Addie on the Inside Read online

  How did this happen?

  When did my grandmother

  become my best friend?

  What If

  It is not clear what some students at South Hadley High

  School expected to achieve by subjecting a freshman

  to the relentless taunting described by a prosecutor and

  classmates. Certainly not her suicide.

  —The New York Times

  The air is sweet and full of spring

  as I read these words, sitting

  with my grandmother at either end

  of the porch swing, lunch on paper plates

  between us, napkins tucked under our thighs

  so the wind won’t surprise them

  and carry them off. They flutter delicately

  like scarves.

  The girl hanged herself on a bitter winter day,

  tired, at fifteen, of the taunts and bullying,

  frightened and feeling alone, even though

  she had friends and a mother and father

  and a little sister who had given her a scarf

  for Christmas.

  Hours earlier she had cried in the nurse’s office.

  Walking home, she was hit by a can of Red Bull

  thrown from a car by some of the girls who were driven

  to hate her, all because she was new to the school,

  from another country, had dared to date

  one of the popular boys. “Irish slut,” they called her.

  “Druggie,” they called her. Texted her: “You deserve

  to die.”

  Grandma says, “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

  I didn’t know I was. I hand her the paper, look out

  across the street where some children are playing

  hide-and-seek.

  What if she had never left Ireland?

  What if she had never dated that boy?

  What if they had just left her alone?

  Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?

  What if her sister had never given her that scarf?

  What if her sister had not been the one to find her,

  the scarf tight around her neck, her sister

  only twelve?

  What if her dying means nothing?

  What if people just keep on hating?

  What if she had been stronger?

  What if I were weaker?

  What if it were me?

  In memory of Phoebe Prince

  Ready or Not

  “So many bad things can happen,” I say.

  Grandma gently rocks the porch swing as if we are babies

  in a cradle needing to be soothed. “That’s true,” she says.

  “Bad things can happen, and do.”

  “I don’t want to know that,”

  I tell her. “I’m only thirteen and I’ve seen too much I don’t want

  to see.” Grandma puts down the paper and reaches for my hand.

  “I understand,” she says. “Some days I want to put my head

  in the sand. There’s too much pain out there, there’s too much

  that scares me. But I wouldn’t be able to breathe with my head

  in the sand, and I wouldn’t be able to see or hear or smell.

  The world is a lovely place, Addie, despite the sadness it holds

  for each of us, despite the terrible things we do.”

  I move our plates, scooch close, lean in to her, smell the lavender

  of her shampoo. “Maybe it would be better not to think,” I say.

  “Sometimes thinking hurts.”

  “It isn’t the thinking that hurts,”

  she says, smoothing my hair. “It’s the caring.”

  We sit quietly for a time, then begin to eat our sandwiches.

  The bread is whole wheat, the hummus homemade, the lettuce

  crisp and still wet from washing. Across the street, a girl

  calls out, “Ready or not, here I come.”

  And I wonder if I am ready, or ever will be,

  for whatever might come.

  We Are Lost

  Inside the World

  Hey

  “Hey,” DuShawn says when he sees me Monday morning.

  He’s acting kind of cool or maybe kind of shy, I can’t tell.

  “Hey,” I say back and want to say something more even if

  I don’t know yet what it is

  when Tonni calls his name

  like she’s calling a dog to come in

  and DuShawn goes.

  Announcement

  November 22, 1963:

  The day President John F. Kennedy died.

  Grandma says she was in history class

  when the first announcement

  came over the PA:

  “The president has been shot.”

  She was in French

  when the second announcement came:

  “The president is dead.”

  Her teacher did not know what to do

  so she kept on teaching,

  even though tears were streaming

  down her cheeks.

  Je pleure, vous pleurez, nous pleurons,

  tout le monde pleure.

  I cry, you cry, we cry,

  all the world cries.

  On the bus home, some boys made jokes,

  but the laughter was forced,

  and they cut it out when somebody said,

  “Shut up! Don’t you get it?

  The president is dead!”

  For four days the world stopped

  as everyone sat in front of their televisions

  watching the news unfold in black and white:

  the funeral procession,

  the pale wife in the black veil,

  the little boy saluting his dead father.

  Tout le monde a regardé, tout le monde a pleuré.

  All the world watched, all the world wept.

