Second in Command Read online

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  Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Van, Sandi.

  Title: Second in command / Sandi Van.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2019. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382615 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382622 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383315 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English.

  | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 S436 2019 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition Published in 2019 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2019 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Sam DeMartin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

  WHEN WE WERE 10 AND 7

  my little brother, Jack, locked himself in the bathroom. Our sister, Reina, all drool and diapers, wouldn’t stop crying. Mom’s heart held in her tiny fists. Jack went in, turned the lock, said he’d never come out. Never. Ever. His voice a thundercloud and then raindrops. NEVER. EVER Ever. You can’t make me. Dad left the ladder propped against the house, wet leaves in a clump at its base. I shifted it— slowly, carefully— until it reached the bathroom window. Climbed up, one cold metal rung at a time. squeak squeak squeak Looked in at Jack, face pressed against the door. Like he knew I would wait for him— knew I would come for him. I tapped on the window. tap tap I tapped louder. TAP TAP Leo? His voice a single raindrop. It’s okay, I said. I’ve got your back, I said. Always and forever, I said. Now, six years later, the pane of glass between us is thick. And he can’t hear my voice. If he could, what would I say? I’m not sure I can rescue him this time.

  SCOUT OATH

  We make the promise every week. Honor. Duty. Help. The words forever stuck in my brain. I will do my best.

  THE DAY MOM LEFT

  Early in the morning— so early the darkness was a blanket over my face. Like when Jack and I would build a fort in the family room, hide underneath, and eat bowls of salty popcorn. You better clean up those crumbs, Mom would say. Today she says, Goodbye. I love you. Take care of Reina, and Daddy, and each other. Six months will go by fast, I promise. Then she kisses us each three times— once on the left cheek, once on the right, once on the forehead, her lips like wet dough. Leo, she says. Remember: you’re second in command. I expect you to help out. Toe the line. Be Responsible. I know, I say. I will. You can count on me. Then she hugs Reina one more time because Reina is cute and sweet. And she doesn’t have to worry about taking care of the family. And Dad, who looks calm and like he is about to cry at the same time. And we all stand on the walkway while the sun tints the sky. The ship waiting at the dock is like an old-time painting. Waiting to take moms and dads, husbands and wives, daughters and sons away from their families. Families told to help out. Toe the line. Be Responsible. Take care of each other.

  THE DRIVE HOME

  We’re minus one family member. Jack and Reina sit in the back seat already half asleep. I’m in the front. I swallow hard. Keep my feelings down. I’ll drop you off at home, Dad says. Need to get to work. You good with everything? Breakfast. Kids on the bus. Homework after school. Don’t forget. I’ll be back around eight. I swallow again. Nod. Yes, sir. You can count on me.

  TRUSTWORTHY

  You can count on me. I’ll carry the weight of us. Our hearts connected.

  THE FIRST 24 HOURS ARE THE HARDEST

  The house is empty, quiet. Mom’s smell whispers to me like leaves in the wind. I don’t want to cry, don’t want to miss her. But she is everywhere and nowhere. And I miss her so much it aches.

  WHEN MOM IS HOME

  we eat homemade rice and beans, grilled pork, fried plantains, crispy and sweet. We eat until our bellies burst. Dad says he’ll swing by Taco Ted’s. Beans leaking from the paper wrapper, salsa with no flavor, limp lettuce that falls on the floor as Reina yanks it out. Maybe I should learn to cook.

  CHANGE

  Everything is the same. Same classes, same kids. But I am different. I am alone. Same classes, same kids. They stare at me. I am alone. Can’t escape the feeling. They stare at me. Like she is already dead. Can’t escape the feeling. Emptiness like rocks. Like she is already dead. Everything is the same. Emptiness like rocks. I am alone.

  THE PHONE CALL

  My cell buzzes in the middle of math class. I ignore it, but it doesn’t stop. bzzz bzzz bzzz Like a bee in my pocket trying to sting me. Excuse me? May I? Thank you. I slip out into the hallway, bathroom pass in one hand phone in the other. It’s Jack’s school calling. Hello? Yes, ma’am. I’m his brother. Yes, our dad works long hours. No, I understand. I’ll be there at four. He will. Don’t worry.

  HOW WE HANDLE MOM BEING GONE

  I prepare, dig in, help out. Jack gets detention for talking back.

  WHAT JACK SAYS TO THE PRINCIPAL

  It’s not the same as the truth. It’s what he thinks she wants to hear. What he thinks we will all believe. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Our mom, I start to say, but stop. The principal knows. Everyone knows. Those poor Solis kids— alone. No mother to watch over them. Dad gone all day. It’s no surprise that boy is acting out. The principal looks at Jack, at me, at her desk. Detention. Apology letter. I don’t want to see you back here. I nod. Yes, ma’am. Jack nods. Yes, ma’am. We all know this isn’t the last time we’ll sit in these chairs, and say the words like a song on repeat.

  WHAT I SAY TO JACK

  We ride our bikes home, the wind in our faces cold and mean. Jack Attack, I say, my voice a steam engine. Yes, Leo Lion, he says, his voice an angry growl. I turn to look at him. I’ve got your back. You know that, right? Growl. Don’t push it.

