Skyscraping Read online

  SKYSCRAPING

  Cordelia Jensen

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA)

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

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  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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  Copyright © 2015 by Cordelia Jensen.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jensen, Cordelia.

  Skyscraping / Cordelia Jensen. pages cm Summary: In 1993 in New York City, high school senior Mira uncovers many secrets, including that her father has a male lover.

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Secrets—Fiction. 5. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 6. Gay fathers—Fiction. 7. New York (N.Y.)—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.5.J46Sky 2015

  [Fic]—dc23 2014035150

  ISBN 978-0-698-17256-2

  Version_1

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  1993 | FALL

  PILOTING

  MIDAIR

  TIME FLIES

  OUR LAST FIRST DAY

  MY INNER EYE

  INTO SPACE

  WHERE WINDOWS ARE STARS

  CAPTURING TIME

  REAL-LIFE THINGS

  TIME TO REMEMBER

  ON AGAIN, OFF AGAIN

  OTHER PEOPLE’S WINDOWS

  RECORDING SESSION

  UNKNOWNS

  NEWBORN STARS

  TURNED

  MISMATCHED

  SOMETHING STELLAR

  SHADOWING

  HIDING

  A UNIVERSE AWAY

  BLURRED

  THE MILKY WAY

  FLOATING

  FREEZE-FRAME

  THERE ARE NO STARS

  ABSOLUTE MAGNITUDES

  NOWHERE

  BEFORE

  AFTER

  THEN

  NOW

  OUT OF ORDER

  EDGES

  REARVIEW MIRROR

  DREAMING INTO A DREAM

  RECORDING SESSION

  NO SPARKLING GOD

  COSTUMES

  CASSIOPEIA

  HOT AND COLD

  IF WE COULD FIND ANY STARS

  BREATHE AND SWALLOW

  GRACE

  CHANGES IN BRIGHTNESS

  SHREDS

  DEFLATING

  CHIMES AND CRYSTALS

  WINTER

  SUMMON A STORM

  WINTER LIGHT

  DEAFENING

  WINDSWEPT

  CONSEQUENCES

  RECORDING SESSION

  COLD GROWS COLDER

  EVERY TRIANGLED SIDE

  HUBBLE’S LAW

  OUT TO SEA

  AS THE CITY LOOMS

  STORM HALO

  STARS FALLING

  BLANKETS

  TUNNELING

  YELLOWED, GRAY

  NO SIGNS OF STOPPING

  CLOUDY GLASS

  TOGETHERNESS

  KINDLING

  COUNTING STARS

  RECORDING SESSION

  CRYSTALS DANGLING

  STARLESSNESS

  EXCAVATION

  WHAT’S ALREADY GRAY

  WINTER DUST

  PLAYING PRETEND

  DELETE ALL

  DARKENING SKY

  TWO CLOUDS INTERSECTED

  NORTHERN LIGHTS

  BLIZZARD

  FLIPPED

  RECORDING SESSION

  HIS PUNK ROCK FACE

  THE SPACE BETWEEN

  WINTER’S GLAZE

  CHAOS

  THOUGHTS ORBIT

  BARELY SWERVING

  SOLAR FLARE

  HOT WATER

  DIZZYING ME

  CORNERED

  WHAT’S FAIR

  OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE STREET

  HOLD FAST TO THIS TIME

  STREETS OF HEAVEN

  CONSIDERATION

  SUPERNOVA

  WHITEOUT

  SKYSCRAPING

  SPRING

  INDIGO GLASS

  UPSIDE-DOWN KINGDOM

  RECORDING SESSION

  LIT BRIGHT

  ANOTHER LAYER

  SIXTY MINUTES

  A REVERSE CRYSTAL BALL

  SQUINTING UP

  TO FIND THE SKY

  SO MUCH LIGHTER

  INNER-DISTANCE

  CRASH

  STRANDED

  DRENCHED

  SOAKING

  OUT MY WINDOW

  WHAT WE ARE MADE OF

  A BOMBARDMENT

  WHAT THEY THINK

  HOW MUCH TIME

  CONSUMING

  THE HOURGLASS

  BLUESHIFT

  BECAUSE THE PEOPLE INSIDE IT ARE

  CONNECT FOUR

  SPRING WIND

  SPROUTS FROM SKELETON TREES

  PINK WAKE

  BUT, FOR A WHILE

  EXOPLANET

  LIKE LIGHTNING

  RAIN ON THE DASH

  RECORDING SESSION

  WISHING STAR

  GLUE, SCISSORS, TAPE

  TWO CITY GIRLS

  COUNTING TIME

  OPEN STAR CLUSTERS

  MORNING STAR

  SIP SWEET SIPS

  OVERLAPPING LIVES

  INSIDE OUR SELVES

  MOVING THE AIR

  THE BLANKET OF THE MOON

  FLYING

