Noticing - Celena Montes Ruiz - SAIC Gradshow 2020 by School of the Art Institute of Chicago

Outside is all green. Like a golf course. I’ve gone one week longer than usual of not talking to you. I’m sitting here trying to figure out if I’ve changed. Momma came into class to show everyone what germs look like. We sang the song about the lion and the jungle today. When it’s nap time I get to sleep on my favorite towel. It’s blue and green with dolphins. My favorite animal is a dolphin. Rule #2: Only the boys get to cross the street on their own We’re going to explore the prairie today. We walk across the giant lawn to the woods where there’s a trail. Our school is year round. We spend most of the day outside learning about nature. Chad’s in fifth grade. All the fifth graders are working on a canoe they’ll put in the pond at the end of the year. Are you in charge here? Yes. Are you aware of a leak in your restaurant? No? Well we got water pouring out of the pipes from right under here. It’s coming down all over the cars. Okay, well as far as I know there’s been no leak in here. Are those the restrooms? Yes. Can I take a look at those? That’s where the water is coming from. Um, sure. But I was just in here and there was no leak. The first bathroom is fine. The drain in the second has shit coming out of it. Hey Bob we found the leak. Can you fix this? Can I fix this? Yeah, can you take care of this? No, I cannot fix this. It’s a Saturday. I have to call my general manager to get any sort of maintenance approved. There’s water everywhere down there. Well, that sucks.

Dear Celena, I am smarter than you. Mr. Bakke gives us snake eggs when we get an answer right. I know they’re candy though. Summer break is coming soon. All the reptiles in our science room need homes until school starts again. I set up the corn snake at the end of the hall in the living room. Mice in the freezer. Where’s the snake? I don’t know. What do you mean you don’t know? I don’t know I didn’t touch it. Find the fucking snake Celena, jesus christ! Daddy comes home and doesn’t know about the missing corn snake. He lifts the water bowl where the snake is curled like a cinnamon roll. A while ago Daddy used to have a lot of snakes in the basement. Momma said he breeds them. Those snakes are gone. We have a chinese water dragon in a big glass cage in the living room now. What’s going on? The fucking pipes are clogged again. Oh, is that why all this water is right here. Where? By the registers. We have a black lab named King. I’ve known him since I can remember. School is in Roseville. Down the street from Grandma and Grandpa’s. We plant a garden of mint. Mrs. Heathecote says we can try it. It’s good! The school next to ours is Waldorf. They’re building a well by the fence that separates us from them. After school I play on the t-ball team. In the winter Corrin and I take figure skating lessons while Chad plays hockey. 2

I have three best friends: Elsa, Casey and Abigail. A-B-I-G-A-I-L. Casey eats glue. I’m not sure he’s supposed to do that. Elsa says it’s okay because it’s not toxic. I don’t know what that means. June 14, 2013: I needed time to think and let go. That’s why when I parked, my dash beeped to warn almost empty tank. Suppose that’s what I feel now too. Not hiking. Not doing anything. Not even the sky can ascertain what it wants to do. Everyday the milk people come with crates of milk to our class room. I get chocolate milk every time. I hate regular milk. I ride my bike past Scott and Sue’s and tell King to come on. King keeps running. He thinks we’re going to the park across the street. I ride after him yelling. He darts out into oncoming traffic. Someone hits him. He rolls all the way across the road to the parks entrance, limps down the hill. I ride down where he’s sitting on one hip. A bleeding leg sticking out from the other. Dad pulls up in his truck with Corrin. A loud screech from the tires. He’s screaming at me. LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID! I hold King. Crying into his neck. I’m sorry King. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. We get our own piano in music class. We watched the Wizard of Oz today. The music teacher has a collection of mini football helmets. When we play games we pick a helmet to be our team name. Earliest memory is running to the basement stairs at Grandma and Grandpa’s, holding crayons, before someone scoops me up. The Miami dolphins are my favorite. Grandpa had a heart attack today. He needs surgery. 3

The gym at school is huge. There are walls as tall as buildings that open and close. One part is the cafeteria with the stage. The other is where we play. On picture day we stand on risers in the gym. I can do 100 pull ups. President Bush signed a certificate that says I am very fit. When we leave the classroom we have to do finger pushups in the air until everyone’s in a straight line. Take the pointer finger. Point forward then up. That’s a finger push up. I can skate forwards and backwards. I have patches to prove it. Corrin is too afraid to skate out onto the ice. She cries. Holds onto the side boards. Chad gets in trouble a lot. Dad yells at Chad a lot. Things I don’t understand: Trying to eat right when a week and a half out of every month sweets are the only thing thwarting a self made assault on my uterus. June 10, 2013: When you smell the lilacs you’re home. While we’re watching Charlotte’s Web Mrs. Heathcote says she loves the way one of my classmate’s reacts. It shows that she is really into the movie. I spend the rest of the movie trying to get Mrs. Heathcote to see that I am really into the movie too. She doesn’t. I don’t talk to her the rest of the day. Grandma planted a rhubarb plant for each grandkid in the backyard. When Corrin and I get out of the car we run down the hill to our rhubarb plant. We take a few stems. Bring them to the kitchen to be washed and cut. They’re crunchy, sour. Once, Mom tried forcing a glass of milk down my throat. The taste so bad I let it run down my shirt.

My favorite foods: Sour. Salty. Spicy. Sweet. In no particular order. Grandma and Grandpa’s house is brown. It has a driveway on either side. A walkway through the garden in front connects them. Grandma calls me Cha-lee-na whenever she sees me. Followed by a big squishy hug. Her favorite flowers are poppies. The easiest way to forgive someone is to forgive them. The asphalt that goes halfway down the hill is part of the walkway between the driveways. It’s cracked, chipped, bumpy. Shaped like a capital Y. I fall while running to the door. My thumb collides into an edge of the chipped ground taking my thumbnail off with it. Stop crying Celena, it’s not that bad. It’s the first time Momma uses alcohol when I’m bleeding. I don’t like it. Chad has a chinchilla. It dies suddenly. Wasn’t me. A guinea pig appears. Also dies. Also was not me. Grandma buys Chad anything he wants. Even the clothes that are three sizes too big for him that Dad hates. Grandma has a rose bush that grows by the hill. Under the tree where Dad shot an arrow at a squirrel and missed. The arrow still there. I spend a lot of time trying to find it. Momma talks about the rose bush all the time. They’re very hard to grow. Corrin and I get our kneeboards, gloves and matching visor from the garage. Momma is making us garden with her today. We pull weeds. Sneak away to eat the black raspberries by the sidewalk. Pull more weeds. In the front yard is a tree Momma pulled as a sapling from the park by Grandma and Grandpa’s. She planted it while she was pregnant with me. The tree is taller than the house. 5

Around the tree are bleeding hearts, hydrangeas, a clematis I named Maddie, Between the house and the ditch is a big lilac bush. Taller than Chad and Dad. Who are over 6 feet tall. I always think Maplewood should be called Lilacwood. I can smell them everywhere. Daylilies line the sidewalk to the front door. Some days we wake up early and go to the pool at the YMCA. We swim all day. Then we go to Grandma and Grandpa’s because Momma works nights. Dad picks us up after dinner. One summer Mom was making a garden by the bonfire pit. She had just finished putting up a retaining wall on the side of the house where the gate is. She threw her back out. Corrin and I ran down from the deck because she was yelling. She couldn’t move. She told us to call Chad but Chad just left in Dad’s truck. He wasn’t going to answer the phone. Dad was at work. I got one of the golf umbrellas. Corrin got a blanket and some towels. We sprayed her with bug spray. We brought some water. After a while she told us to leave her alone. Dad came home and helped her inside. Momma’s in school to be a nurse. There was never a time where I didn’t know King. I love willow trees. Momma bought a baby one and planted it behind the swingset. Grandpa teaches us how to golf in the backyard. We drive balls past the fence into the swamp. When Grandma and Grandpa come to our house Grandpa always yells, Anybody home?! On the weekends we go out on the boat. We launch the boat in the Mississippi, the St. Croix or whichever lake Dad chooses. I only eat plain hotdogs. The wood from Horseshoe Island makes the meat taste very good. We go tubing for hours. We fish sometimes. Sometimes Daddy takes us to islands on the river and we have a cookout.

