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    Three Things I Know Are True

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      she’s packing heat.

      What color is it?

      I asked Clay when I heard Jonah

      tease him.

      It’s just a gun, he said,

      they don’t come in colors.

      I didn’t ask him what she was afraid of.

      Sometimes my hands

      make themselves into guns,

      but they are careful

      not to point at anything.

      Straws

      I take photos of Jonah

      with my phone.

      The back of his neck,

      his toes,

      his fingers curled in on themselves.

      Never the whole Jonah.

      Mom says NO

      to posting them

      on his Instagram,

      even though this is

      his status now.

      Many parts that add up

      to his new whole.

      Jonah has a special machine

      to lift him out of bed.

      I call it his Trapeze.

      Ready to be an acrobat, Jonah?

      Your Trapeze is here.

      I think his eyes shine brighter

      when he is suspended

      over the bed.

      Does he imagine

      his body has grown wings?

      I reach out

      on the cafeteria line.

      Instead of food

      I fill my tray with straws.

      I twist the plastic straws

      into eight-legged spiders—

      lots of them.

      My friends laugh at the spiders.

      Dangle them in each other’s faces.

      Piper, Justine, Rainie talking

      Plah Ha Plah Ha Plah

      I can hear the sounds

      but not the words.

      I imagine that is how Jonah

      hears the world now.

      Snowflake

      That boy across the street

      sure has a fascination

      with this house,

      Vivian says.

      He stood there last night

      with the snow falling on his head,

      just staring.

      He’s always alone,

      never see any friends.

      His name is Clay is all I say,

      as if that explains everything.

      Clay, I say again,

      imagining the snow falling

      on both our heads.

      At first I think I am dreaming—

      but there it is—

      a paper snowflake

      in an upstairs window—

      Clay’s room.

      My hands touch my face

      like they’ve never felt tears before.

      Mom’s Lawyer

      Mom’s lawyer says

      if there’s a trial

      he will need a video of Jonah,

      if Jonah can’t be there.

      He looks uncomfortable

      in our kitchen.

      No place on the messy table

      for his brown leather briefcase.

      My hands don’t move

      to make room.

      HERE, I scroll through my phone.

      I HAVE VIDEOS.

      I show him the one

      I took

      of Jonah in bed—

      his face half hidden

      under the sheet,

      making a humming noise

      in his sleep.

      He hands me back the phone

      I don’t think we can use this, Liv.

      We’ll need to present what is called

      a day in the life of Jonah,

      done by a professional videographer.

      He raises his voice a little

      when he says the word

      professional.

      Later Mom makes excuses,

      He does care.

      See, he remembered your name.

      I don’t answer

      but I clap slowly—

      one two three—

      having the last word.

      The reminder is always there—

      a dent

      on the right side

      of Jonah’s forehead.

      The spot you’d press

      when you felt a headache

      coming on.

      The bullet tore away bone

      the way dynamite blasts rock—

      leaving a soft

      crater.

      Mom turns away

      when the nurses

      put cream on

      Jonah’s boo-boo.

      Tray Art

      Next time, I fill my cafeteria tray

      with mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard.

      My hands invent Tray Art.

      Squeezing the ketchup packets

      in a big circle.

      Making wavy lines with the mayonnaise.

      Adding dabs

      of mustard.

      Kids from other tables

      stop by

      to watch.

      Other kids toss over

      more art supplies.

      I’m opening a new pack

      of mustard

      when the lunch monitor

      comes behind me

      and picks up the tray.

      Follow me, please, Liv,

      she says.

      Inside the principal’s office

      the school counselor

      has a lot

      of questions.

      What do we have here, Liv?

      What were you thinking?

      Wasting all this food?

      Encouraging other students

      to do the same?

      You realize someone has to

      clean this tray?

      How respectful is that

      of the cafeteria staff?

      The lunch monitor

      carried the tray carefully—

      there’s only a few flecks

      of ketchup

      dotting the mayo.

      I smooth them out

      with my thumb.

      I don’t say it’s

      a red sun

      streaked with yellow,

      melting a river of ice.

      No one asks

      whose heart needs melting.

      My punishment—

      suspension of cafeteria privileges

      (I can eat lunch

      at an extra desk

      in the main office)

      and four afternoons

      helping at the soup kitchen in town.

