The Places We Sleep Read online

  into the south tower.

  Cursive

  plumes

  of

  smoke

  drawing

  an

  upward

  line.

  People exiting,

  fleeing,

  men and women

  workers and visitors running,

  stumbling, dazed,

  afraid.

  Then,

  a THIRD plane slams the Pentagon—

  fueling angry flames.

  C

  o

  l

  l

  a

  p

  s

  e

  of the first tower.

  A FOURTH plane smacks

  ground in another state.

  The

  coll-

  apse

  of the second tower.

  These

  things

  we

  can’t

  un-

  see.

  12.

  Morning arrives

  regardless

  and finds me Momless.

  Planes fell from the sky!

  You’d think they’d close the schools.

  But not here.

  Dad says they’re aiming for “normal”—

  as if middle school is ever that.

  I bet there’s no school for days

  in New York.

  So like any other Wednesday, it’s

  sun up,

  get up,

  get ready.

  One foot in front of the other.

  “You know the drill!” Dad barks.

  But has anyone found Aunt Rose?

  Images from the TV footage replay in my head.

  I yank the spotted sheets from my bed

  and feed them to the washing machine.

  Twice, I scour my hands,

  but the feelings don’t wash away.

  Usually Dad

  is THE ONE out of town,

  on a mission—a top-secret this or that.

  But here we are together—him, me, and the silence

  at the kitchen table.

  Just the three of us!

  I picture Mom driving north, biting her nails into oblivion.

  Dad sounds nervous when he speaks in my direction:

  “Do you…need anything?”

  He must’ve seen through my grocery store charade

  and called Mom last night.

  Yes! I want to shout

  with two competing thoughts: I need you. I don’t need you.

  Then I second-guess myself:

  Does he mean breakfast?

  “I’m good. I’ve got…what I need,” I mutter,

  trying to disappear,

  and hoping he’s not talking about

  what I think

  he’s talking about.

  Seconds later, he jumps when the phone rings,

  acts surprised that it’s Mom, hands me the phone

  too delicately, as if avoiding contact.

  Mom’s distracted—so many miles away—

  but tries to sound positive.

  I can tell by her voice that she knows:

  “Abbey, sweetheart…welcome!

  It’s your entry

  into womanhood!”

  But as I sit there clutching the phone,

  lonely

  is all I feel.

  13.

  As if it couldn’t get worse,

  Dad returns from his bedroom

  holding a book—A BOOK!—

  with a faded, outdated cover.

  “Your mom told me you should—uh—

  read this, I guess,” he grunts

  in his serious Sergeant’s voice.

  Then he stands there staring into his coffee.

  And I stare at the book

  as my face

  ignites.

  Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

  Margaret looks more secure

  than I’ve ever felt.

  “It was your mom’s,” he offers,

  planting his palm gently on top of my head,

  as if he could press down

  and hold me at this height

  forever.

  14.

  In my backpack,

  I conceal the girl stuff

  like foreigners among the pencils,

  gum wrappers, and notebooks.

  Like flags of surrender

  like wings separated from the butterfly,

  like little white handkerchiefs,

  like folded notes

  never to be postmarked.

  The word SANITARY

  imprinted loudly in my head,

  making my skin crawl.

  What’s sanitary

  about this silent

  siege

  on my body?

  15.

  In Ms. Dequire’s room, some boys

  actually sound elated: “Did you see them fall?”

  “KABOOM!” they say, making planes

  with their hands.

  I avoid eye contact, look away, escape

  into my head. But at a school this small,

  you can’t escape being new.

  I scan the halls for the other new girl, Jiman,

  and am struck by her solemn appearance,

  eyes cast low and serious.

  Does she know someone in New York, too?

  I wonder to myself

  What did Aunt Rose do?

  Was she aware,

  unaware,

  have time to prepare?

  Type an e-mail,

  make a call,

  run or scream or cry,

  take the elevator,

  take the stairs,

  have time to think, to blink,

  time to wish, to wonder,

  did someone help her,

  was she alone,

  did she whisper a prayer,

  close her eyes,

  glimpse the pictures

  on her desk

  and on her wall?