  OUR OWN SKY RAINBOW

  SUMMER

  FIREWORKS

  WATCH IT FLY

  IN A FLASH

  ORION’S BELT

  BIRDS IN PARADISE

  RECORDING SESSION

  ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS

  NEVER LETS GO

  IN TUBES

  THE SOUND OF IT

  DECLARATION

  CHECKMATE

  THROUGH WINDOWS

  FROM DULL TO LIGHT

  MORPHINE DREAMS

  COMA

  THROUGH TEARS

  GATHERING

  THROUGH GASPS

  SPINNING CLOUD OF LIGHT

  THE NEUTRAL, YELLOW DARK

  SILVER, EMPTY

  WHAT’S FALLING

  SOMETHING SOLID

  NOTHINGNESS

  NIGHTTIME

  THE MAN IN THE MOON

  ON REPEAT

  ALMOST

  HOLDING NEPTUNE

  AS HIMSELF

  CUT FROM SKY

  BLIND SPOTS

  STARSHELLS

  WITH CAUTION

  REPAIRED, IN PLACES

  TAKEOFF

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTSr />
  Dedicated to my family—past & present

  1993

  FALL

  PILOTING

  I have everything I need.

  My bag. My key.

  The security man knows my name,

  lets me in.

  Soon the school will be full;

  for now, quiet, empty.

  Climbing stairs,

  the room halfway between floors.

  Just the way we left it:

  A tidy stack of blue layout sheets in the corner.

  Two long rulers.

  Side by side.

  Font book in the drawer.

  White counters flank me,

  like plane wings.

  In the corner, the books.

  In order, from year to year.

  All those smiling faces.

  Expecting. Believing.

  I open my favorite:

  1976,

  the year I was born.

  I spiral into their past:

  girls with ironed hair,

  boys in bell-bottom jeans.

  Wonder who’s still friends with who.

  If they kept their yearbook.

  Shutting it gently,

  it’s my time now.

  I unpack:

  new erasers, set them in a row,

  paper clips, labels.

  Take out a rag.

  Wipe the layer of dust from the counter.

  White can always get brighter still.

  Wings after the rain.

  In just two days,

  we launch.

  And maybe, years from now, some baby,

  born today, will grow up to be an editor like me:

  Someone who knows how to turn the present into memories.

  Someone who knows how to capture time.

  She will see our faces.

  Me. Chloe. Dylan.

  Wonder who we grew up to be.

  Then, she’ll sit,

  use her own silver ruler, draw her own lines

  like I’m doing now.

  Taxiing just before

  takeoff.

  MIDAIR

  In my windowseat—

  midair—

  spying on Riverside:

  a ponytailed jogger, an old man walking a poodle,

  a balcony of trees sweeping over the Big Rock,

  cars breeze up the Henry Hudson,

  four boats bump down the river,

  Manhattan’s skyscrapers dwarfing North Bergen.

  Dad peeks in, giantlike, fills the whole doorframe:

  his round face, his fading tan.

  Mira, he says, it’s time. It’s a big day.

  I watch New York City blaze by.

  The sun almost swallows the sky.

  I’m ready.

  Touching the window,

  the glass warm,

  I leave my very own mark,

  floating up, high

  into

  the pulsing orange sky.

  TIME FLIES

  Today, I’m a Senior.

  My sister, April, a Freshman.

  Dad pecks our cheeks,

  Mom, still sleeping.

  He claims she said

  have a nice day.

  Outside,

  April hands Sam

  the homeless man

  a Pop-Tart tucked in a paper towel.

  Dad would be proud.

  Past Cafe 82, Celestial Treasures, Harry’s Shoes.

  Past a yellowing leaf twirling with a Burger King wrapper,

  floating, then falling together, on the cracked curb.

  Time flies—

  once we were little girls dancing to the Go-Go’s,

  mirrored walls showing us ourselves,

  matching long blond ponytails,

  April arms out, voice open, singing loud.

  Me, taking the slow part, spinning in circles.