May 1, 2013: 3 times in a row I thought of the ripples and the flashbacks and the cuts on my knuckle. There’s a sudden plummeting and my eyes turn into firecrackers while my explodes fireworks. I’m thinking in winter but I know it’s spring. The sky, my sky, this sky continues to cry but I’ll continue yet. I will continue until the sky cries so hard that I drown. The Roseville Oval is a big skating rink outside. People play hockey in the middle. Everyone skates around. There’s a fire pit at one end to get warm. Daddy says he used to explore the runoff tunnels when he was younger. Beyond the swamp is the park. We can’t get to the park through the swamp so we have to go around the block. Grandma is making crabapple rhubarb pie today. There’s one tree in the park with crabapples and we pick all of them. I’m a very fast skater. Grandpa says I should be a speed skater. He skates too. My dad too. In the woods where the crabapple tree is are the softballs from the B-Dale Club games. Grandma tells us to find some of them for her. The playground isn’t as nice as the purple park we’re used to going to. That park is purple and green. By a lake. Has a lot of space to run around. We always come to this playground because it’s at the end of the trail. Grandma wants to sit down for a bit while we play. A van drives up. A woman gets out with an animal carrier. Inside are a dozen baby bunnies. Corrin and I each hold one. Barely fitting inside the palms of our hands. They’re very soft. Hey Celena sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the drain up here is clogged too. I don’t get paid enough for this shit. Elsa’s mom takes us to the oval to skate. My feet get too cold. I cry by the hot chocolate machine inside while she rubs my feet. Momma says we’re changing schools. On our last day they change the name from Tri-District to Harambee. New principle. Nothing to do with why we’re leaving Momma says. 7

Our new school is closer to home. We can take the bus. Bottom of the hill. Chad’s friends do bad things like egg police cars. Shoot bottle rockets at each other while driving. It’s called L.C. Webster. Like Charlotte’s Web. Corrin and I golf every Wednesday all summer. Grandpa enrolls me in the Junior PGA championship in Woodbury. Chad golfs too but eventually he stops. He plays a lot of sports. Baseball. Hockey. Golf. I think he’s good at them. Dad always tells him he needs to be better. Woodbury is where all the rich people live. The school has one wing for K, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders. One wing for 4th and 5th. There’s a ramp between them. I start third grade there. I write my first book. A unicorn named Uni learning how to fly. Uni is my unicorn beanie baby. I learn cursive. The gym is very, very small. We learn things in units. Dance unit. Jump rope unit. Bowling unit. Yo-yo unit. Juggling unit. Once a year a man shows up with an inflatable igloo. We crawl through a tunnel to get to where all the stars are. My teacher’s name is Ms. Harper. One thing that hasn’t changed, persisted through the test of time, is the slow experience of a loved one dying. 8

Daddy comes home late. Always on his phone. She put a letter with candy on my desk at open house. She’s nice. We stand to say pledge allegiance in the morning. I don’t know the words. There’s a girl named Amy. She likes ketchup. She has very long hair and two afghan dogs. We stand for pledge allegiance and Amy pukes between her fingers. Ms. Harper teaches us mancala. We hold a tournament. I lose. I read my book for the class. From the rocking chair in the corner with everyone sitting in front of me. Momma comes to school once a week. On Wednesdays. She reads with a small group of us. There’s testing at this school. We answer questions by filling in bubbles. Ms. Harper says there is no right answer. We get honey salted pretzel twists and big mints that melt in my mouth too fast. They help us think better. Ms. Harper gives me my first journal on the last day of school. dear journal i have a big secret i want to tell you i want to dye I write down all the swear words I know. Only when I’m mad. I get mad when Daddy is mean for no reason. Corrin and I fight a lot. Momma says we’re not doing figure skating lessons anymore. A part of me is glad to miss the hockey unit of my class. I can’t use hockey skates. I fall. I am sad because I wanted to learn how to spin. Daddy signs us up for dance at Larkin Dance Studio.

Corrin is in a different class. The girls in my class have been dancing for awhile. We both take a tap and jazz class. There’s a girl who stands in front who shows the rest of us how to do the steps. The teacher tells her too. I want to be that good. The studio is in Maplewood. Where we live. On a map Maplewood is a long narrow vertical rectangle. It takes a sharp left at the top. Turns into a short wide rectangle with two bites taken out of it. Top left, bottom right. Larkin is in the strip mall across the street from Maplewood Mall. The mall is like an ‘L’. Party City at one end. Old Country Buffet the other. Larkin in the corner. We go to the karate shop for snacks. It’s next door. Dance is fun. But I am not flexible. There are four studios at Larkin. The really good kids dance in the room where the lights are always dimmed low. Molly teaches us tap. Gino teaches us jazz. Michele teaches the really good kids. She yells at them a lot. She scares me. Molly and Michele Larkin are sisters. Chad transfers to John Glenn middle school. He gets expelled for being a bad student. Mom says he does the homework, he just doesn’t turn it in. I don’t really have friends at school. Brandy and Gabby are nice to me. They’re also mean to me. When we play four-square on the playground they cheat to get me kicked out of the game.

They’re the popular girls. They’re the bad girls too. Chad is friends with Gabby’s brother. He has a rattail. There are other girls who are nice to me. Like Abby. Abby is the leader of her group. Me and the other girl who are new want to be in her friend group. In the corner of the school yard we take her test to see how badly we want to be her friend. Who can spell my name the fastest? A-B-I-G-A-I-L! I beat the other girl. I’m in the friend group. The schoolyard has a big hill next to the playground. If we have snow pants, snow boots, and a snow jacket, we can slide down the hill on sleds. Someone ices the hill for us. Your future self will thank you. I decide that for each of our birthdays we get a locket. Everyone but the birthday girl gives me five dollars. I go to Target with Momma to pick one out. Chad goes to Hill-Murray now. A private catholic school. Chad is asked to not return to Hill-Murray next year because he doesn’t follow the school uniform. I wonder if he needs help. I don’t want him to throw a pillow at me for asking though. In fourth grade they give me homework. Ketchup, mustard, recess. Ketchup means you have to catch up on the homework you didn’t do. No recess. Mustard means you didn’t finish all of your work. You can go to recess once you’re done. I get mustard a few times. Ketchup once. 11

They give me a piece of paper about joining band. I ask if I can. Momma takes me to Schmitt Music across the street from the mall where we get my flute. I take lessons once a week inside a soundproof room there. My teacher is a man. I make sure he doesn’t touch me. I join choir too. At the end of the year we’re going to sing Christmas carols at retirement homes then perform inside Mall of America. A girl in my class, Julia, comes back from her vacation. The teacher tells us to welcome her back. Tell her that we missed her. We missed you so much, Julia. Not! Everyone laughs. Celena step outside into the hallway please. Everyone ooos. I learn that it is not okay to say something like that. We take more testing. Called the MCAs. This time we have dividers. I sit next to my friend Anita. She’s Hmong. I draw doodles for her. The teacher sees me. She takes me outside. She tells me that what I did is considered cheating. It will go on my permanent record. I will fail the test. Why does she want me to feel bad? Is she serious? When I go home I tell Mom but she doesn’t care. Every once in a while we have read-ins. I wear my favorite pajamas. I have my favorite books. I bring my comfiest blanket. I take the big bag of hot cheetos. Dream Job: Bread maker We read all day. 12

I have my first slumber party at Anita’s. She has a lot of younger siblings. Her parents stay in their room. She only has shrimp flavored ramen to eat. I hate seafood. I call Momma on the house phone to ask if she can order us pizza. She says no. She’s coming to pick me up. Anita comes over to my house instead. She doesn’t sleep over though. A list of things people should apologize to me for. Grandma always colors with us. We sit in the upstairs bedroom around a small circular table with stubby legs. I have my place. With my knees curled into my chest next to the skeleton of a wall. My sister attentively focuses. Her chin hovering above the table. A clear container scratched from the rainbow contains our tools. The good crayons. The kind that twist up and down. Grandma is the best colorer. She makes pretty choices. Purple hair! Make it stripes! She made sure I did kid things. We color until someone gets hungry. Until I get hungry. In the wall along the stairs to the basement, where the boogeyman lives, is the pantry. If there’s a god there’s a can or two of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup waiting for me. The trick is to put less water. A whole extra can full will just be impossible to hold in back up the stairs. I have to massage the packet of cheese for 10 minutes. It will not taste right if I don’t. A box of Velveeta is a meal for two. If Chad’s around it’s him and a half. He never says no when I offer. I can’t make a box of Velveeta and not offer. After I’m full it’s back to the covenant of coloring. There’s no talking. No music. No TV. Grandma has the softest pillows. I’ll never sleep on anything but a soft pillow.

