are winter sweaters,
stuck together, flat as pancakes.
It’s a good thing Jag likes to talk.
He skates over every inch of awkward silence
telling me how he kickflips and ollies and caspers
as good as Tony Hawk. And even though I’d trip
just looking at a skateboard, Jag makes me feel like
I’m right there with him, sliding and grinding down
ledges and rails.
“It’s dangerous,” he says. “That’s why I like it.”
Then he raises his shirt and shows me a patch
of road rash chaffed across his ribs. But when he
sees my eyes wander to the small red-brown circles
singed on his side, he covers up again.
“They’re old,” he says. “Cigarette burns.”
He wrings his hands and looks at the clock,
and I can tell he thinks I’m judging him,
like self-harm is some kind of girl problem,
and any boy who would snuff out cigs on his
own skin must be weak or wimpy or worse.
Every brain cell in my head is screaming out
how wrong he is, that I don’t think that at all,
but I’m stuck in the vacuum bag without an
ounce of oxygen and it takes everything I have
just to squeak out two tiny words.
“It’s okay,” I say.
The room is dead still. And I’m worried that
I hurt him without even meaning to.
But then Jag smiles and runs his hand
through his hair and starts telling me about
this electric blue RipStik he’s gonna
buy when he gets out of here.
And I feel this huge rush of relief.
I guess sometimes
two words
are just enough.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Skylar’s Being Transferred
Yeah.
Right now.
At 6:30 p.m.
When I should be pulling her aside
and telling her about my amazing,
wordless conversation with Jag.
But she has to go.
Just like that.
They’re taking her to a long term
treatment center because Attaboys
doesn’t actually treat anybody.
Unless you count the drive-by pep talks
and a few minutes with a jelly jar.
They’re just a stabilization facility,
kind of like a drunk tank for psychos
where they wait to see if you sober up
and get your head on straight.
But if you don’t stabilize,
if you’re still a danger to self or others,
if you decide to rip your arm up
with a tape dispenser,
well then that’s it,
you’re gonna get committed to a place
where there’s even more chicken wire
in the window glass than here.
Before she leaves,
Skylar says good-bye
to everybody one by one,
and she saves me for last.
“I’m sorry you have to go,” I say.
“I need to,” she answers. “So I can get better.”
And this time she seems sure of it.
I think about her telling me how killing
my butterfly might’ve saved her and
how admitting that she was addicted
felt like a huge first step.
I still can’t believe she told
the Pomeranian of all people.
But Skylar insists it was
the right thing to do.
“It feels like such a weight off,” she says.
She rests her cheek on my shoulder
and gives me an armless hug,
so we don’t hurt each other.
Then she slips me a piece of paper.
“I even wrote it down.
So I’d never forget how bad it got.
It’s kind of like a confession.”
When Skylar walks out,
she’s smiling and waving,
tracing infinity signs in the air
with a feathery finger.
Friends forever.
I want to run after her
and get her phone number
even though that’s against the rules.
But before I can move my feet
or swallow the lump in my throat,
the double doors shut and Skylar’s gone.
Just like that robin in the sky.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Skylar’s Confession
I wait a long time before I open it,
maybe because I’m afraid that
Skylar’s words will be like a mirror.
I might see myself in them.
When I unfold the paper,
I feel my chest tighten up
like a charley horse in my heart,
but I can’t stop thinking
stuck together, flat as pancakes.
It’s a good thing Jag likes to talk.
He skates over every inch of awkward silence
telling me how he kickflips and ollies and caspers
as good as Tony Hawk. And even though I’d trip
just looking at a skateboard, Jag makes me feel like
I’m right there with him, sliding and grinding down
ledges and rails.
“It’s dangerous,” he says. “That’s why I like it.”
Then he raises his shirt and shows me a patch
of road rash chaffed across his ribs. But when he
sees my eyes wander to the small red-brown circles
singed on his side, he covers up again.
“They’re old,” he says. “Cigarette burns.”
He wrings his hands and looks at the clock,
and I can tell he thinks I’m judging him,
like self-harm is some kind of girl problem,
and any boy who would snuff out cigs on his
own skin must be weak or wimpy or worse.
Every brain cell in my head is screaming out
how wrong he is, that I don’t think that at all,
but I’m stuck in the vacuum bag without an
ounce of oxygen and it takes everything I have
just to squeak out two tiny words.
“It’s okay,” I say.
The room is dead still. And I’m worried that
I hurt him without even meaning to.
But then Jag smiles and runs his hand
through his hair and starts telling me about
this electric blue RipStik he’s gonna
buy when he gets out of here.
And I feel this huge rush of relief.
I guess sometimes
two words
are just enough.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Skylar’s Being Transferred
Yeah.
Right now.
At 6:30 p.m.
When I should be pulling her aside
and telling her about my amazing,
wordless conversation with Jag.
But she has to go.
Just like that.
They’re taking her to a long term
treatment center because Attaboys
doesn’t actually treat anybody.
Unless you count the drive-by pep talks
and a few minutes with a jelly jar.
They’re just a stabilization facility,
kind of like a drunk tank for psychos
where they wait to see if you sober up
and get your head on straight.
But if you don’t stabilize,
if you’re still a danger to self or others,
if you decide to rip your arm up
with a tape dispenser,
well then that’s it,
you’re gonna get committed to a place
where there’s even more chicken wire
in the window glass than here.
Before she leaves,
Skylar says good-bye
to everybody one by one,
and she saves me for last.
“I’m sorry you have to go,” I say.
“I need to,” she answers. “So I can get better.”
And this time she seems sure of it.
I think about her telling me how killing
my butterfly might’ve saved her and
how admitting that she was addicted
felt like a huge first step.
I still can’t believe she told
the Pomeranian of all people.
But Skylar insists it was
the right thing to do.
“It feels like such a weight off,” she says.
She rests her cheek on my shoulder
and gives me an armless hug,
so we don’t hurt each other.
Then she slips me a piece of paper.
“I even wrote it down.
So I’d never forget how bad it got.
It’s kind of like a confession.”
When Skylar walks out,
she’s smiling and waving,
tracing infinity signs in the air
with a feathery finger.
Friends forever.
I want to run after her
and get her phone number
even though that’s against the rules.
But before I can move my feet
or swallow the lump in my throat,
the double doors shut and Skylar’s gone.
Just like that robin in the sky.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Skylar’s Confession
I wait a long time before I open it,
maybe because I’m afraid that
Skylar’s words will be like a mirror.
I might see myself in them.
When I unfold the paper,
I feel my chest tighten up
like a charley horse in my heart,
but I can’t stop thinking
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