Malia sits on her bed,
Blankie wrapped
around her head.
I sit in her desk chair.
Are you in there? I say.
It’s all so stupid, she says.
All of it.
My father says I can’t sing,
that I need to put all my energy
into getting well
so I can go back to school.
I try to think of what to say.
I don’t care if they make fun of me.
This is what I want to do most, Etan!
I want to sing. Not be hidden away.
Can’t you talk to him? I ask.
Malia peeks out at me.
You don’t know my father.
He is a navy doctor.
What he says goes.
She rubs her arm.
It’s a little redder than before,
but still clear.
I feel great, Etan.
I think the clay
is in my skin.
It tingles.
I feel like I can float,
but he doesn’t see it.
He only sees
“progress,” but …
She gets up,
tiptoes like a cartoon character
toward her door and closes it.
I am going to do it anyway.