I stand in the driveway and scream GRANDMA CAN YOU COME PICK ME UP. There she is 5 minutes later in her tan crown victoria. How did she know? Feather pillow from Belgium. Great Aunt Connie lived there. Grandma’s twin. I’m so eager to finish a coloring book. Grandma can finish a coloring book. There’s just so many choices and one shot to make them in. I was so close to finishing one. The end thinner than the beginning. April 28, 2013: Where I am in this place is secret. Dead too. A clearing where the sun never stops shining and the wind never stops blowing. These hills surrounding me soar over the city skylines and I can see everything. There is a constant noise of racing cars and screeching breaks; fluttering leaves and fighting currants over rocks; roaring planes and once in a lifetime silence. If you come here you wouldn’t find me. Not even the people who do see me. If you looked up you would though. There are families who go there where I am not. And stoners who I hide from. I watch them come and go and see what they’re like. I guess… I wish things were different. Mom doesn’t let us drink juice boxes with high fructose corn syrup. Hated not one brand made lemonade without it. Mom prefers to sew but complains until the cows come home about it. She doesn’t let us buy a Halloween costume. We stop eating dinner at the dining room table. Scissors glide through patterns like they do with wrapping paper. We run through the fabric aisles trailing our hands across every spindled color and texture. I can hear the hum of her sewing machine motor at the table. The creak of the peddle with each push. Momma was an artist before she gave in to this world. An aspiring architect turned costume maker. She makes our lesser known Christmas dresses too. Momma hates when we call her at work. If we’re not bleeding to death, puking, on fire, or dying she gets really annoyed. We’d first have to page her so the urgency was downplayed to begin with. 911 is for emergencies. 14

Momma is a nurse with a tolerance for bullshit strictly allotted for the hospital. Momma didn’t tell us what the black and brown shoes were for but like clockwork we got new pairs every year. Black shoes go with the black dresses for funerals. Brown shoes go with the khakis for family photos. Butterfly with giant rhinestones on the wings. Glitter glued to my hands. We are smart girls. Getting Mom’s attention takes effort. Mom and Dad will tell you they walked into Chad’s room with a one way ticket to Camden Military School. They’ll tell you he went there with just a toothbrush. Hip hop was shit I had to turn off. Cartoon Network was going to melt my brain. MTV was garbage. Dad went through a phase. With Lady Gaga. Starstruck was the first music video I saw. If you told my mom, the primary doctor Dr. London, the gastroenterologist, or my dad that irritable bowel syndrome was not what plagued me from a third of my 7th grade year, or a lactose allergy, but anxiety, I would have made them cross. I only know because of a self diagnosis. Pills the size of my thumb from this weird herbal store. They smell really bad. They help me so much, Dolly. Dad thinks everything about us is the same. Wrapping presents is truly an art form. The presentation of the gift is just as special as the thing itself. Perfect bows. Crisp edges. Flat seams. Dad’s cure for my stomach problems is malt o meal. Malt o meal with more maple syrup and brown sugar I would ever be allowed to intake on any other occasion. Mom’s from the south. The original south.

Celena, don’t listen to what they’ll tell you in school. The confederacy didn’t fight for slavery they fought for state rights! Okay Grandpa Jerry. Dad wires the small TV with the VCR in between the front captains chairs. Corrin and I get our own captain chairs. With a booster seat. Chad gets the back seat to himself. I like pushing the accordion shades up and down while we drive. Rule #5: Dad always drives We visit Grandpa Jerry in South Carolina. We drop Chad off at Camden. Somewhere in South Carolina I see a dinosaur. Mom says it’s a vulture. We visit Aunt Ashley and Grandma Babs in North Carolina. We visit Aunt Laura, Uncle George and Gigi in Virginia. Mom’s parents divorced when she was in high school. Grandpa Jerry had an affair. He’s also an alcoholic. He planted a pineapple in the backyard of their big house for Corrin. We didn’t have a church to frequent, but we were christian. In the parking lot of Grandma and Grandpa’s baptist church we wondered what time Dick’s Sporting Goods closed. Dicks.com is apparently not their official website. Much to my surprise. I’ll just look up dicks.com Mom, look! Celena, no! Rule #26: Only the boys get to watch TV Cassie lives in the attic of her house. She has a separate room for her bed, hanging clothes, folded clothes, and toys. She gets to wear halter tops. She has three pet rabbits in the backyard. Her parents smoke inside her house. I have to sleep with my sleeping bag over my face. They don’t notice. 16

Chad, Corrin and I have asthma. We use a nebulizer at night. Momma yells at me when I cough. I like space to be alone. Dad brings home large scrolls of paper every day. He tells us he’s designing our dream house. My dream room has a fireplace with two couches facing each other in front of it. My bed has four posts and a canopy! Inside my walk-in closet, behind the clothes, is a secret entrance to the attic where I have my library. I love a cushioned bay window to read in. I’ve never read in one but I imagine I’d like it. Nobody explains the difference between baptist and methodist but I don’t care enough to ask. Baptist church is made of bricks, dark wood, tan walls, and linoleum floors. Methodist church is made from white painted wood, white walls, wood floors, and black velvet. I enter TaLeef’s space struck by the oud reminiscent of the incense poking from sidewalk grates in Wicker Park. Wet footprints on the tile get darker as I draw closer to the main door. I shake off my leather jacket with a shimmy and wrap my hair around my crown. I started astral projecting the other day. I think my mind is running out of places to go. My parents never pick me up on time from the bus stop. Why can’t you walk home? It’s a mile, John. Daddy hisses when he’s mad. It’s annoying. It’s unnecessary. Dad works in construction. He brings it with him everywhere. Attendance either late or absent. Mom never chaperones any of my field trips. At least she doesn’t work on my birthday. She makes dinner every night.

Meatloaf. Cashew chicken. Pot roast. Cayenne-honey chicken. Steak pinwheels. Tacos. Chili. Dad buys a rotisserie from the TV. It’s cool for a few months before stored in the garage. I need ten hours to write a 10-12 research paper. Coffee. A large table with an outlet. I got second place in the 4th grade spelling bee. Dear Celena, I am smarter than you. Justo Ruiz Trevino was my great-grandfather’s name. He was a migrant worker from Nava, Coahuila, Mexico. Justo married Manuela Montes. From Laredo, Texas. They lived in Swede Hollow, St. Paul, Minnesota with their children. No electricity, running water, or bathroom until the city burned the neighborhood to the ground. Citing health hazards. They moved to the west side. My full name is Celena Montes Ruiz, like the singer. My middle name adopted from my father’s, grandpa’s, and my great-grandma. My name construes my identity. Oh! You’re a white girl? Your middle name is a last name. When Mom met Dad’s family she didn’t understand why they didn’t speak spanish. It was my responsibility to change that. So I’ve been told. One of my favorite photographs is my brother and me inside an empty, bubblegum blue, plastic pool on the deck Dad built. I was one, he was 6. Chad squeezes me close to him. One arm loops around my neck the other holding a hot wheels car to his cheek. Chad goes to military school when I’m eight. I only see him in the summer. He draws pitchforks on his walls in sharpie. A permanent act of defiance. You are such a disappointment. Why are you like this? 18

You will never be good enough. -Dad Chad doesn’t do well in school. Brother TBD I’ve been walking in a shadow all day. Corrin and I did everything together. We hated it. Figure skating lessons, coloring books, golfing with Grandpa, summer camp, workbooks from Target, a room, shopping for clothes, swim lessons, the doctor, soap, toys, bed time. Chad threw up in his room last night. Then Dad threw up in the bathroom we all share. Mom threw up in the kitchen sink. Corrin puked on herself. I didn’t want any part of it. We need to get carbon monoxide detectors apparently. It wasn’t the Velveeta dip Mom made the night before. I’m cleaning the patio when a woman comes out of the restaurant and squats in front of the door. She’s peeing. I stand with my hand on my hip holding a rag in the other. Fuck you she says. Walks to the bus stop. Corrin’s hair is a short, bright blonde that shines at night. It curls against her shoulder on picture day and falls out when Dad beats her. Her eyes an enthrallment of vivacious life. Pee diaper. Chad and I call her pee diaper. While I am pink she is blue. Riding an ocean of indigo comforter before trailing off to sleep six feet away. I live in a cloud with pink and white hearts sewn on quilted fabric. She doesn’t live in a cloud like me but I hang over her seas anyway to watch over. A dollhouse shaped like a triangle atop a square. Dad built it for us. Five feet tall, cubbies inside that look like rooms.