      Maybe that will teach you

      the value of food,

      he says.

      Maybe, I say,

      I know the value of food,

      just not of condiments.

      That gives me

      four more afternoons.

      Trap

      Mom doesn’t call Jonah

      by his name anymore.

      Jonah is

      He

      Your brother.

      FYI, I tell her,

      your son’s name is Jonah.

      Watch your mouth,

      Mom warns me.

      She turns off Suck-It-Up,

      and starts up Food Truck,

      paying more attention

      to Jonah’s machines

      than to Jonah.

      Sometimes the moans don’t stop.

      Ah-rah Ah-rah Ah-rah

      Something hurts

      but Jonah can’t say what.

      Ah-rah Ah-rah Ah-rah

      Vivian tries

      everything.

      It sounds

      like an animal

      caught in a trap.

      Not that I’ve heard one,

      but I can imagine.

      That’s when she gets me

      and my good hands.

      I smooth Jonah’s hair,

      pat his cheek,

      sing.

      Help him find a way

      out of the trap.

      Once,

      Jonah’s nurse Johnny

      called Mom at Tractor Barn

      where she works

      when Jonah would not stop.

      A-GAH
    A-GAH A-GAH

      Mom came home

      and stood by Jonah’s bed,

      watching.

      The sounds Mom made

      were worse than Jonah’s.

      So now the nurses

      call me.

      Bumper Stickers

      When Clay’s father’s car

      is parked in their driveway,

      I can read his bumper stickers

      from our kitchen window.

      “Guns don’t kill people.

      People kill people.”

      “If you outlaw guns,

      only outlaws will have guns.”

      There’s one more bumper sticker

      I try not to look at.

      “Gun control means using

      both hands.”

      Clay’s father’s work van

      doesn’t have bumper stickers,

      just a sign on each side

      with a cartoon drawing

      of a big bug running away

      and the words

      Bugz Away

      Pest Management.

      Clay dropped out of school.

      I don’t blame him.

      Who would want to be there

      mind reading

      what everyone is thinking?

      What happened in the attic, Clay?

      Did you dare Jonah

      to pull the trigger, Clay?

      I thought you two were

      best friends.

      Did you know the gun

      was loaded?

      Why were you guys

      up in the attic, anyway?

      How much blood

      was there?

      Did Jonah have any

      last words?

      I’ll never work for my Dad,

      Clay used to say.

      Work must be better

      than school—

      because he does now.

      What kinds of bugs

      does he manage?

      I once asked Clay.

      All kinds—whatever people

      don’t want.

      How does he “manage” them?

      I made air quotes.

      You’re not serious, are you, Liv?

      Clay said softly then.

      He had more patience

      for me

      than Mom.

      I have a theory about

      friendship.

      One friend is always nicer.

      Jonah made everyone laugh.

      He could talk to anyone

      about anything,

      but Clay was nicer.

      Soup Kitchen

      Elinor is the boss

      of the soup kitchen.

      Her hair is all white,

      even though she doesn’t look

      much older than Mom,

      and she wears a white apron

      that is longer

      than her dress.

      She gives me an apron

      that matches hers.

      I think Elinor’s been warned

      about me,

      because right away

      she keeps me busy:

      rolling silverware into paper napkins,

      loading the dishwasher,

      serving shepherd’s pie

      with a long-handled spoon.

      I like that

      Elinor doesn’t ask questions,

      doesn’t try to be my friend.

      The rhythm of the work

      is like a dance:

      roll, roll, in and out,

      ladle, ladle, ladle.

      If my hands are tired enough

      maybe they will sleep.

      At the end of the shift,

      I cut food.

      I guess my hands passed some test

      to be trusted with a knife.

      First potatoes, then carrots,

      then onions.

      Elinor stares at the cutting board

      she gave me.

      The pieces don’t all have to be

      the same size. This is not a

      factory,

      Elinor comments.

      Okay, I can do that,

      I answer.

      Snowman

      Jonah’s nurse Johnny

      has a big laugh,

      strong arms,

      and a shaved head.

      He’s from the South

      and this is his first winter

      in Maine.

      When he says the snow

      is sticking in the trees,

      it gives me an idea.

      I remember that

      sticking snow

      is snowball snow.

      I build a snowman

      next to the holly

      in the side yard.

