Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,20

sister.

As a family.

She says she’s sorry for how much she missed that year.

And all the other times she hasn’t been around.

I ask her if April knows the truth,

she says she will talk to her too.

I used to imagine she saw us as a train

she could ride at will,

instead of a station,

fixed, every day.

I wonder now if maybe

a family is neither of those things

but something stable,

yet always changing,

because the people inside it are.

I move from the windowseat.

Don’t hug her or thank her,

but I do ask her

where on earth

she found that suit.

She laughs.

After she leaves,

I find the buried broken fish

in the bottom of my closet—

carry the pieces to the bathroom sink,

wash them one by one,

lay them gently

to dry

on the ledge.

CONNECT FOUR

LAST QUARTER MOON, 18 DAYS LEFT

Dylan calls,

he misses me,

can he come over.

So little time left

before school is over.

I take a breath,

say okay.

When he arrives,

I try to walk him straight to my room

but he stops—

looks around—

touches every piece of art:

Dad’s masks,

Mom’s glass creatures,

says my parents are

sort of geniuses.

Dad calls out, asks who’s here,

tells us to come say hi.

I pause.

Dylan smiles at me

sideways.

We plunk down the two steps to the living room.

James there too.

For now,

another day,

another round of chess.

Dylan says

he likes James’s Alice in Chains shirt,

Dad asks Dylan about college.

I watch Dylan’s eyes

scan Dad’s hollowed face,

his hair sticking up,

small lesion scabbing his mouth.

Steer Dylan to my room,

we pull out Connect Four.

I’m red. Dylan’s black.

About to put my first piece in—

he blocks my hand, holds it,

says Mira, I’m so sorry.

Why didn’t you tell us?

I say I didn’t know how.

Then I say to myself, as much as to Dylan:

The HIV’s progressed to full-blown AIDS.

He’s dying.

Tears in his eyes,

Dylan says I know,

he has a cousin

who has it too.

I tell him I’m sorry.

Suck in my breath.

Tell him my parents

have an open marriage.

He nods.

Tell him Adam

thinks it’s all disgusting.

Dylan says

Adam’s a jackass.

We play the game,

drop

pieces in.

As the chips fall and land,

truth fills the space between us,

and, one by one,

red over black under red,

my heart lifts a little,

we both win.

SPRING WIND

Need to find Chloe,

need to tell her the truth.

But the school lobby’s mobbed,

kids crying, hugging—

Chloe at their nucleus,

crying the hardest.

Dylan next to her, pale, dark-circled eyes.

I ask him what’s going on.

He says Kurt Cobain’s dead.

Chloe reaches for me.

Pours into my arms.

Walks with her head

bent on my shoulder.

Spring wind goosebumps our arms,

sun peeks out from behind buildings.

I lead her to a stoop.

She says she can’t believe

he’s dead, through

gasping breaths.

She was obsessed with him.

I’m tempted to hide my truth again,

focus on Chloe’s pain,

so sad about this rock star

she’s never met.

But I can’t—

Chloe, I need to tell you something,

grab her hand.

My dad’s HIV has turned into full-blown AIDS.

He was given a month to live.

Today is day 15.

She stops crying right away.

Wipes tears with the back of her hand.

She says

oh my god, I’m so sorry.

Holds me in a hug.

I tell her I’m sorry

for keeping everything from her.

I didn’t know

how else to deal.

I also tell her about Adam.

How hateful he was

just after

I lost my virginity to him.

I ask her if she thinks I’m a liar.

She doesn’t answer,

just says:

she loves me

for who I am.

SPROUTS FROM SKELETON TREES

At home, Dad’s eyes bright,

he’s in the kitchen,

warming soup.

I tell him about Kurt Cobain,

he shakes his head, sits.

Mom and April, in the living room,

practicing lines for the spring play.

Feeling lighter,

after confessing everything

to Dylan, Chloe.

I stick my head out the window,

a breath before I start my homework.

Even though it’s chilly,

faces of green leaves poke out,

sprouts from skeleton trees.

PINK WAKE

WANING CRESCENT MOON, 14 DAYS LEFT

Dylan, April and I walk through the park,

the sun, full and pink,

they chatter about the AIDS Walk,

how they can’t wait to be part of it,

my heart sinks a little,

thinking about May.

How can they look forward

to walking with other people

when Dad might not be alive?

Would he even want us to walk?

Show our pride?

Is he proud?

When April and I come through the door,

Dad’s smile couldn’t be bigger—

his face looks almost round.

Three envelopes in his hands:

Kenyon, Bowdoin, Dickinson.

We tear them open together,

like kids at a birthday party.

Everything else fades away

Dad beams

the sun sets

leaving a wake of bright pink

in the silvery spring sky.

BUT, FOR A WHILE

We toast

me

Dad

April

Mom

with Geneva cookies,

ginger ale,

custard apple.

Celebrate my acceptances to

Kenyon

Dickinson

(wait-listed at Bowdoin).

A year ago

I would’ve been devastated by a wait list,

but not now,

only joy.

Grace even put in a note,

she saw a meteor shower,

hopes I choose Dickinson.

We celebrate with a game,

the four of us, a family.

Chinese checkers:

April’s green.

Mom, red.

I choose blue.

Dad, white.

The board, a star.

None of us say much during the game,

marching pieces from our individual sides,

but for a while

we are all jumbled up,

jumping over each other to get