Mom and Dad won’t let us close our door so they can hear if we’re asleep or not. Mom said they had Corrin so I would have someone to play with. Because Chad is 5 years older. She reminds us when we’re fighting. Her bed rejects light and looms heavy in the dark while mine reflects the living room lamps down the hall. The darkness creeps on her. Consumes her like smoke. Her body twitches under the moon with every nightmare. Another sleepless night of yelling. Sister WARNING: No intimacy permitted No touching Irritability heightened when threatened Will dissociate in conflict Here’s a situation: I’ve gone and she’s found me. She slaps me. For my errors as her child. I’m bound to my room. I come out but speak with attitude. I’m asked to return to where I’ve come from. That was a lie. Homeless man pees in the restaurant while taking a selfie. Later, he says you’re not going to give me anything because of my face, right? He has a horrible tattoo over his right eye. He bares his decaying teeth to me like a smiling clown. You can get an apple. Corrin is impossible to deal with. Dream job: Librarian It's tradition to rent a hotel for three days over New Years. Always a suite. Includes an indoor waterpark. Corrin and I get our own room with two twin size trundle beds. Chad sleeps in the living area with the TV, on a pull out. Mom and Dad sleep in the master attached to the bathroom. There’s a balcony with a wet bar and a kitchen overlooking the indoor pool.

The jacuzzi has a mini TV in the wall. Corrin turns it on. It plays porn until Dad comes in and turns it off. I overdose at fifteen. When Dad wants to yell at us he shouts into the house GIRLS! FRONT AND CENTER. NOW. He reaches for the metal spoon. Corrin cries. Chad asks why I’m not. Dad smirks, Because Celena’s a rock. A rock because it can’t be manipulated. I saw a razor at wrists, arms, thighs, my chest. Cat scratches I tell myself. One mode, unchanged, self-contained, uninfluenced. Vicodin, oxycontin, oxycodone, molly, acid, cocaine, adderall, vyvanse, weed, laced weed, kratom, booze Dad spent a lot of money on a custom Harley Davidson one ton crew cab. When we go to Jeremy’s house we play with his daughter's enormous toy collection. Envious. We eat Little Caesars Pizza because we’re with Dad and Mom’s working a night shift. Dad has a friend whose wife is a stripper. Their house is nicer than ours. Jim and Pam. Those are their names. There’s a toy room in the basement. I’m too big. My head hits the ceiling. It’s bigger than any room I’ve ever seen. Hard all the way through. I go to the alphabet school. SPCPA stands for Saint Paul Conservatory for Performing Artists. I lose all my friends after 8th grade. I throw my doll into the carpet, run for the cordless. Pivot. Run back. I close the door. It’s an extra second between me and Dad. Corrin keeps playing. He just grabbed my cell phone as I dialed and smashed it against the mirror. She wasn’t crying. The sliding mirror doors of their closet had a hole in it. Shards of glass were strewn on the carpet. They glittered and crunched as officers stepped on them. 21

Dad’s outside. I never finished the call because police showed before I could. Well, lucky for you the call went through before your phone lost service. We will be arresting your husband for obstructing a 911 phone call. We can get you in touch with a divorce lawyer if you’d like? She stared at him. No. That won’t be necessary. Hello? Celena! Yes? I need you to call the police. Or get your brother. I need someone to come pick me up. Your father is driving like a fucking maniac, trying to run me over. Every once in a while they go out to make it seem like everything is okay. Things were okay for one day to maybe a week. Operator: 911 what’s your emergency? Me: Hi, um, can you come get my dad? He’s been yelling at my mom for a while and I’m afraid he’s going to hurt her. O: What is your name? M: Celena Ruiz. O: How old are you, Celena? M: I am eleven years old. O: Okay, I have an officer on their way. Is there anything else you need? M: Can you tell them not to turn their sirens on? Otherwise, my dad will know. O: Alright, I will. Just hang tight. M: You can’t let my dad know that I called. O: Okay. M: You promise? O: I promise. M: Just pretend that someone walking by heard them yelling and called the police. O: I will let the officer know. M: Okay, just make sure. O: I will. Is the officer there yet? M: Yeah, he just got here. O: Okay, I am going to hang up now. The officer will come talk to you soon. In my dream I’m walking through an empty, seductive cocktail lounge. A white card, folded in half, perched alone at a table. I picked it up feeling like this was it. Inside printed in cursive ‘Not For A Dream’. One of fifty on a CTA train. Oh god, the silence.

At a cabin we’re renting somewhere in northern Minnesota. A woman sells postcards with pictures of clouds. Proud to say she took them. Corrin, as a fetus, take’s all my milk. I, a newborn, lose weight. The pattern on my booster seat makes me sick. I’m convinced. I can’t look at it. I obsess over my ability to look outside the window and see nothing but a passing image as we drive. I want it to look like the cartoons, where everything whizzes pass in a blur. Being a child feels burdensome. I want to grow up for my parents’ sake. I race water droplets down the window going down 35-E. When they disappear from view I scoot myself to the very edge. To see where they go I lock my seatbelt. My window explodes on White Bear Ave. I see the marble sized crack first, then a spider web, and glass shards raining onto my lap. The van screeches. Mom says she saw someone throw something. Says to pull the shade down until we get home. Thoughts on Cosmetic Surgery: I don’t love myself enough to be the same in 40 years. I leave therapy like my toilets unclogged all over the floor. I’m a collector. It’s hard to collect if I’m talking. Mom called me today, finally. But I hadn’t really been waiting. Hey, so I’m going over to Jake’s house wearing leggings and a sweatshirt, is that okay? We’re just watching a movie. I’d hide in my closet in the fetal position on a blanket. Held up by a pillow. I’d write in my journal under Christmas lights strewn underneath my hanging clothes. I think my consciousness is hiding from me in that closet. On a blanket, held up by a pillow. Surviving off the twinkle of string lights. My consciousness is hiding. I left work. Waited for the bus. Got on the bus. Got off the bus, carefully. Almost fell. Walked myself to the emergency room. My name is Celena Ruiz. I’m having a bad back spasm and I can’t move. I waited 45 minutes. I listened as the old woman with an oxygen mask told the lady holding her husband up by the arm the information she knew about his heart

problems. Are all old people hypochondriacs? I thought to myself. My mom would tell me yes. What they say: We examined and can’t find what’s wrong so nothing’s wrong. We will now move to the next level of pain treatment on this 7 step plan to intravenous morphine. When we get to morphine you will still feel it. I climbed onto the counter. I climbed onto everything. They kept our Halloween candy on top of the kitchen cabinets. I cracked the door. I peered out from that small space. I didn’t know it would change my life. It was loud. My body is leaning away from it wherever I go. A slight curve. One side better than the other. You were a very stoic child. You saw things and you internalized them. You knew that what was going on was wrong and you tried to figure out why. Outwardly, you showed no signs that anything was bothering you, but on the inside I knew that you were being completely ripped apart. -Mom Because Celena’s a rock. Never spoke a word except to say, Yes, or No. Rocks don’t speak. Dad studies my face. He notices slip-ups. If I blink towards the end of an accusation he constructs his own interpretation. I know you think that , but I’ll have you know little girl that . Mom and Dad are redoing our room. New paint. New bed frames. Everything in the living room. Mom and I leave to pierce my ears on my 12th birthday without permission. He throws the dollhouse on its side. Shattering the snow globes Corrin collects and the gifted ceramic merry-go-round bejeweled with emeralds. I ran. My birthday is May 25th. 1. How has the trauma been constructed? Formatted? He catches me in the entryway, in front of the garage door throws both his hands above my head, slaps them flat against steel. In the bubble created by his body he screams, spits in my face. Who the hell do you think you are, little girl? I don’t give a fuck what your mother says, you hear me? You are a child and I am the adult! Is that fucking understood? 24

