Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,8

head spins.

I wonder, if I let him in,

if he could light me, even from a distance,

the way the moon is only bright

because it bathes in the sun’s light.

Or how sailors look to the North Star

to guide them, give direction.

Maybe Adam could be that for me again.

I look down, up into his eyes.

Nod my head.

And for a minute,

my head buzzing with beer,

all I want is for Adam to

pour himself into me.

His face floats above me,

so close, so familiar,

but all I can see is James, lying naked, on my parents’ bed.

And I can’t.

I push Adam off.

Tell him no.

He grumbles

geez, Mira, you’re going to have to grow up sometime.

I tell him growing up sucks.

He shrugs. Doesn’t agree.

The heat clicks on, deafening

Adam’s harsh words—

they float out

into

the howling

December winds.

I follow.

WINDSWEPT

Shut the door quietly,

out of Adam’s apartment,

walk to the gold-mirrored elevator,

my reflection framed in the warp of its mirror:

just a little girl at night,

on a balcony,

my long knotted hair,

eyes squinting

up.

I don’t go straight home,

wander a bit in the night,

think about how quickly people can change,

act in ways you don’t expect.

An unpredicted storm that

leaves people out,

windswept,

in the cold.

CONSEQUENCES

3am.

I walk past piles of mail,

clutter on the table.

Dad sees my reflection

in the hallway mirror

before I see him.

He tells me to sit down,

says he knows I’m upset,

that I’m trying to punish him

for what happened,

for things being different than they seemed.

He says he never meant for his choices to hurt us.

Somehow this makes it worse,

like he wasn’t even thinking of me, April, our family.

I ask him why he’s even awake.

He says he’s not feeling well,

been up all night, in the bathroom.

Says not to distract him from the issue at hand,

this is unacceptable, I’m grounded—

something I’ve never been before.

His face changes then,

Dad looks so different

than the person who

used to help me with my homework,

hushed me back to sleep after a nightmare.

This man is

unfamiliar.

But all I say is fine, I’m grounded.

Whatever that means.

He says no going out this week after school.

No talking on the phone either.

He says there have to be consequences

for bad behavior.

Then he walks down the hall,

steadies himself

hand to wall.

In the mirror

I watch

his giant shadow shrink,

disappear.

RECORDING SESSION

December

SESSION THREE

I want to get just a few more questions in before break.

Question six: What would you like your legacy to be? If you could only teach us—or your students—one thing, what would it be?

It would be to challenge yourself. Let the world move you. Make something of your own, something new.

Sounds like a Hallmark card.

Miranda—

Fine. Can you be more specific?

Okay, well, this student I had when I was teaching high school Spanish—Camilla. She made her own time travel machine from cardboard when we read A Wrinkle in Time. Or the way you and your sister have made videos, written songs, how you feel when you are making Yearbook, how your mom feels when she’s making art, or me, making a costume. Just in the zone. Stay true to your art, your passion. I would want you to remember that.

Why?

Because the world can be a confusing, scary place, Miranda. Not everything will make sense. But you can control your choices. You can control your creations. It can help make the world feel manageable. I see you struggling—

Question seven: What would you put in a time capsule to represent your life?

(Laughs) That’s a ridiculous question.

Dad. Just answer it.

I don’t know. A copy of Don Quixote. A chess piece. A feather.

COLD GROWS COLDER

The week I’m grounded,

time seems to still.

Silent, empty.

I mark time

by problems half-solved.

Paragraphs half-read.

Finally, winter break.

Chloe and I used to spend it having

double sleepovers at my house, playing Clue VCR,

eating cookie dough, shopping on Columbus.

This break,

me, Dylan, Chloe

spend lots of time

getting rocked:

smoking pot on the Big Rock,

listening to Phish at Dylan’s house,

the music taking us up,

we laugh so hard I can almost forget who I am.

Sometimes Chloe locks herself in the bathroom,

only lets me in,

I listen to her problems,

then ask her questions

about movies and music.

She says I’m the only one

who knows how to calm her down.

Chloe doesn’t know that helping her

with her problems

is the only way to forget my own.

EVERY TRIANGLED SIDE

I.

I bump into James

in the elevator,

haven’t seen him since

walking in on him and Dad.

My throat swells.

I can’t look at him without remembering him naked.

I look down.

Notice he’s bringing up our ornament boxes

from the storage space in the basement.

Four boxes stacked around him.

I don’t ask questions, but he explains quickly

that Dad wasn’t feeling well again,

Mom had a big project,

Dad asked if he could buy the tree,

bring the boxes up.

I don’t offer to help.

II.

Dad lying on the couch,

says what James has already told me.

I tell him I