head to my room.

I am so afraid,

I think I can’t

take a step.

If Momma found out

I’ve known all along . . .

if she knew about

the breaking and entering

though no one has moved

into our old place

and Momma has gone

there herself before

for the diary

and for things

we need

like a couple of pots

and sofa pillows.

If Momma knew . . .

Just say,

I speak to myself

as I walk fast to my room,

just say that you

found it

when we were moving.

Say that you were planning

on giving it to her.

Not that you walked

back for it.

Not that you dragged

cinder blocks into

the house

until there were

enough to peek

(and then saw it

wasn’t in the

attic

which meant one big ol’ thing.)

In the doorway of my bedroom

I stop.

Now what?

Now what?

Now what?

My mind plays the words fast

so they become one big word

one long word that won’t end.

Nowwhatnowwhatnowwhat?

Where do I hide this thing?

I’m whispering,

panic clawing up

my throat.

I move all over my room, looking

for the right place,

the safe place.

And for some reason,

with that diary,

I know there’s no safe place.

None.

93.

In the bookshelf

the diary

is so short that it stands out

like a whale on the beach.

Under my mattress is too

obvious a hiding place.

My drawers,

too easy a target.

Is that why Liz

hid the diary

at Miss Freeman’s

place?

(I need the diary,

Miss Freeman,

I said, when I

walked across the street

to her place

because

that had to be where it was.

The doctor,

Dr. Marino,

said for me to

get it,

I said.

All right then,

Miss Freeman said.

She let me in the living room

with the plastic flowers, doilies

on all the furniture arms,

and three pictures of

Jesus,

one of Him

wearing a crown of thorns.

Miss Freeman lumbered to the back

of her house

and when

she returned,

holding the diary in a

Ziploc bag,

my stomach lurched

right into my heart,

knocking it out of place some,

I think.

Your sister said, Hide it,

so I did,

Miss Freeman said.

Liz-baby said you’d

be by to get it,

maybe.

She did?

I said.

It felt like needles

pricked my face.

She did,

Miss Freeman said.

She leaned close and said,

I didn’t read it, Hope.

Wasn’t right for

me to read it.

I noticed we looked

eye-to-eye.

When had I grown as

tall as her?

And you’re okay?

she said,

handing me the diary,

small

and pink

and old-looking,

tucked in that Ziploc.

Miss Freeman touched my hand.

Her fingers were

damp with sweat

and soft as a

marshmallow.

I’m okay,

I said.

Sort of.)

At home

I wedge the book

in the crack between

what will be Liz’s

mattress

and the old wooden frame.

Thank goodness it’s so small.

It fits like this was