7. How are we supposed to read this? After he falls asleep I open my birthday presents. A rose gold iPod case with matching engraved earbuds. Mom makes me say thank you to Dad before going to bed. 14. What is the point? In the darkness of my parents’ basement bedroom I stand over my snoring father. I cock my head to the side. If I could I would shoot him. Instead, I whisper thank you. Quick exit. 11. Do I need answers? While we’re playing dolls in our room Dad hurls through the closed door. He claws a handful of Corrin’s hair. Drags her out to the kitchen. Hit her with the slotted metal spoon between every word. You––better––think––twice––before––you––open––your––mouth––you––little––shit. 2. What does the construction say about the author? He hit her until his hand slipped, smashing into the glass oven door where she was holding on. 5. Why is there so much abuse on this page? At Grandma and Grandpa’s Corrin hits me with a magnifying glass. I tell on her. My grandma asks her to apologize. Corrin tells her no. Her request is stupid. Grandpa tells Dad Corrin called her stupid. 9. What are the expectations imposed on me? I was hiding in the closet. After a punishment there was a period of silence that had to follow. Any sound made meant we brushed off a punishment with no reflection. This meant another punishment. 3. What is concrete? She whimpers under her covers. Not moving from the pain. We don’t say anything. I help take her pants off. The cheeks of her butt spotted red with blood. Starting to bruise. She wets the bed. She wets the bed every night. 4. Why is that concrete? 25

My suicide notes mostly depict which of my friends will get my toys and jewelery. Haley - Nintendo DS Corrin - stuffed animals Talia - bracelets 6. Why is there no abuse on this page but the narrator is so affected? And vice versa? Sometimes I pray to God to kill me. When he doesn’t I wish on shooting stars for my parents to get a divorce. I also write a list of attributes I won’t tolerate from my future spouse if I survive. 8. What do I get out of this? Divorce Your Husband If... ● He hits you ● He cheats on you ● He makes you feel stupid ● He yells at you for no reason ● He calls you names like ugly and fat ● He hits your kids 12. Why are you choosing to read this? The computer’s downstairs on a corner desk. Its big leather chair rolls over a sheet of wood hiding concrete. Unfinished basement. Stains like spilled dark soda mottle the flooring. They’re hawked up loogies Dad spits. I stare at the desktop with mom as she reads the emails Dad had exchanged with a woman named Debbie. There are many. I promise her I won’t ever live with Dad or Debbie. Something he claimed in one of them. That fish is almost the size of you! He jabbs the side of his palm into my chest as the other arm extends down to my knees. I stare at the fish handler on the computer screen while he searches my face for amusement. Dear Celena, I am smarter than you. 10. What are my questions? If you supersede the missing original with something that could never remotely resemble it everyone thinks you’re growing. The feminist theory class I failed taught me a lot.

He texts me things like… 7/21/19, 6:21 PM

Hi Dolly, I just finished an ass kicking hike up the street! My company relocated me to Portland, OR and it is amazing out here. I think about you everyday and I would give anything to talk to you. I have never stopped loving you and never will. I miss you and want to know how you are doing. I started astral projecting the other day. My mind is running out of places to go. Things I don’t understand: Penthouses. You’re the first to die should the building collapse. Priority boarding and first class. You sit and wait for everyone else. Walking past you, obstructing any sort of service you paid to receive. Corrin stares at me when I cry. 13. Why did the author share this? Dad’s favorite chips are sun chips. What I’m trying to say is that after you intellectually analyze the show with your developed brain, then decide if your child should internalize it. I hate knowing someone is watching me; I don’t want to influence or have any part of what makes up their day. Headphones make me feel like I’m drowning. Found out I have scoliosis today. Ripe age of 22. I wake up in the middle of the night. Corrin’s bed wetting alarm is going off. She’s still sleeping. What I don’t have: Permission Edgar grabs me in the real world while I’m flying in slow motion around the restaurant’s dining room, petrified, in the dream world. I gasp for air. My body stops convulsing. Dad screeches into the driveway of the yellow house where I’m sitting on my bike. He marches over. Grabs my ponytail. Pulls the bike from under me. Tells me to get in the truck. My bike, with the purple and pink streamers coming out of the handle bars, is thrown into the bed. Rule #3: Don’t ride your bike past the end of the block 27

The first place is Puerto Vallarta. Dad doesn’t like the food. Then Maui. Nicholas Sparks taught me everything I needed to know about love. I read his books everywhere. Dad talks a lot. Everyone but him knows it. I read to pass the time. Mostly when I’m waiting to go home. The yellow house is a duplex .25 miles down the hill from ours. In one scroll Corrin has an entrance to the attic in her closet. But Dad says I get the walk-in closet and a bigger room. I tell him I don’t like this scroll. Janet sits there, listening to me complain. After I’ve finished she advises me to stop doing my homework. I convince everyone. On Christmas Eve we get into the van. Wrapped gifts in the backseat with Chad. Grandma and Grandpa have a mini tree they put on a table, in the corner. Gifts cascade from the table to the middle of the living room floor. From smallest to largest. Grandma wraps everything she gives us without bows. She uses gift bags to hold them. There are only five grandkids: me, Corrin, Chad, Taylor and Matthew Jr.. Aunt Tami could only have one baby. Dad’s younger brother has a baby. He’s autistic. Both of them. I take all my Christmas money and buy the white Nintendo DS with the Animal Crossing game. A trip to Target Greatland isn’t complete without looking at workbooks for spelling, begging Mom for a firefly cell phone because a real cell phone was never going to happen, and staring at the pearlescent Nintendo DS through the locked sliding glass. Corrin doesn’t like workbooks. I’m a good reader. I can read two books at a time because I don’t want the stories to end. My vices? Junie B. Jones, Magic Treehouse. Then, Blue is for Nightmares and The Clique.

I find a jigsaw puzzle book while at the mall. I can’t decide between the mermaid or the fairy one. I pick the fairy. I want to have powers like fairies and mermaids. There’s an old rifle in the garage I use to pretend shoot at cars driving by. It’s a busy street, McKnight Road. The speed limit is 35 but dad drives 50. Everyone else goes that fast, he tells Mom. We live at the top of the hill. The last house on right before Larpenteur Ave. Next to Playschool Daycare. The counselor at the beading tent uses a fly swatter to swat away wasps until she swats one into the inside of my left arm. We go to summer camp at Playschool for one summer. The girls are expensive. Corrin damn near died having her baby. I guess that’s full circle. When we lived in Maplewood we only used the highway to get to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Or if we were being hauled all over the metropolitan area to Dad’s job sites. Or to Jeremy’s, or Jim’s, where he does side work. Or to the random houses always owned by women who have him build things while we stay in the living room. Or to all the ABC construction rentals in the state. Dad picks me up from dance class in his big truck. High off post-surgery medication. He does fine for a while. Halfway up the hill he hits someone’s mailbox. Keeps going. Dad has surgery on his shoulder. His knee. His other shoulder. I don’t remember when. Watch your father while I go to the store. Where’s your mother? She went to Target for your medication. Oh. Okay. Where’s your mother? At Target. Why? She’s getting your medicine. When is she coming back? Soon. Okay. 29

Where’s your mother? Mom went to Target for your medication. She’ll be back soon. Dolly? Yes. Tell me when your mother gets home I need my pain meds. Okay. How is he? I don’t know, Mom! He keeps asking for you. I think he’s lost his mind. I stare at the sun while we drive. If the rays from the sun can turn my skin brown then they can make my brown eyes light. Maybe even blue. Mom has blue eyes. We’ve accumulated half a dozen dreamhouses piled in the corner by the minifridge separating the dining room from the living room. In the winter we play in the ditch. The ditch separates our house from Playschool. There’s a runoff tube that goes under the street. It has a gate over it because alligators live there. Corrin and I search for snowbabies in the snow. Snowbabies: sticky snow that when scooped right form a perfect ball of snow. They’re delicate. That’s why they’re babies. Chad builds an igloo by the mailbox. When it snows enough we can jump off the deck. Grandma takes us garage sale shopping in the spring. We go to all kinds of houses. Sometimes we go to thrift stores. Grandma buys me a wooden box painted baby blue with white flowers. It has a lock. I keep all my valuables in it. She gets me a journal from Target with shiny swirls on it. I detail everyday on each page until I run out of pages. She comes to all my golf tournaments.

