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Authors: Anya Monroe
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handle. Scared that the words would swallow me whole.”
The girl disappears
as quickly as she came
and I am left
gasping for
breath
with a shocked
counselor
looking like she’s
never seen me
before.
86.
I walk out of the office
pretty quickly after the
bodily takeover
alien encounter
case of the body snatchers
that just happened.
I walk straight past Ms. Francine
and leave through
the front door.
It takes her a while to catch up
probably a debrief with Terry
over what went
Wrong?
Right?
Was there a fight?
Ms. F comes to the car
drives us slowly to
a diner
not far from our house.
I’ve never been to this place.
“Sometimes we just need a change of pace,” Ms. F says.
As if
she was reading
my mind.
We order.
For me:
Fries.
Burger.
Shake.
She says, “I’ll have the same.”
I look at her a little
freakishly.
What’s going on here?
First the takeover
that happened with
Terry,
now Ms. F is forgoing a
green salad
opting instead
for a greasy sandwich.
“What?” she asks. “Sometimes you just need to let go, you know, let loose.”
“I get it.” I say, registering her metaphor.
Rolling my eyes for
some reason I can’t quite
place
because
Ms. F isn’t being showy
or bossy
or I told you so.
It’s more like:
I know.
“So you decided to give Terry what she had coming?”
I look at her like
I don’t know what she
means.
Back to my old routine
pretend like you don’t know
then you won’t have to show
something
real.
“Just so you know, Louisa, I was wondering the same thing about where your journals came from, after all this time. I emailed Terry about it over the weekend, but I didn’t want to be the one to talk to you about it. It seemed like it was something between the two of you. I’m proud of you for talking to her.”
This idea of me
working things out with Terry
would have worked better
if I’d stayed
around and
found
out the answers.
“Do you want to talk about it now?” she asks.
The waitress
sets down the food.
I pick up a fry
breaking it in half.
I feel
divided
undecided
on which direction I want to go.
Do I say yes to her
and get shit out
or do I continue to live
in a make-believe world
riddled with doubt?
Why is this a hard question?
87.
“I want to talk about it, but it,” I say, then pause. “It’s really hard.”
I speak as
calmly as I can.
Wanting her to understand
that I can’t do this
on my own.
“Why don’t I help you then? Terry told me the journals have been sitting in a storage office in the police department for two years. Apparently someone went through the space last week and came across several bins, marked with your name, of things an apartment manager had taken there when you and Benji were first placed in custody.”
I stare down my strawberry shake
wanting her to take a break
before I decide whether
or not
I can look at her.
“Most of the stuff was old clothing, although there was an old blanket that had Benji stitched on it, so that was returned to him. Your caseworker was given the box of your journals, who then gave it to Terry. I don’t know if she read any of them, though.”
I breathe out.
It’s not as
scary
as I was anticipating
nearly hyperventilating.
“Why does it bother you if Terry read your books?”
I look at her.
Ms. F- a woman in her thirties
probably has a better place to be
then sitting in a booth with me.
Yet
Here
She
Is.
“I guess. Um. If she read them, she might, you know, see me?”
“And you don’t want to be seen?”
“Of course not.”
“Why, Louisa?”
She doesn’t like
my cryptic
way of attempting to
avoid
all those kinds of contact
I hate.
I close my eyes.
“People could leave me if they really see me. Like Jess. Or You.”
“Margot read some. She didn’t run away from
The girl disappears
as quickly as she came
and I am left
gasping for
breath
with a shocked
counselor
looking like she’s
never seen me
before.
86.
I walk out of the office
pretty quickly after the
bodily takeover
alien encounter
case of the body snatchers
that just happened.
I walk straight past Ms. Francine
and leave through
the front door.
It takes her a while to catch up
probably a debrief with Terry
over what went
Wrong?
Right?
Was there a fight?
Ms. F comes to the car
drives us slowly to
a diner
not far from our house.
I’ve never been to this place.
“Sometimes we just need a change of pace,” Ms. F says.
As if
she was reading
my mind.
We order.
For me:
Fries.
Burger.
Shake.
She says, “I’ll have the same.”
I look at her a little
freakishly.
What’s going on here?
First the takeover
that happened with
Terry,
now Ms. F is forgoing a
green salad
opting instead
for a greasy sandwich.
“What?” she asks. “Sometimes you just need to let go, you know, let loose.”
“I get it.” I say, registering her metaphor.
Rolling my eyes for
some reason I can’t quite
place
because
Ms. F isn’t being showy
or bossy
or I told you so.
It’s more like:
I know.
“So you decided to give Terry what she had coming?”
I look at her like
I don’t know what she
means.
Back to my old routine
pretend like you don’t know
then you won’t have to show
something
real.
“Just so you know, Louisa, I was wondering the same thing about where your journals came from, after all this time. I emailed Terry about it over the weekend, but I didn’t want to be the one to talk to you about it. It seemed like it was something between the two of you. I’m proud of you for talking to her.”
This idea of me
working things out with Terry
would have worked better
if I’d stayed
around and
found
out the answers.
“Do you want to talk about it now?” she asks.
The waitress
sets down the food.
I pick up a fry
breaking it in half.
I feel
divided
undecided
on which direction I want to go.
Do I say yes to her
and get shit out
or do I continue to live
in a make-believe world
riddled with doubt?
Why is this a hard question?
87.
“I want to talk about it, but it,” I say, then pause. “It’s really hard.”
I speak as
calmly as I can.
Wanting her to understand
that I can’t do this
on my own.
“Why don’t I help you then? Terry told me the journals have been sitting in a storage office in the police department for two years. Apparently someone went through the space last week and came across several bins, marked with your name, of things an apartment manager had taken there when you and Benji were first placed in custody.”
I stare down my strawberry shake
wanting her to take a break
before I decide whether
or not
I can look at her.
“Most of the stuff was old clothing, although there was an old blanket that had Benji stitched on it, so that was returned to him. Your caseworker was given the box of your journals, who then gave it to Terry. I don’t know if she read any of them, though.”
I breathe out.
It’s not as
scary
as I was anticipating
nearly hyperventilating.
“Why does it bother you if Terry read your books?”
I look at her.
Ms. F- a woman in her thirties
probably has a better place to be
then sitting in a booth with me.
Yet
Here
She
Is.
“I guess. Um. If she read them, she might, you know, see me?”
“And you don’t want to be seen?”
“Of course not.”
“Why, Louisa?”
She doesn’t like
my cryptic
way of attempting to
avoid
all those kinds of contact
I hate.
I close my eyes.
“People could leave me if they really see me. Like Jess. Or You.”
“Margot read some. She didn’t run away from
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