      It’s been a long time

      since we rolled snowballs—

      Jonah and I—

      but it’s not rocket science.

      Big one for the bottom

      Medium one for the middle

      Smallest one on top.

      From behind the holly,

      I study Number 24.

      This past Thanksgiving

      and Christmas,

      there weren’t any decorations

      on the house

      or the lawn.

      No cardboard turkeys

      or pumpkins.

      No big red bow

      on the mailbox.

      And no Clay knocking

      at our door

      with a homemade apple pie

      from Gwen.

      I speak my words

      into the swirling snow

      but they don’t reach

      across the street.

      It’s me. Liv.

      I’m still here, Clay.

      I decorate my snowman

      with Jonah’s sunglasses

      for the glare—

      and put one of Jonah’s Red Sox hats

      on top,

      brim facing backward—

      his signature look.

      The next morning

      I laugh

      when I see that the snowman

      has earbuds.

      Why does laughing

      feel so much like crying now?

      Jonah

      Sometimes the cries are different—

      Wah-AH Wah-AH Wah-AH

      It’s dark out, and

      I stand there in my Hello Kitty pajamas.

      Johnny, out of nurse tricks,

      shakes his head and

      raises his hands in the air.

      This time it feels like Jonah

      is calling to me

      from a distance,

      trying to get back home,

      but the ground cracks open

      before him

      each time he takes a step.

      Sometimes,

      there is nothing anyone can do.

      Line

      There’s an invisible line

      in the middle of the road

      between my house and Clay’s.

      When I go out to wait

      for the school bus,

      Clay’s mom

      comes to the middle of that line.

      Liv, please leave Clay be.

      I’ve seen how he looks

      across the street.

      Don’t make things worse

      than they already are.

      Really, Gwen, I take a step forward,

      do you think things could be WORSE

      for us?

      She looks down at the pavement.

      I see her mouth open

      like she wants to

      say something—

      but doesn’t.

      Hunter

      Hunter from school is there

      at the soup kitchen.

      He’s homeschooled,

      but he goes to school

      for what he wants—

      like orchestra and

      civil rights team

      and French.

      I can’t see Mom

      letting me have a deal

      like that.

      Hunter knows the drill.

      He takes an apron

      off a hook
    <
    br />   and puts it on.

      He ties it in front.

      The white apron

      makes his red hair

      seem even redder.

      What did they get you for?

      I ask him.

      What do you mean?

      he says.

      Why you’re here?

      Throw your sandwich on the floor?

      Spit out your lunch?

      Play with your food?

      I’ve been volunteering

      this past year—

      when it fits into my music schedule,

      he says.

      Yeah, I know,

      you got that violin thing.

      Hunter gets his own knife

      and cutting board.

      I push the bag of onions

      toward him.

      It’s time for someone else

      to cry.

      Birthdays

      When is Jonah’s birthday?

      Vivian wants to know.

      We could have a little party.

      Jonah can’t blow out candles

      but does he have a wish

      somewhere deep inside?

      If Jonah doesn’t use his wish

      can I have it?

      Big planning starts for Jonah’s

      eighteenth birthday

      next month.

      The nurses love a party.

      Vivian tapes a food sign-up sheet

      on the fridge.

      So far, there’s brownies,

      broccoli quiche, and fruit punch.

      No worries about what

      to serve Jonah.

      All his food

      goes in his tube.

      My birthday is the same week—

      Sweet Sixteen.

      This year

      will be the first

      without a present

      from Jonah.

      He used to hint

      that my sixteenth

      would be extra special,

      but now

      I’ll never know

      what he meant.

      Dead End

      Believe it or not

      at the end of our street

      it says DEAD END.

      When we moved in,

      that was good news.

      Mom said

      DEAD END meant safety

      riding bicycles

      skateboards

      trick-or-treating.

      Besides DEAD END,

      it was extra cheap—

      the paper mill

      right behind us

      belching a stench

      we got used to.

      Does it always smell like this?

      people from away would ask.

      No, we’d joke,

      it usually smells worse.

      The smell was sulfur

      from the pulping process,

      making supercalendered paper

      for the New York Times

      Sunday supplement.

      Now the mill is closed,

      and it’s hard to get a job.

      Unless you’re lucky enough

      that your dad owns

      Bugz Away Pest Management.

      The brick mill

      with its tall smokestacks

      is on the river

     

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