Grandma’s knee hurts so she goes to the doctor. Red forks; red blankets; red candy; red placemats; red rugs; red pillows; red roses; red poppies; Red Hots; red clothes; red kitchen; red rhubarb and crabapple. Her favorite color. She uses an electric scooter inside a Walgreens. I follow her down the Halloween aisle. No more stairs. Bed in the living room. Curves depleting in shirts. Mom’s crocheted hats on Grandma’s bald skin. Dry heaves from the living room. She let us build fairy gardens in the corner between the porch and house on the side of the hill. Why did no one tell us she was dying? Red cotton––cherry red, over curves. Crocheted crimson hats. She was soft, doughy. When she moved out of the house into the facility I only saw her once. Corrin, Taylor and I stay in the waiting room coloring while the adults visit her. We watch the birds fly trapped inside their glass cage in the corner. When I saw her she didn’t say hi. She had her eyes closed but she wasn’t sleeping. I held her hand but she didn’t hold mine. Chad’s at military school. Dad won’t let him come home. Chad and Grandma are very close. Everyone disappeared when she did. The flowers died. The rhubarb unpicked. Weeds in the fairy garden. Empty kitchen. Unfinished coloring books in the upstairs rooms. Grandma didn’t wear makeup or nail polish. She didn’t get dressed up. She made gardens. Pink was my favorite color then. It complimented red. Grandma passed away this morning before school. Why did no one tell us? We weren’t going to pull you out of school for that. Why not! What were you going to do? 31

Run to say bye! I screamed. She died this morning, Celena. There was nothing you could do. Smells of cinnamon. She liked cinnamon. Pink: a faded red. The color of eraser. I took off all my string bracelets. I tucked them into the side of her. That’s nice of you, Aunt Tami says, you’ll get those back later. She can’t forget me. I push them in further when she’s not looking. She looked the same in her coffin as she did in hospice. I sat alone until Chad came and sat next to me. He didn’t say anything but I wanted him to. I wanted him to ask how I was feeling. I wanted him to tell me how he was feeling. I wanted him to say something but he didn’t. I thought he was waiting for me to say something and when I didn’t he would leave. He didn’t. We sat together in the last pew of the church by the door. Eleven and fifteen. Like loose limbs on an oak tree turning brown. Born January 1, 1944. Died February 11, 2008. At 64. Buried February 14, 2008. The worst valentine's day. We each take a red rose off her coffin before it’s lowered into the ground. I put the rose inside my fairy puzzle book. Press it flat forever. Dad’s birthday February 8. His least favorite one. When she left we weren’t allowed back. Grandma was Bonnie Mae Anita Ruiz. From that small space I watch Grandpa attack Dad in the living room. The chair in the dining room grinds loud against the new hardwood floors Dad put in. Grandpa threatens to hit Mom. Mom calls the police. Dad doesn’t want to press charges.Doesn’t want to make it worse. We don’t see Dad’s family anymore. Except Great Uncle Jackson. 32

He lives down the street from us. We spend the summer going to Uncle Jackson’s pool. He says Grandpa told the family not to talk to us anymore. After that summer he didn’t talk to us anymore either. He was supposed to teach me spanish. No more family reunions with the Mexican side. Grandma was from South Dakota. Her family, her nine siblings were there too. One of her brothers was shot by his wife and died before I was born. Never met them. Rule #1: Shut your mouth Corrin and I don’t have to go to school today because we’re spending the day at a new school we might go to. It has all grades there. It’s really close to us. They give laptops to high schoolers. It’s really, really big. They have stray cats that come play at recess. Just told my class I was going to a new school for middle school. Mounds Park Academy. The private school. Not going to the Mounds Park anymore. It’s too expensive. We just sent Chad to military school. He doesn’t like to follow the rules. That’s why he’s there. I shared a room with Corrin for 14 years. Chad is absent for most of my life. I imagine every conversation like talking to a grade school friend in a random reunion where the memories rise but the attachment does not. I’m a smart girl, but I don’t get the rewards for being one. We go as a family to pick out the Christmas tree every year. Always a balsam. Because they smell good. Mom said she found a four leaf clover once. So I sit in the side yard all day looking for them. Scott and Sue are our next door neighbors. They have a party once a year and it’s the only time we go over there. 33

They’re house is nicer than ours because it’s finished. Scott smokes all the time in the front yard. He and Daddy talk a lot. Here’s a situation: Chad’s babysitting us. I want to go ride my bike in Playschool’s parking lot. He tells me no. I tell him I’m going anyways. He calls Daddy. He says to take away all my toys. Chad gets a black trash bag. He puts all my stuffed animals inside. I take my baby blanket. The one with my name on it. I put Uni, some books in it and tie it into a bag. I’m running away. I go to the side yard and settle. Chad comes out. Calls Daddy. He says Dad’s going to beat me. I go back to my room. I don’t come out. Daddy comes home. He doesn’t beat me. He’s forgotten. He always forgets by the end of the day. I pick a cigarette butt off the grass. I put it in my mouth. It doesn’t taste like the smoke does. I light a match, blow it out. Momma comes upstairs and asks what’s burning. Corrin tells her I lit a match. Momma takes us to the North St. Paul fire department. We sit in an empty room while a fireman tells us fire is bad. I know fire is bad. They just came to school. They put us in a camper, filled it with smoke and told us to find a way out. My nickname is Dolly. Because I looked like a doll when I was a baby. I had big brown eyes and a head full of hair. See also: DollDoll, Dollbaby. Corrin’s nickname is Rinny. Daddy calls her Muffin. We’re going to the store. Mom and Corrin are in the van. I’m alone in the house. They’ve left without me. I’m sure. I sit on the stairs and cry. Dolly, what are you doing? Let’s go! We don’t need to spend money to have fun girls, find something to do around here. For christ’s sake! When no one asks me how I’m doing— after awhile I should feel sad. I can feel sad. I feel sad. We fly 14 hours to Maui. Chad’s meeting us there. Company trip. Dad’s boss pays. Our suite has a big living room, and dining room. Chad’s sleeping on the pull out. Corrin and I have our own room with a TV. We each get a full size bed to ourselves. Mom and Dad stay in 34

the master. Our balcony is level with a building underneath us. By the resort’s big pool. Dad wakes us up early. We climb over the balcony and walk across the roof to sit on its ledge. We watch the mountains until the sun comes up over them. Dad takes us to a restaurant that only has ten tables. It looks like a gazebo. It’s on the beach. He orders us the macadamia nut pancakes with coconut syrup. The best breakfast I’ve ever had. We go snorkeling. I see a humuhumunukunukuapua'a. Dad says he rode a sea turtle. At the resort is a place where you buy oysters. Then the person opens them to get the pearl. Dad buys Corrin and me five. Mom gets a rare black pearl in hers. Dad says if I go up on stage to hula dance at the luau he’ll buy me more pearls. I want more pearls. Corrin and I have eight pearls each. My first pearl is made into a necklace charm. The ring is a plumeria flower. Shawn from school has a birthday party at the motel behind the mall. Pool party. I’m the only girl there. My boyfriend Cameron Ghost is there. He’s Native American. He tells everyone. All the boys want us to have our first kiss. I’m too scared. I don’t tell Dad. Gabby steals Cameron from me. He still plays footsy with me under the table in class. I’m invited to join a book club after school. We read A Wrinkle In Time, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle and The Giver. The Giver is my favorite book of all time. Sometimes a lady comes to class, takes us one by one, sets a timer and asks us to read from books that are very thin. Then we answer questions. It’s very easy. 35

Once she told me that I didn’t have to read so fast. I read the whole book before the timer went off. I got all the answers right. She never asked me to read for her again. We take field trips at this school. They give us bright colored paper with all the information on the front page to take home for a signature. I’m stacking chairs against the wall after choir practice when the screen for the overhead falls off the ceiling onto my pinky. Corrin is going to her friends house. Mom and Dad are at work. I go home alone. Young Authors is a conference at Bethel University for writers. My teacher asks if I want to go. I say yes. Only a handful of students from school go with me. We each have a different itinerary. I feel important. I’m at college! I spend all day taking workshops with writers. In different classrooms, all over the campus. I learn to write stories, poems. I write whatever I want. I go every year from fourth to eighth grade. Rule #37: Don’t share your feelings I’ll cover myself in tattoos if I want to! I will disguise my being under unruly skin that defies each of us in society. I’ll break open my skin if I want to! I will pierce every volume of cartilage I solely provide in the most intricate ways. I’ll do drugs if I want to! I will digest and exhale impurities if I so choose because it’s only wrong if we think it is. I’ll hate myself if I want to! I will slowly but magnificently diminish to nothingness before your eyes that have burned judgement into me. I’ll be me if I want to! I will hide away to what is known and that is all that fucking matters. Dad tells everyone how bad of a wife Mom is.

