fair to the rest of the staff,

they can’t have someone in charge

who doesn’t want to be.

Exhausted, I say fine,

walk out.

Punishment only works if you care.

OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE STREET

I bolt out of school,

walk fast to the bus stop

past the diner, the Bagelry.

April calls out to me, close behind,

asks why I didn’t wait.

I whip around, say

how dare you,

the whole school knows now,

about our family.

I’m not ashamed

is all she says.

We board the bus,

she keeps talking:

Just because our family is different, doesn’t mean it’s bad.

I look around at all the people,

all I see is judgment.

I tell April I got kicked off Yearbook.

How Chloe is upset with me

for not telling her first.

Can’t imagine what Dylan must think.

April tells me she’s sorry but I need to start

letting people in and stop fighting.

I tell her to stop

lecturing me.

We walk home

on opposite sides of the street,

hundreds of people walk past me,

but I’ve never felt more

alone.

HOLD FAST TO THIS TIME

Sunday morning, a note slipped under my door:

Dearest Miranda,

Happy 18th Birthday!

You’re all grown up.

I’m sorry for how hard things have been.

Hold fast to this time,

you only have one Senior Year.

Celebrate!

Love,

Dad

STREETS OF HEAVEN

MARCH 21, 1994

The night of my birthday,

Chloe invites me to come over

but I say thanks, no.

I watch the Oscars, alone.

We used to watch together,

as a family,

place bets.

But April’s with James,

volunteering at the Gay Men’s Health Crisis.

Mom drawing, Dad asleep.

Flip on the TV.

The red carpet, the gowns.

Who will be the winners:

Leonardo DiCaprio for What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?

Winona Ryder for The Age of Innocence?

Whoopi Goldberg jokes,

Schindler’s List wins almost everything.

Tom Hanks wins for Philadelphia,

says:

The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels . . .

They number a thousand

for each one of the red ribbons

that we wear here tonight . . .

I make a wish,

push OFF.

The TV flashes once

before it fades to black.

CONSIDERATION

I have never been sent to the principal’s office.

Not until today.

My teachers want to talk about my performance in school.

Mr. R says I’ve shown very little leadership in Peer Mentorship,

the Yearbook advisor says how disappointed she is,

only Mr. Lamb reports

I’m doing well in Astronomy.

The principal says that if I don’t shape up,

they will have to take disciplinary action,

that it could jeopardize my college applications.

They also say they know about my situation.

That Mom called them to explain,

told them they should take that into consideration.

They say they’re sorry but it’s no excuse for my behavior.

I was always so responsible, such a good student, such a joiner.

I tell them I just don’t see the point anymore.

I tell them about Hubble’s Law:

Things seem close, but really they are far away.

They say I should see the school psychologist,

maybe she can help me.

Get back on track.

Find my way back.

Before I can respond,

the bell rings.

SUPERNOVA

Astro,

I scan the room for watchful eyes.

Take a seat,

Dylan whispers happy belated birthday,

asks how I am,

says he’s left several messages,

he’s heard, he’s really sorry.

Tell him I’m fine, try to focus.

Mr. Lamb defines supernovas:

A rare phenomenon

involving the explosion—

The school secretary marches in,

of most of the material in a star,

resulting in an extremely bright—

hands him a note, leaves.

short-lived object that emits

vast amounts of energy—

He reads it.

Mira, come up here.

I can feel all of their stares,

walk quickly to the front.

Could the colleges know how badly I’m doing already?

Mr. Lamb’s face floats above

in a cloud of fluorescent light,

he whispers

Mira, your dad’s in the emergency room.

Go get your sister, here’s your pass.

Then, voice booming:

Class, turn to assignment 5B, and start working.

WHITEOUT

The white of the hospital blasts

as the dark gray elevator opens.

April chews the side of her lip.

I grab her hand.

We march

down the hallway

caught in a whiteout

our only real guide

vanished.

SKYSCRAPING

We open

the closed door:

Dad, greasy hair,

in