Why she doesn’t

love her English class

but does love geometry.

I remember my sister before.

It’s not that long ago.

The date tells me less

than six months ago

Lizzie was still Lizzie.

Still seeing her friends.

Not crying at night,

no need for a dog

or a sister

to stay close by.

What changed?

I squeeze my eyes shut

a moment.

What

did

Momma

do?

I know it was Momma.

Somehow

it was

Momma.

Guilt creeps up my throat,

making a bad taste

come into my mouth.

I close the diary and look at the sky.

A cloud billows there.

It reminds me

of melted marshmallow,

only whiter.

The sky is so blue

it hurts my eyes.

Dr. Marino,

I say.

You are wrong.

There’s nothing here.

My hands shake

as I open the diary again.

I read on.

Same old stuff:

boys

lunch

friends

embarrassing things at school

favorite books

me

lots of me

and how Lizzie

is glad we

are sisters.

I let out a sigh.

He’s wrong,

I say in the breeze.

And then

there

it

is.

Slow words,

crawling on the page.

March 23—

I have to write this.

I don’t want to.

I don’t want to do this.

Any of it.

Thurs—

Too dirty to write

Fri—

Floyd Brackney

back two days in a row.

Good money, Momma says.

I hurt, not just down there,

but everywhere.

He’s repeat business

that I do not want.

My face has gone to

ice.

Repeat business?

I say

and look

at the marshmallow cloud.

Momma has said that,

Repeat business,

to me

about people who are visiting her.

About

men

who are visiting

her.

My head feels like concrete.

I look up from the page.

My mouth is so dry

I cannot swallow.

The dream-crying sits on the

edge of my mind,

dangling its feet into my memory.

I read again.

Another day—

Today, there was a new man.

Momma told me to look at him.

His belly was fat

and he hurt me.

Momma sat in a corner chair

and watched it all.

I cry, but no one hears

me.

No one.

Not even Hope.

I squeeze my eyes shut again.

Open them.

The crying?

The dream crying?

Waitwaitwaitwaitwait.

My hands tremble

as I turn the page

back, looking.

Not even a month

has passed for my sister,

the writer.

She must be making up these words.

I cannot believe . . .

but there are pictures,

folded up small,

tucked in the pages.

At first I cannot figure

what the one is,

I have never seen anything

like this before.

And then, as I look closer, I realize . . .

A man ready to have sex.

I’m not sure how I know,

I just do.

She’s drawn

only a stick figure man,

except for that part of his body

that has been erased a few times

and drawn over and over

then x’d out.

This cannot be right,

what I am thinking

cannot be right.