Britney

There are small elements of my last summer life that are revisiting me in this one: Shunklings and Down 2 Clown, Kids, my frustration over being away from my mother, some of the same people here and there. But for the most part, it is different. We’ve traded Prospect Park for Tompkins, the number of people in our hemisphere has grown so quickly that I’ve barely had time to be shocked by the difference, I’m with someone and it isn’t toxic or painful or fractured. Things are strange. I look for clues in old diaries and new words. I think about the absence of my mother and try not to lose my cool.

I get a headache every night. “Leave me alone,” my abuela says, “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” Most days I wake up exactly on time, forgetting to set my alarm clock the night before but my body knows. There are days when I submit to the sweltering heat of my bunker bedroom and pass out until 3 or 4 PM the next day, trying to keep my eyes open in the sweat-stained inkiness of the room. My days are split between three options: See the boy, see my friends and wander around for a little while, or stay at home all day. The last one coughs up a few good things, but mostly, it is the most hellish and energy consuming. Today was one of those days. They carry the most breakage.

I eat irregularly. I don’t always keep up appearances. I muddle through. ♦