  And where

  is she now?

  16.

  Like a shadow on an overcast day,

  staring at my own two feet,

  I walk at a distance behind Camille,

  steal peeks at her and her teammates,

  her friends from before we met.

  She doesn’t know I’m back here

  and there’re twenty-some people between us—

  or she’d wave me into her crowd

  and link her arm through mine.

  She’s just one of those people—

  everybody likes her,

  except maybe The Trio,

  who just like each other.

  Jiman walks by herself like me,

  the smile she’s worn since August is gone,

  her eyes dart side to side

  as she takes

  careful

  nervous

  steps.

  While battling my locker,

  I overhear Camille’s other friend,

  her neighbor Jacob,

  say, “Where’s Whatserface,

  that new girl who’s always drawing?”

  And Camille,

  in her singsong voice, reply:

  “Her name’s Abbey. Learn it. Use it!”

  Then teasingly,

  “She could teach you

  a thing or two

  about art!”

  I smile desp
ite myself.

  I’ve never made such a good friend

  so quickly.

  17.

  Even with Camille,

  I can’t shake what I feel:

  I’m still that girl—

  the one who doesn’t belong,

  not fully alone,

  but surrounded enough to have to try

  to fit in, to blend,

  like oil paint

  and water.

  Art

  has always been my thing

  from school to school,

  but maybe here in Tennessee,

  maybe now,

  it’s not enough.

  I want to be known.

  I want to be

  seen.

  I’m used to

  the adjusting,

  starting over, the beginning

  again, others passing by me

  staring through me,

  or asking

  Who’re you?

  I worry about people speaking to me

  and worry just the same

  when they don’t.

  Sometimes, I think

  I might blow away

  like autumn leaves,

  like ashes from a fire,

  like sheets of paper

  from a spiral

  as I trip and stumble,

  try to hold it together

  like some pre-teen

  Humpty Dumpty

  just beginning

  to crack.

  18.

  I lug my backpack

  to every subject,

  the zipper’s smile—

  tight and toothy—

  protecting my backup

  stash. I minimize

  my movements, aim for

  inconspicuous, stay

  in my lane, hope no

  one notices how

  every hour or two

  I leave class.

  Then

  Ms. Dequire

  actually complains

  to the whole class,

  “Again, Abbey?”

  and sighs

  dramatically.

  19.

  Some kids at Henley

  resemble kids from my previous schools,

  from each state

  where Dad has been stationed.

  I used to rattle off

  all of my schools

  like a chant I’d memorized for class

  or a mnemonic device

  like “The Presidents Song.”

  But the schools are beginning to blur,

  and I think I’ve forgotten a few.

  It’s hard to keep my own history straight

  now that the school count

  totals over eight.

  From first grade until now,

  I’ve known six Blakes—

  five that were boys

  and one Blake girl.

  I hear that name now in the hall,

  and turn, expecting one of the Blakes

  from before.

  But it’s a new Blake,

  a new face

  to learn.

  Maybe there’s another Abbey here already

  at Henley.

  At my last school,

  most of the parents

  were also Army,

  just like Dad.

  But Henley’s far from the base.

  Mom planned it that way this time,

  to live like the longtime residents

  in a civilian neighborhood,

  without the coming and going

  of people and their stuff

  that occurs when you live

  on a base.

  It might’ve been easier

  to be just one

  of many Army Abbeys

  in a school

  filled with other

  Army kids.

  20.

  It took me exactly one week, four days precisely,

  to meet The Trio of Henley Middle:

  Sheila, Angela, Lana

  Angela, Lana, Sheila

  Lana, Sheila, Angela

  The first few weeks, I confused their names.

  But now, like everyone else,

  I know their flawless faces

  and can place their voices

  from around any corner.

  When they saunter down the hall,

  hip-to-hip-to-hip,

  you have to scoot way over

  to let them pass.

  They won’t see you.

  If one wears teal, the others do too.

  If one skips lunch, the others do too.

  If the football boys sneeze, The Trio coos, “Bless you!”