  Today:

  The day my Kennedy died.

  I was in math class.

  No announcement

  came over the PA.

  I didn’t know until I got home

  from school

  and my father told me:

  “Kennedy was hit by a car

  this afternoon. The driver

  left a note. She is so sorry.

  She didn’t see him run out.

  She couldn’t stop.”

  The world does not stop today,

  there is nothing to see on television,

  there is no news about a cat that died

  chasing a squirrel on a street

  in a little town somewhere.

  There is only a little family

  and an empty feeling so big

  tout le monde devrait pleurer.

  All the world should be crying.

  bff

  I was eight years old when Bobby’s mother died,

  too young to know what it would be like

  to lose your best friend forever.

  After the funeral, people came to our house

  to eat and talk in quiet voices that grew louder

  as the afternoon wore on.

  It was summer.

  Bobby and I were up in my room

  playing Sorry, the Simpsons version,

  when it got dark outside the windows

  and hushed in the rooms downstairs.

  My mom appeared at my door and said,

  “Bobby and his dad will sleep here tonight.”

  Later, I woke up because I needed to pee.

  The hall outside my bedroom was dark,

  the only sounds a ticking of a clock

  and someone crying behind a closed door.

  I thought it was Bobby’s dad,

  or maybe even Bobby.

  But it was my mom sitting on the toilet seat

  with her head resting on the edge of the sink.

  It was my mom who squinted up at me standing

  sleepy-eyed in the doorway and said, “S
orry.”

  Was she sorry for crying

  or for sitting on the toilet seat

  when I needed to pee?

  I didn’t ask.

  I was eight years old,

  too young to know what it would be like

  to lose your best friend forever.

  A Cat Is Not a Person

  Some people say a cat

  is not a person.

  Those people have never

  loved a cat and had one

  go and die on them.

  You know what those

  people know?

  Nothing.

  Only Johnson

  Johnson no longer sleeps on the pillow

  he shared with Kennedy.

  He has moved to a chair that is more

  in shade than sun.

  He wakes and looks around

  and goes back to sleep

  and does not play with any of the toys

  in the basket by the door, but sniffs them

  and walks away.

  Sometimes Johnson jumps onto my lap

  and settles in as if to say,

  Don’t plan on getting up anytime soon.

  I have always been an only child.

  Johnson is learning to be an only cat.

  5 Haikus : 1 Cat

  Johnson eats for two—

  a cat growing fat from grief,

  tasting memories.

  Mewing at the door

  he waits for it to open,

  then waits when it does.

  He lifts his butt high,

  stretching from toes to tail tip.

  Look at me! We do.

  Oh, Johnson, I know

  what it is to lose someone,

  I hear Grandma say.

  Johnson sleeps with me,

  which he never used to do.

  He presses close, purrs.

  Tuesday Morning

  I do not go to school on Tuesday morning.

  My father and mother do not go to work.

  Still, the sun comes up and the paper lands

  on our front porch and the birds are at

  the empty feeder asking to be fed. Grandma

  makes extra coffee. Mom makes extra tea.

  Dad digs in the far backyard. At noon

  we bury Kennedy near the lilac bush where

  he liked to hide and surprise the birds.

  He never caught any that we know of.

  He was too slow or maybe he was just not

  all that interested. We bury him

  with his favorite toy, which is not really

  a toy but an old sock of mine tied with

  a long piece of string we called a tail.

  We say some words until the words run out

  and then we cover him with dirt

  and go inside where Kennedy

  is not.

  How a Cow Pitcher Makes Me Laugh

  Bobby and Joe and Skeezie come over in the evening.

  I show them where Kennedy is buried and

  we tell remember-when stories about him

  until it gets dark. Then we all link arms

  and go into the house.

  Bobby’s dad is there and Joe’s parents, too.

  The grown-ups, drinking coffee, pour milk from

  a little pitcher shaped like a cow.

  The milk comes out the cow’s mouth.

  “Oh, great,” Skeezie says, “just what I want,

  a cow throwing up in my coffee!”

  The grown-ups burst into laughter as we—

  Skeezie and Joe and Bobby and me—race up the stairs

  to my room, where we collapse on the floor and can’t stop

  laughing for what feels like hours and oh

  it feels good

  to laugh.