He calls her fat. She is always the problem. Momma, why don’t you and Dad get a divorce? I don’t like him. Dad still doesn’t know I called the cops on him. Things I don’t understand: Musicals A field trip to the Minnesota History Museum and snowshoeing is coming up. Mom won’t volunteer to chaperon. She has to work. She doesn’t have to work when Corrin has field trips. Corrin and Mom rode a public bus into St. Paul with her first grade class once. It made me very jealous. Corrin said it wasn’t dangerous at all. They toured the tops of skyscrapers. At lunch I eat beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. Notice blood on my hand. Two holes between my thumb and wrist. Looks like a vampire bite. Leaves scars. In class we take the state test. I know all the states. Then we have quiet work time. I don’t feel good. I get up fast. Shawn yells, She’s gonna puke! I run to the trash by the door. Vomit coats my sleeve from covering my mouth. Ms. Miller holds my hair while I hold the trash can. We walk to the nurses office. I go there sometimes for my inhaler. The nurse gives me a very big Vikings sweatshirt from lost and found. I have to go home. Mom picks me up. 37

I can still go on the field trip tomorrow, right? No, Celena. You can’t. But why? I feel fine! You can’t puke for 24 hours. Mom puts a cherub pin on my sweatshirt to make me feel better. Dad gives me stale 7up. He always does when my stomach hurts. I can’t have malt o meal. I don’t throw up for hours. I tell Mom I’m fine. I eat a green apple. We go to the mall. We leave through JCPenney's. Mom stops to look at the bedding. My stomach hurts. She says to hold on. Mom finishes paying as I shove my head into the side of the trash can between the inside and outside doors. A piece of apple gets stuck in my throat. I have to swallow. Puke it back up. I miss the field trip. I come to professors with an aura of hard helplessness. Reaching out like a dozen hands towards them. All of them sensing my urgent need to be consoled. Using the same tone of heavy suggestion, wanting it to feel like it’s coming from somewhere deep and hauled to the surface just for me. They care but only manage to pull scraps from their pocket. Not because they believe I am a lost cause but because they don’t know either. The last field trip at L.C. Webster is the big one. Only the fifth graders go. We spend the weekend at Audubon. It’s on Grindstone Lake, up north. Past Hinkley. We sleep in bunk beds inside large cabins. The whole class takes turns working in the kitchen serving food. We spend everyday outside. I’m paired with two of my classmates. Sent into the woods with a compass and a list of clues. 38

A scavenger hunt. There’s a high ropes course. I see a deer while strung between two trees. They heal birds too. They have bald eagles, falcons, and hawks inside cages. They say they’ll release them when they’re better. In the science room there are spiders and snakes behind glass. I hold the snake. We get free time outside to sit and write down observations or whatever we want. I spend a lot of time alone. On the way back to school we stop at the Hinkley Fire Museum to learn about the fire. It’s a long movie. Everyone sleeps through it. Dream job: Veterinarian On my way to the dispensary. Man lays down with feet next to me on the train. Sits up abruptly. Takes out his dick. I hate the red line. Corrin lies to her friends all the time. Mom, Corrin and I are waiting in line at the school carnival when her friend asks Mom if she can come to our mansion. I tell Mom Corrin is a liar. We fundraise for Jump Rope for Heart. At the big event all of the kids participating jump rope for hours. It’s fun! When Chad gets expelled from military school he lives with Grandma before coming home. He punched somebody in the face for throwing a bottle filled with pee at him. Chad was getting really good at baseball there. Dad said. He was going to get a scholarship. Dad said. Dad is very mad.

Chad tells us stories of boys putting locks in socks. Hitting people when they sleep in their bunks. Chad spends a lot of time out of the house. He drinks a lot but he’s not 21. He’s 16. He goes to North High School. Senior year. He gets expelled. Chad wants a new flip phone. He needs $50. I give him the money I’ve saved up. He didn’t ask. He takes me to the mall one day. Buys me white Air Force 1’s. Says I’m cool now. When Dad makes pancakes he always puts vanilla in them. He knows I hate it. I won’t eat my scrambled eggs until I squish them with my fork. Add a lot of salt. And put it on my toast. I don’t have friends that live nearby. Corrin has friends who live in the fourplexes on BeBe Street next to Mounds Park. Her friend Nicole lives at the end of the block. Chad takes us on bike rides through the fancy cul de sacs on the other side of the park to the bike jumps. We bike around while he takes jumps. My friends live by school at the bottom of the hill. The smell of Chipotle makes me nauseous. I listen to Rhianna’s ‘Russian Roulette’ on repeat on the bus. I like OneRepublic too. The back door slams into the house with such force the house shakes. Chad! Dad installed new glass french doors to the backyard today. I’m going to fucking kill them. 40

Chad pinballs up the stairs. His eyes scramble looking for something still but he stumbles into his room. Mom’s 10 fingers deep in cetaphil soaked hair. Corrin gave us lice. Her friend gave us lice. On his forehead is a bump pumping blood into his eye. We didn’t hear anything. There’s a cut on his lip staining his teeth a terrifying color. I dangle my feet off the couch with my hands tucked under my thighs. Corrin sits cross legged on the floor fiddling with the comb. We look around as they scream. Glass shatters and Chad punches a few holes in the walls. I’m going to fucking kill them! Have you been drinking? Chad! Stop! His pants sag so he isn’t getting anywhere fast. He runs past us wearing brass knuckles. Girls stay in the house. We peer over the top of our couch out the big three paned window. A car pulls over in traffic by the black raspberries in front. A woman gets out but hurries back inside her car and speeds off. Chad jumps on her trunk. Punches her back window in. She was your brother’s friend's mom. Chad throws up in front of the garage. Lays down to cry. We run outside while Mom’s arguing with Dad on the phone. The house suddenly bathed in red and blue. Girls go back inside! Chad tells a paramedic he’s been jumped. My breathing heavy I run to the back. Are they still here?

Chad punched the back door. Glass all over the floor. No one is in the backyard. Plastic chairs strewn around the yard. I run up front. Girls get back inside! Corrin is still standing by the garage. Wide eyed and unattended. Dad’s home. Kyle’s visiting on break from his English teaching job in South Korea. Dad’s favorite cousin. We’re playing Mall Madness at the dining room table. Who can collect the most deals to win the game? Mom and dad are fighting downstairs. He doesn’t know how used to it we are. Plays with us anyways. Chad’s hip-hop music is very loud. Mom’s retreated to the kitchen, Dad not too far behind. Kyle’s caring too much about the game. Mom’s weight buckles under her. She holds onto the refrigerator with one hand, Dad pulling the other. Mom’s on the ground. Chad comes out of his bedroom. Pissed. Kyle’s still playing the game. John let go of me! Chad pushes Dad off. Get the fuck off her. I watch Kyle to see if he’ll do something. Aren’t you going to do something? It’s not my place.

We walk up the driveway to see the garage door into the house barricaded with garbage bags. Chad’s things. Chad’s room shoved into plastic. I remember coming home and seeing all those bags. Thinking that it wasn’t right. I put you and your sister in the car with the cat and we drove to target for supplies. We drove around for a couple of hours but ultimately came back home. I had nowhere to go. Your father didn’t even notice we were gone. - Mom Your brother is no longer welcome in my house and you, your sister, and your mother are forbidden to ever speak to him. Understand? I didn’t get to say goodbye. Corrin watches me cry into my pillow. The next morning his clothes are gone. A piece of the home cold. Chad lived in the park down the street for a month before finding a place to live. I think about the many times I might have ridden my bike past him. 10/23/09, 6:29 PM I called the police on dad like an hour ago....hes in jail for the weekend for domestic abuse. He smashed moms phone and grabbed her.... Wow call me at 11 tonight!! 10/24/09, 11:58 AM Sorry didnt get the message 'till now! Dad wants to see me and corrin while he's in jail but I dont want to go....but mom is going to make me! 10/24/09, 4:23 PM Wow yea 10/31/09, 2:31 PM you should stop by when you can since dads not around I teach myself to swim while wearing a life vest in a lake. Mom watches. She was a lifeguard when she was younger. At the YMCA I have to do the doggy paddle for an unspecified time for the lifeguard before going into the deep end. It’s because I’m young. It’s easy. Trips to the lake include, but are not limited to: 43

