Stanzi—Monday—I Want to Show You Something
During the first drill early Monday morning, China passes me a note: I want to show you something. Follow me. She is carrying a stack of papers with letters on them. She smells like hand sanitizer.
I follow her to a back door that has been propped open into the locked-down school and we go to her locker, where she tosses in the stack of papers and removes a stuffed backpack. She points to my locker and tells me we’re not coming back today, so I put my books in and take out my purse and a few things.
She tells me to bring a book to read.
“Why do I need a book?”
When she doesn’t answer, I grab the book I’ve been reading.
While we walk back to the door, we hear the sniffer dog patrol. China tenses. I grab her wrist and take her down another set of steps and to a different exit door, and when we use it, the alarm sounds but nothing explodes from the building except two girls who blend into their throng of outdoor classmates until they can make a break toward the bus station.
“If we run, we can catch the nine thirty,” China says.
When we get there, China buys us two tickets to New York City.
I worry for about a minute. I worry about all the stuff normal people worry about. But then I remember that I don’t care. Who cares if I get detention in a school that’s never open except to police and bomb dogs? Who cares if Mama and Pop get a phone call from the principal?
They think I’m a biology genius on her way to biology-genius college, and I am.
I take a bus schedule from the counter of the bus station, and once we find our seats on the bus, I check how long our ride will be—two and a half hours.
I watch the countryside go by. We pass flea markets that are closed on weekdays and a gun store that boasts THE LARGEST SELLER OF MILITARY WEAPONS IN THE AREA! on a sign out front. I see two other kids skipping school behind a barn, smoking cigarettes and making a getaway plan. That’s what we just did. That’s what we do in the drills. We get away from what we’re supposed to be doing.
China hands me a poem before we cross the New Jersey border.
Untitled
I met a boy on the Internet
and his name is Shane.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you
but you are so
out
of
reach
because I am so
out
of
reach.
You can see the helicopter.
And I lied.
I can’t see it.
Never once have I seen it.
And I’m sorry for that, too.
I hop over into the seat next to China’s seat.
“Does Shane live in New York?” I ask.
She nods.
“Have you met him before?”
She holds up two fingers. “Twice.”
“Is he cute?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
“Did you tell Lansdale?”
She nods, then looks at her knees. “Yes. Sorry.”
I attempt to read. But really, the whole time I’m thinking about Gustav.
Here’s China, inside out, casually hopping a bus to New York City to see a boy she barely knows, and Gustav lives a four-minute walk from my house. I see him nearly every day, and still we can’t admit we’re in love because there are more important things. In his case, the helicopter. In my case, I’m not sure I can love anybody without screwing it up.
When we get to Port Authority in New York City, China weaves her way down into the subway. She has a MetroCard. She swipes it and walks through the turnstile and then she hands the card to me and I monkey what she just did and then I’m standing on the other side, the sound and smell of underground trains and grease and sparks and millions of people who walk through here every day.
It’s just past noon on a Monday. All I know is that I have to be home by tomorrow to see Gustav’s helicopter.
“Are we going back tonight?” I ask her.
She nods. “I just want to see him for an hour.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” I say.
“You can’t,” she says. “You can’t see him.”
I look at her. My eyes say, Why did you bring me, then?
“You can go to the museum,” she answers. She hands me a pass to the museum.
The subway train letters are in colorful circles. A, C, E.
The subway train letters are just like answers, so I spend our quiet walk to the right track coming up with questions.
Will they notice us missing at school today?
A
Will our missing today’s drills mean lower scores for the school? Less money for next year? Teachers fired?
C
Is that Mozart I hear?
E (flat major)
Two young men—our age, maybe a little older—are playing the Sinfonia Concertante in E-flat Major and they’re so good, I steer myself to their open violin case and drop in a five-dollar bill.
I turn to China. “I don’t want to go to a museum.”
She tells me I can wait for her in the vegan juice bar under the building where Shane lives. We walk several blocks from the subway stop, and as she delivers me to the juice bar, I ask her if it’s safe for her to visit Shane like this. She hands me this poem.
Your Kale/Kiwi Juice Has More Self-Esteem Than I Do
Kale/kiwi juice
just goes in one side
comes out the other
makes everything happier
the whole way through.
It never worries about
the right clothes
so no one will treat it
like it doesn’t matter.
“This doesn’t answer my question,” I say. “Are you safe up there by yourself with a guy?”
She tells me they have only ever held hands and kissed. She tells me not to worry, but how can I not worry about China? I have lost track of how many times she has swallowed herself. She just turns herself over and over, esophagus to rectum, like a human Lava Lamp.
She buys me a juice and goes upstairs. I drink the juice and read my book. It’s a book about brain-stem function, and though it’s interesting, I’m bored by it. I say to myself, Stanzi, you’re in New York City and you’re sitting in one place reading a book. You must go outside. It’s a lovely day.
I tell the woman at the juice bar that if my friend comes back, tell her to wait for me. I then ask her if there’s anything nice to see in this area and she says we’re a block from Central Park, so I walk there and I say to myself, Stanzi, you’re in Central Park. You’re in Central Park in New York City.
I find a bench and I sit down.
I marvel at New York City. But then the questions start.
I ask myself, Stanzi, why can’t you write that poem for English class?
I ask myself, Stanzi, why can’t you kiss Gustav?
I ask myself, Stanzi, what happened to you?