  If one scoffs at you,

  the whole school

  scoffs too.

  21.

  On the bus, I update Camille.

  tell her about Aunt Rose—

  at least all I currently know—

  which is

  nothing.

  We scrunch down low in the seat,

  knees against the bench in front of us

  as if holding it up.

  “That’s terrible!” she exclaims.

  “My parents are donating their blood.”

  “And there’s something else,” I whisper,

  “I

   got

  IT!”

  Then my only friend in Tennessee

  studies me as if I’m somebody

  she’s just met.

  “IT?” she whispers back.

  “IT!” I confirm.

  And after a pause, she beams:

  “I could tell you were different!”

  “That obvious?” I groan.

  “It’s just that I know you!” She grins.

  I stare at her briefly,

  not sure how I got so lucky.

  “Pretty sure The Trio have it, too,” she adds.

  “Great!” I roll my eyes.

  “I’m in a club!”

  We erupt in laughter—

  the kind that turns to tears—

  as others on the bus

  stare at where we sit,

  but I don’t care

  because we’re just two voices floating up and out

  the half-lowered,

  rectangular

  windows.

  22.

  Down the aisle of the bus, I wobble

  with a smidgeon more confidence than before,

  and just as I turn to wave at Camille,

  who makes a Call me

  gesture with her hand,

  “Army brat!” is spat

  from the mouth of somebody I pass.

  That’s how we described ourselves

  at some of my other schools—but this doesn’t feel

  like that now, this label that’s not my name.

  I spot Jacob, Camille’s neighbor,

  and a pack of smirking boys at the back

  who start to snicker.

  To my surprise, Jiman

  suddenly seems to see me,

  looks directly in my eyes and semi-smiles

  just as I bolt past her.

  Or did I imagine that?

  Maybe she was smiling

  to herself.

  The confusion I feel

  is for real

  and can’t be erased

  from my easy-to-read

  open-book

  face.

  23.

  At home, I perch on the corner of the couch,

  behind my hair
and my latest sketch.

  I draw when I can’t handle my thoughts, imagine my art

  hanging somewhere cool, like the school’s hallway,

  with a circle of friends surrounding me,

  saying, “Nice work, Abbey!”

  Dad sits like the Lincoln Memorial,

  upright in his reclining chair.

  He’s purchased some “female gear”

  and deposited it, in a brown paper bag,

  on my bed while I was at school.

  Beside it, he’s placed a new sketchbook.

  Neither of us mentions this.

  Instead, we choose to stare straight ahead.

  Still no sight of Aunt Rose’s face on the TV.

  The 24-hour coverage shocks and shocks:

  the Twin Towers collapsing into themselves,

  the dark cloud hovering, people fleeing,

  and the planes crashing over and over again,

  as if perhaps this time by accident

  but aimed so perfectly.

  “I just don’t get it,” I whisper.

  “They’re terrorists,” Dad tells me,

  matter-of-factly, but his voice catches

  and he coughs

  and switches the channel again.

  New York has never seemed so close—

  yet Mom so far.

  On another station, they say:

  “We’ve been attacked on our own soil.”

  I know a few things about war,

  from Dad—

  Germany, Hiroshima, Vietnam,

  but not here.

  “You shouldn’t be watching this.” Dad finally snaps

  it off, grabs his combat boots to polish

  since it’s something he can do with his hands.

  I know he wishes he were there,

  in New York. Instead of here,

  with me.

  24.

  On the phone,

  Camille makes small talk and tries to cheer me up:

  “You move a lot! That’s all Army brat means.

  It was probably one of those jocks at the back.

  Or one of The Trio—Angela was back there.

  She’s probably just jealous.”

  “Yeah, right!” I sigh

  and kick a pillow from my bed, thinking of Mom

  and Aunt Rose and Uncle Todd and my cousins

  in New York, and trying to recall

  if the voice on the bus belonged to a girl or a boy.

  I don’t mention that Jacob was among them

  since I know how Camille feels about him.

  “How do people know my dad’s Army?”

  “Henley’s small, Abbey,

  and lots of people around here are Army.

  Plus, it’s obvious—