  Now, eyes locked, under the glass bus stop,

  a sign reads:

  In December, not just tokens only, MetroCards too.

  Write it down in my planner; make sure April sees.

  Our backpacks heavy with possibility,

  a million taxis storm by,

  blowing our hair up in this September breeze,

  the bus yawns, opens its doors to us,

  like it has just woken up.

  OUR LAST FIRST DAY

  I.

  April and I sit catty-corner,

  back of the bus.

  Dylan comes on,

  flashes his pass,

  flannel heavy with smoke.

  Ask if he’s ready.

  He shrugs at me.

  I tell him I’m psyched,

  he mumbles high school’s wack,

  I tell April to ignore him.

  Dylan scored 16 billion on his SATs,

  the rest of us have to work,

  he sticks his tongue out at me.

  II.

  The bus crawls through tunnels,

  lands straight on Park.

  We file out,

  windows above

  lighting us,

  so bright

  we’re fluorescent.

  Chloe, at the corner,

  somehow earlier than us,

  a lit cigarette, fountain Coke,

  cutoffs, Sharpie-drawn Converse,

  Mother Love Bone T-shirt.

  Me in a plain white V-neck,

  plain blue blue jeans,

  I click my brown clogs together.

  Chloe and I, different styles,

  friends our whole lives.

  III.

  April, nervous, says she doesn’t want to go in.

  I whisper Dad’s go-to line:

  let the butterflies into your heart.

  Some girls from her class fly by in formation,

  she picks up their wind, glides into their frame.

  I grab Chloe’s ringed fingers,

  no more waiting, let’s start—

  we move from sidewalk to gates—

  Dylan winks at me,

  we swarm in—

  our last first day.

  I squint back into the sky

  knowing that this is the moment

  in the movie of our lives

  where the prop guy

  rains down

  confetti.

  MY INNER EYE

  Adam, white cap, used to wait

  inside the school lobby, his palm

  gently on my back, steering me

  into the school elevator

  up.

  Now he’s at college,

  not with me to celebrate

  this beginning, this end.

  Not here to steer me

  in.

  So many afternoons spent with him

  at school in our Yearbook office.

  Supplies in order,

  all our plans

  made.

  So many evenings

  in his beige-carpeted apartment,

  yearbook pages spread out around

  us.

  Watching The Princess Bride,

  sipping crushed ice Cokes,

  resting gently on coasters,

  working, watching, kisses

  in between.

  Though we aren’t together anymore,

  we keep in touch,

  my inner eye is locked on Adam’s gaze,

  he’s smiling at me, applauding almost,

  as I make this steady, even flight

  my own.

  INTO SPACE
/>
  First up, Astronomy,

  push in the heavy black door.

  Seat by Dylan,

  a game of hangman.

  I guess the word, Existentialism,

  he draws a happy face

  on the dying stick figure.

  Mr. Lamb projects:

  slide after slide,

  Earth from the moon,

  blue and green swirls of beautiful.

  My heart pounds:

  I am inside of it.

  I am part of the rotation.

  Dylan passes a note,

  says that he’s been reading

  the Existentialists,

  that Senior year, by definition,

  means we are in crisis:

  Questioning what, if anything, has meaning.

  Asks me to join him and Chloe after school

  to ponder our existence.

  I tell him:

  I am not in crisis.

  I am part of the rotation.

  Ask him if he’s thought more

  about where to apply for college.

  Mr. Lamb’s voice cuts through,

  Constellations aren’t just pretty pictures.

  I gaze at the star map,

  down at my table black as night,

  make sure no one sees me

  as I constellate,

  dotting

  Wite-Out

  on the table’s edge:

  my

  sky

  own

  night

  little

  WHERE WINDOWS ARE

  STARS

  Once when we were little

  Mom guided us outside—

  past Dad handing “little cigarettes”

  to his friends from Mexico—

  “Gloria” shouting from the record player—

  she left us on the balcony and returned to their smoky haze.

  Told us to search for stars.

  Sisters in matching gold-speckled party dresses

  out in the air

  a thousand blinking lights

  April asked where the stars were.

  I moved her hand from pointing up to straight ahead and said

  in New York City, April, windows are stars.

  CAPTURING TIME

  For some, Yearbook meetings

  are gossip sessions.

  I try and organize the staff

  on copy, quotes, Senior pages—

  They call me a stress-case

  but they don’t know how relaxing

  it is to cut and paste

  draw boxes of ruler lines

  glide a pen down