  I DON’T TELL DAD

  what happened. He has enough to worry about.

  THE NIGHTMARE

  Reina wakes up, screaming. I sit up in bed, my ears full of her cries. And I remember, Mom isn’t here. It’s okay, I whisper into Reina’s hair. Her body shakes in my grip. Dad’s snores fill the hallway. You’re safe, I say. Mom’s safe. It’s okay. The nightmare isn’t real. How do you explain to a six-year-old that her nightmare, a nightmare of Mom dying, isn’t real, but it could be.

  MORNING RUNS

  The sky isn’t even pink yet. The air is so cold in my lungs it feels like fire. I run. The sound of my feet a steady pulse a heartbeat a quiet drum. Out here it isn’t me against the world. It is me and the world united.

  COMFORT IN ROUTINE

  There is a peace that comes after the first days of emptiness have passed. A peace that comes with routine. You’ve got this, I tell myself in the mirror. I hold onto the sink to keep from falling over. To keep from falling, keep from shaking, keep from showing the world how I really feel. Scared.

  DOLPHINS

  Reina comes downstairs, her hair messy and uncombed. Come here, I say. She sits on my lap. I brush out her long brown hair until it’s as smooth as water. Part it down the middle, braid each side, the way Mom showed me before she left. Take care of my baby girl, she said. So I do. I twist the ends into her favorite hair ties: pale gray dolphins swimming around a rubber band. When’s Mama coming home? Reina asks. How many wake-ups? Too many. Soon, I lie. I tickle her cheeks with the ends of each braid. She grabs one and studies it. Do you think she’s watching the dolphins? Maybe. Do you wa
nna draw her a picture? She nods and jumps from my lap. I don’t ask about her nightmare.

  NOT EVERYONE CAN BE AN EAGLE SCOUT

  That’s what the scoutmaster tells our troop as we prepare for the board of review. It’s not easy. Meetings. Homework. Planning. The mocking laughter that sometimes follows us down the hallways. But I live for the adventure. The challenge. The grit. The new kids are clumped on the cafeteria benches, their eyes bright and nervous. You’ve got this, I tell the boy next to me. Pat him on the shoulder. Smile bigger than normal. You’ve got this, I say again. Remember the oath? He nods. Remember the law? He says, A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, reverent. I smile and nod. Remember the first aid we learned at camp? He makes a fist with his hand and then lets it go. I’ve got this, he says. It feels good to help. Feels good to be part of a group. When it’s my turn, the questions are hard. But I’ve stayed up late at night, flashlight under the covers, handbook dog-eared and full of notes. Life’s plan set out like a path of stones. Walk on each one— steady, don’t fall. Eagle scout in the distance, a large stone waiting for me to step firmly. My future wide open.

  BEFORE SHE LEFT

  Mom said, You can be anything you want to be. Look at me, the only female chief in my department. Don’t let the world tell you you can’t. Don’t let the world tell you they’ll stop you. Become who you were meant to become. And I will. Each stone a little closer, closer. Steady now. Don’t slip.

  THE APPLICATION

  They tell us it’s important to have a goal. To reach into the distance— arms outstretched, fingertips twitching, eyes on the prize. I want to help people. Keep them safe. Serve and protect. I want to do the right thing. Be the person that others can rely on. The first step waits for me on the kitchen table. Summer Youth Police Academy. Mom’s signature in swirly black letters, Dad’s a single loop and line. The pen hovers over the final space— mine. I am ready.

  LOYAL

  To be true— faithful to those in your charge and those who serve you. Loyal to God to country to family to self.

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  In the family room, TV on mute to silence the sounds of gunfire. Reina tucked safely in bed. Dad’s text: Stuck late at the office. No Jack. This is our thing. Friday nights on the couch. Eyes focused, fingers clicking, fighting the common enemy. I text Jack again and again: Where are you? Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU? No answer. I go on with my battle alone.

  AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Asleep on the couch, video game controller loose in my fist. The door opens. Later, man, I hear echo in the darkness. Jack? Leo? Where have you been? I texted you. Sorry, man. Phone died. He laughs, like it’s funny. Like my worry is a joke. I’m only 16. I didn’t ask for this.

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  We sit at the kitchen table, Mom’s face looking up at us from Dad’s phone. How’s Hawaii? Dad asks. Good. Good. It’s good. Three times. Like she’s trying to comfort each of us in turn. Her voice is upbeat but her eyes are tired. We miss you, I say. Try to smile, try to hide the lump in my throat. Yeah, Jack says. Leo thinks he’s the boss now. I elbow him in his side. He punches my arm. Did you see the dolphins? Reina asks. Some swam by the ship last night, Mom answers. She ignores the jabs between me and Jack, ignores the ghost in the room. The ghost of her.

  PRESSURE

  Mom wants to know how school is going. How are my grades? And Jack’s? Is Reina sleeping okay? And Dad? Mom wants to know if I turned in my application for the summer police academy. When will I hear back? And have I been working out and eating right? I don’t tell her that Reina cries at night, that Jack has been sneaking around and talking back. I don’t tell her that I’m worried. Worried I won’t be good enough to get in. And that I run and run and run until the tears on my cheeks aren’t from the wind.