  A Pair of Beaded Earrings

  Grandma is leaving on Friday,

  two days later than planned,

  but she can’t wait any longer,

  the real estate agent is coming

  on Saturday to put her house up

  for sale. She should move in

  with us, I tell her, and she smiles

  and says wouldn’t that be nice,

  but her life is there and she’d

  miss her friends.

  I’m your friend, I say, and she

  smiles again but says nothing,

  only hands me a pair of beaded

  earrings she made herself

  and closes my hand

  around them.

  A Note

  In English class on Wednesday

  Becca slides a note under my binder.

  “I’m sorry about your cat,” it says.

  How did she know? I look up

  and mouth thanks. She smiles

  and points back at the note.

  “P.S.,” it says, “those earrings

  are awesome.”

  Hurt

  When DuShawn finally tells me

  that he’s sorry about Kennedy,

  he looks more hurt than I do.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  he asks as our hands touch.

  And I don’t have an answer

  as our hands move away.

  DuShawn’s Way of Making Up

  On Thursday DuShawn leaves a comic strip

  taped to my locker. He writes, “This is funny

  and so are you!” That’s his way of saying

  let’s make up. And so we do.

  Grandma leaves me

  her coffeemaker,

  a book of poetry,

  a playlist of her

  favorite songs,

  sad,

  lonely,

  not sure

  what

  I’ll do

  without

  her.

  Grandma

  leaves.

  “It Will Get Better in Time” Isn’t a Lie

  But It Isn’t the Whole Truth Either

  Days go by.

  And nights.

  And somehow,

  impossibly,

  weeks.

  Grandma sells

  her house, calls,

  tells us about

  her new

  condominium.

  I get used to

  it being

  just me

  on one end

  of the sofa,

  just me,

  with Johnson

  no longer

  perched

  behind me

  but curled

  at my feet

  or planted

  in my lap,

  purring.

  I hang out

  with the gang

  or with

  DuShawn,

  happy,

  but always

  knowing

  that things

  can change,

  things

  can change.

  Tonni Tells All

  Tonni grabs me,

  jabs me with her words.

  “Addie, come with me.

  Right. Now.”

  Tonni pushes me

  into the last stall

  in the girls’ room

  on the second floor.

  Tonni’s eyes are

  kind of wild and

  full of something

  like sorrow.

  “Oh, Addie,” she says.

  “I am so sorry.

  So. So. Sorry.”

  A finger to her lips,

  a hand on my shoulder.

  Her nails begin to dig.

  “Quiet,” she whispers,

  “someone’s there.”

  We wait for the flush,

  the rush of water,

  and the footsteps

  heading to the door.

  Her grip loosens.

  Her eyes soften.

  And she tells me.

  “Today after school.”

  My eyes ask what.

  And she goes, “Omigod,


  you don’t know.

  But everyone knows.

  He’s breaking up

  with you, Addie.

  For real this time.

  If you need to talk . . .

  I’m here for you.

  Call me, okay?

  Text me. Are you

  okay? Hugs.”

  She leans in

  and her arms skitter

  around me

  like birds

  afraid to land.

  She leaves me

  there in the stall.

  Tonni tells all.

  Tonni tells nothing.

  Just Something We Do

  He always says, “Addie, you’re too stubborn.

  Addie, you push too hard,” forgetting

  all the times he’s too stubborn,

  the times he pushes too hard.

  I always say, “DuShawn, get serious.”

  Then he says, “Addie, lighten up.”

  And I say, “DuShawn, I mean it.”

  And he says, “You’re pretty when you’re mad.”

  We’ve been going out for seven months,

  almost all of seventh grade,

  and we’ve broken up five and a half times.

  It’s just something we do.

  For Christmas he gave me a necklace,

  a heart-shaped box of chocolates

  for Valentine’s Day, and a CD

  two weeks late for my birthday.

  The CD was more his kind of music

  than mine, but I didn’t care. I wear

  the necklace all the time, and the box

  shaped like a heart sits next to my bed.

  I grew used to the ups and downs of us,

  the breaking up as part of the “us” of us.

  So when he breaks up with me today

  I don’t take it seriously. When he says,

  “Addie, I mean it,” I say, “DuShawn,

  lighten up.” But his dark face gets darker

  and there’s a period in his eyes where

  there had always been an ellipsis.