XII.

The school halls echo with 
our vacation, my dyed hair, it’s a fake tattoo.
I find Mia standing in the breakfast line,
a Lisa Frank backpack on her shoulder. 
Vintage, she calls it. 
Something new that isn’t new. 
 
I have nothing new to show her. Except me. 
 
Last time we saw each other, 
I had a mother, 
and now—
 
“What have you been up to?” she asks.
 
She doesn’t know. 
 
To her, my mom just dropped me off, like every morning.
She’s living in the reality I so dearly miss, 
and, for that moment, I stand there in it, 
awash with how my life has changed. 
I can still be me—but I am not. 
 
I am cobalt,
a highly saturated shade of blue. 
 
“My mom died,” I hear myself speak, forcibly cheery. 
Like all the adults who have talked to me—my dad, my uncle, the investigator. 
That’s how you’re supposed to speak when delivering bad news, 
as if the tone promises the words aren’t true. 
That everything will be okay. That you can understand because I have to.
 
But I’m so cheery, confusion presses between her brows. 
Then a hand lands on my shoulder. 
My dad is standing behind me.
 
“You forgot this,” he says, hands me my water bottle. 
I forgot it in my rush to be somewhere else. 
I never used to leave it behind. 
“Love you, kiddo. Bye.”
 
“Did Mrs. J. die?” Mia calls out.
 
My dad nods. “She’s gone.”
 
Mia doesn’t cry. Just grabs my arm. Listens to me babble about TV shows as we walk to the commons, where the class sits in circles waiting for the day to begin. I see our friends but cannot move. 
 
How many more times must it be told before my mom is redefined in everyone’s mind? 
How many times must I say:
My mom died. My mom died. My mom died. 
 
“Do you want me to tell them?” Mia asks. 
 
“Tell them what?” I deny. 
 
She glares at me softly. A look that tells me the truth. 
I cannot avoid this, so I give Mia permission to try. 
 
When we sit, everyone is oceans and sunburn and St Patrick’s Day.
Boo, school.
When someone compliments Mia’s backpack, 
she takes the chance to speak. 
 
“Mrs. J. passed away,” she says,
not cheery or bright.  
She is solemn and true. 
And all eyes are on me.
 
I know I need to nod. 
The movement is swift, but enough. 
 
Harper bursts into tears so loud, others turn their stares our way. 
I drown in a sea of eyes. Wide and squinting, curious and mean. 
 
All because of Mia, I think. 
She didn’t use the right amount of cheeriness
to deliver bad news.
 
As the math teacher steps closer, I stand up. 
Harper has always been sensitive, 
She wears her heart on her sleeve, my mom used to say, 
Sometimes she hands her heart over.
That’s when you can help, Blue. 
 
Like all the times before, 
I comfort her, and the rest of the group follows suit. 
A chorus of you’ll be okay, breathe,
Your mom won’t die.
 
I no longer pat her back. 
 
The others swarm her in hugs and tears and laughter, 
and I am left on the outside looking in
as the teacher kneels to speaker to Harper in a soft, motherly voice. 
 

No one looks at me, 
and I cannot b-r-e-a-t-h-e. 
I stumble back,      
                                          back,       
                                                               back, 
until I am flanked by lockers, 
looking out at a girl getting soothed for a tragedy that hasn’t happened to her.
 

A metallic dark saddles up to my side, 
YInMn blue, the rarest shade. 
It’s vibrant and cool, 
occurring once it’s heated up to 2,000 degrees. 
 
I am 3,000. Or 4. 
I am the taste of jealousy and rage.
 
Your mom won’t die.Your mom won’t die.Your mom won’t die.
 
Those words aren’t meant for me, 
and neither is her truth. 
 
I drinkdrinkdrink, until I am drowning myself in water, 
cooling down the blue.
The school comforts her
while I am left standing in the dark. 
A new me.