  HELPFUL

  Helpful. Household chores. Shopping, cooking, cleaning. Weary from the weight of it all. Service.

  THE FLYER

  A piece of paper pokes out of our mailbox. Bright yellow, like it’s trying to be the sun. I pull it out, damp from rain. Deployment Support Group meets Tuesday nights at 7 p.m. at the community center. All families welcome.

  SOMETIMES

  the universe hears when we think no one else does. It knows we’re alone. Sometimes it sends us the thing we never knew we needed.

  X’S AND O’S

  Mom filled out a calendar before she left. Wrote down who goes where and when she’ll be home. Or at least when they told her she’d be home. Reina marks each passing day with a big black X. I circle the next few Tuesdays in red and leave the flyer on our kitchen table.

  TUESDAY NIGHT

  I convince the family to come with me to the support group. Tell them I’ll use my lawn-mowing money to spring for pizza and sodas after. Dad meets us there, suit and tie, looking tired. Reina holds my hand in her left, a stuffed shark in her right. Jack drags his feet. We are a postcard of what gets left behind. I’m looking around the room. So is everyone else.

  THE GIRL WITH BLUE HAIR

  There are chairs in a circle, like the way I picture an AA meeting: Someone tells a story. Everyone nods, says the person’s name, thanks them for sharing. There is a long table with coffee and juice, a package of cookies. It crinkles when I pull two out— one for Reina, one for Jack. They’re in the circle looking for a place to sit. I slip the cookies into my pocket and fill a cup of coffee for Dad. That’s when I see her. A girl. Hair blue like midnight. Silver rings on each finger. She smiles. I stand frozen in place.

  THE TALK

  You know the one. Where Mom or Dad sits you down, and tells you what happens to your body. The changes. The feelings. Where you find out how babies begin. Dad didn’t know what to say. So he sent Mom. We sat on the porch when I was 10, and drank sodas. She told me what to expect from my body, and what to expect from girls. But she didn’t tell me what to do when my throat closed and I couldn’t even say hello.

  FROZEN AND THAWED

  Jack sees me standing there. Frozen like a bird on ice. Jack sees her. His eyes travel back and forth, back and forth. Watches her find a place in the circle, follows. Leo, man. Over here. I saved you a seat. His hand pats the plastic. pat pat His left eye winks. His mouth is full of silly grins. The empty chair is next to her. I walk, boots full of sand. Tell my mouth to open. Speak, I beg it. Speak. I’m Jack, my brother says, hand out. This is Leo. Nudge. I stick my hand out. Speak, please. Nothing. Shy, huh? she says. That’s cool. I’m Zen. I think we go to the same school..

  STILL FROZEN

  Zen. I thought maybe when she spoke my brain would catch up. Make words. Instead a sound like someone drowning comes out. Jack laughs. I kick his leg. Reina runs up and climbs on my lap. Hi. I’m Reina. This is Sharky. Zen smiles. Shakes Sharky’s stuffed fin. I like your hair, Reina says. It’s blue. Zen laughs. Everyone can talk to her but me.

  WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER

  That is what the woman says. The one in the pink sweater, who must be in charge because her chair has cushions.

  WHAT THE WOMAN IN THE PINK SWEATER DOESN’T SAY

  It’s okay to study a map. To measure the distance as it grows each day. To watch their ship get closer to the site of fear, of dread. It’s okay to look at the sky. And wonder if we’d know, or if it would be quick. Without warning. It’s okay to wish that you could have gone in their place.

  AFTER THE MEETING

  I’m not the only one who thought to go out for pizza. A group of high school guys from the support group high-five Jack when we arrive. He makes friends faster than I can let go of Reina’s hand as she heads for the arcade. You okay? Dad asks. His face hoping I’ll say, Yes. I’m great. Never better. I nod. We order. Stare in strange silence. A million years pass. Dad puts his hand on mine. Good.

  SOLIS

  There once was a family of five that did what they needed to thrive. While mom was away they worked through the day and prayed she would come home alive.

&nb
sp; THE NEXT DAY

  fills me with regret. Pizza sits heavy in my gut. I do extra push-ups and sit-ups, jog more miles than normal. I think about my spot in the academy. I think about all the things that will come next. And then I think about Zen. Her hair, her eyes, her smile.

  BROTHER

  Jack looks tired. When he comes downstairs, I smell smoke on his clothes. And something else. Weed? He’s only. Who are they? I ask. He shrugs. It’s cool, man. They’re cool. Of course they are. Of course they aren’t. I think the words but don’t say them out loud. Don’t do anything stupid.

  AT SCHOOL

  I look for Zen in the hallways, but the faces blend together. Like someone’s holding a filter over my eyes. I look for Zen in the lunchroom. Crowds in their usual places. I eat with some guys from my troop. We talk about our project plans. What’s yours? Dave asks. I shrug. My life an order of events: school summer academy Eagle project The thread of family woven through each one. Day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment. Never forgetting what must come first.