Turkey sandwiches made from silver dollar buns, deli meat, mayo, salt, pepper. Damp and cold from being in the cooler; gatorade; water bottles; sun chips; fruit snakes; chips ahoy cookies. I like to dip my cookies in the water. Thinking they taste better. I try to convince a friend I’ve made but she refuses. Mom prefers the ocean. Once a week the popular radio show ends its run of late night hits to give advice at one in the morning. I steal a house phone. Dial the number under the covers. I call because Chad’s been kicked out. I didn’t reach the host. Instead a woman whose job was to also help. When she transfers me to the suicide hotline I hang up. That’s wrong. I hate seafood. Mom and Dad’s birthday are twenty days apart in February. They have a combined birthday party every year. A crab boil. Dad buys Mom a chocolate mousse cake from Woulette’s Bakery on Grand Ave in St. Paul. Mom takes us to fish markets for lobsters, crab, shrimp and a special beer. Then to rent fold out tables. Mom won’t get me anything to eat. Says if I won’t eat the food that’s my problem. The whole house smells like seafood. I hide in my room because no one cares. I write in my journal. I play with my American Girl doll Grandma Babs got me for Christmas. It was made to look like me. Pale skin, Dark brown hair. Big brown eyes. Mom tells me to come to her table, taking up the entire living room, to try crab soaked in butter. I try it. I hate it. Try the lobster. 44

I hate it. Every year. Dad says I can’t stay in my room so I have to socialize amongst the contaminated air of boiled alive animals. I hate throwing up. A fear. I take a crab fork then poke the eyes out of a severed lobster head. We learned how to do a tornado drill today. I take the bin with all my stuffed animals in it, replace them with all the stuff I want to take with me into the basement if a tornado comes: baby blanket, journals, necklace with a cross. I like to be prepared. Corrin and I need Mom to come tuck us into bed when she’s home. HEY MOM? CAN YOU COME TUCK US IN? MOM! We yell until Dad tells us to shut up and go to bed or she comes to tuck us in. Sometimes she says she won’t because our room is a pigsty and she can’t walk through. I yell at Corrin because she never cleans her side of the room. It’s all her fault. I push all the toys out of the way to make a path to our beds. Dolphins are my favorite because they’re the only animal that can defeat a shark. On the weekend, when we’re home, Dad plays music videos from when he was younger. They’re mostly just concerts. He really likes hair metal. Tells me everything about it from his recliner. Chad let’s us watch music videos for songs that are on the radio. While Grandma is in hospice we go to her and Grandpa’s house. Aunt Tami sat me, Corrin and Taylor down on the couch. She gives us each a Webkinz and a card with a pink sequined heart in the middle. I am given a tan Chihuahua with a white spot on it’s chest. 45

The card is from Grandma. I’m confused because I thought she couldn’t move her hands. It says that she loves me very much. That she picked this webkinz for me because of it’s pink ears. That she knows that’s my favorite color. She says that if I ever miss her to hold it close and she will be right there. I miss Grandma. Corrin: Corinne, Corrinn, Corrinne, Corin, Karen. I don’t have the answers to everything. Celena: Celine, Salina, Salena, Selena, Celina. I spit on the wood floor. Rub turners in it. Split my ponytail in half. Tighten. Pull the wedgie out of my ass. Pull up my spandex. Adjust sports bra. The older girls wear real bras. Room full of mirrors. Dim lights. Everyone looks at me. TaLeef is a space rooted in Islamic values but entirely open and welcoming to everyone. When Dad takes us to Home Depot Corrin and I pick out tiles and cabinets for our dream house. We find out Grandpa has remarried. To a woman named Clara. He sells the house. It’s too soon, I tell Mom. Grandma just died. Dad sets up the sprinkler in the yard. We run through the cold water. Back and forth. Grass stuck to our feet. Our house is the last one on the right at the intersection of McKnight and Larpenteur Ave. A townhome complex is across the street from us. We go trick or treating there. Next to Playschool are an ice cream shop, a pizza place, and a driving school where Chad learns to drive. My favorite ice cream is blue moon. With the bubblegum pieces. Next to the townhomes is the gas station. Rule #20: Dad is in charge of your hair Dad says my hair is too pretty to be cut short. 46

It is dark brown, thick, and heavy. When Chad’s gone Corrin gets in trouble the most. She cries very easily. Dad takes everything out on her. Chadwyck: Chadwicky, Chadwick. When we play outside after it rains I collect worms. I like holding their small, slippery, brown bodies in my palm. I put them all in the empty blue pool. I play with the daddy long legs too. Chad says that we’re going to shoot each other with his BB guns in the backyard. Chad never wants to play. I stand behind the swingset, he under the deck. He shoots me over and over. It hurts. I keep missing. He’s laughing. I don’t want to play anymore. He tells me he gave me the one that doesn’t shoot straight. When it’s warm outside I take one of the croquet mallets from the garage to use for spikey-weed hunting. I take a thorough walk around the yard until I find one. Weeds with thorns. I beat it until it’s dead. New boyfriend at school. His name is Alex. He has red hair, pale skin, lots of freckles. Gabby told me he wanted to go out with me. I think she’s being nice because she took my boyfriend. He gives me a jewelry box on Valentine's Day. His face turns really red. Inside is a bracelet made of silver hearts with diamonds on it. Mom says they’re not real. I feel really bad. I only put a paper valentine with candy inside his paper Valentine’s bag. 47

I don’t like him like I’m supposed to. I think. On Friday I tell Gabby to tell Alex I want to break up. Momma takes us to clear tents in the grocery store parking lot. There are a bunch of flowers inside of it. When we visit Grandpa Jerry we get roses made of dried out leaves. I hang mine on the corner of my door frame. On my birthday Grandpa Jerry gets me a bracelet linked with dolphins with mother of pearl design in them. The clasp is hard to put on by myself. I force it over my hand instead. It breaks. Mom said she can’t fix it because I lost an important part. I keep the two halves in a ceramic container with a dolphin on top. It says Puerta Vallarta on it. It’s too soon. Dear Celena, I am smarter than you Things I don’t understand: People who expect their already prepared food to be warmed up. I’m making a new rule: No one is to touch me. Unless and until I feel different about things. Then, I’ll call off the rule. - Mary Robison Alexis has been gone for awhile. No one seems to care. I look for her in the bathroom. It’s locked. I get the key from the manager, who is deep in conversation about something less concerning than a missing employee. There she is. Right there. On the ground looking asleep but not. Her wobbly consciousness makes me think otherwise. I tell her girlfriend, who also works there. Alexis is on the floor and she’s not really moving. She’s what? It looks like she took something. I really don’t know. Dad takes me to my doctor's appointment today. For my ears. There’s a ringing in them. After sitting in a soundproof room for testing we meet with the doctor.

She looks in my ears while Dad talks about losing the piece of cotton at the end of a q-tip in his ear. He asks if she can examine him too. She sighs. Says she’ll take a look once she’s done with the reason we’re here. Great. Are you calling to bitch at me too? I’m calling because I’m holding a 60 second plank and want someone to distract me. What are you talking about? Your sister called me earlier screaming at me because I’m not letting you come home. So I had to explain social distancing to her and she just couldn’t fucking understand. It’s incredibly fucking frustrating. I never said you couldn’t come home. I just think it’s a really fucking stupid idea. Now if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes I have to go to the bathroom. Domino’s Pizza would you like to hear our specials? Joe’s Crabshack how can I help you? Why did you scream at Mom earlier? I didn’t. What are you talking about? Dad takes the family on bike rides along the river. Chad likes to ride his front wheel against Corrin’s back wheel while growling. We tell her to stop crying. Dad takes us on a bike ride by a lake somewhere. Through tall weeds and trees. When we get home Mom finds a tick on Corrin’s head. These are some traditions in Mom’s family: 12 years old: ears pierced, trip to Washington DC with Grandma 13 years old: birthstone ring 16 years old: watch 18 years old: $1000 We’re all sitting at the table on the deck. Torches lit for the mosquitos. Corrin on Mom’s lap. It’s dark out. We’re waiting for Mom to get the tick out without leaving the head in. It’s very fat. When she gets it out Dad burns it with a lighter. When I get really high I toast two pieces of eggo buttermilk waffles. Get the monster cookie ice cream. Target brand. Make a waffle ice cream sandwich. I also like ketchup between hamburger buns. Generally.

April 28, 2013: I don’t know if I need to be silent or somewhere quiet. When animals want to die they give you this look. They feel sorry for you. Ever take a look at the wrinkles around the knuckles? Got real close with em? I know it’s working cause it makes me cry when I read it aloud. iOS Mail sent this email to unsubscribe from the message “so, what did you think?”. I wasn’t supposed to but I did. Astral projected to a meadow while taking a bath. The most inside I’ve felt. Picture this: A family that prioritizes everything until you’re old enough to show up for yourself. It feels like I’m breaking and all the shards are falling into a deep dark place. A place that stains. It only sounds awkward because it’s new to you. My body is leaning away from it wherever I go. A slight curve. One side better than the other.