1.
She slouches in the back seat of the car, seat belt across her neck instead of her chest. A book, heavy in her small hands, is propped against her knees. She’s nauseous, but keeps reading anyway. The road gets smaller, the twists and turns becoming tighter, but she doesn’t notice. Tucked into the window is a long sleeve shirt, to keep the sun off as it dips toward the horizon. When it finally slips away, there are no streetlights to illuminate the pages. She nods off.
* * * * *
4.
It’s past midnight. The stop light switches from green to yellow to red to green, over and over again, but no cars pass by. The concrete beneath her jeans is cool and rough, and her face is illuminated by the changing colors. It’s a round face, like her mother’s, and her hair is pulled away from it in a ponytail that’s starting to give her a headache. She hasn’t noticed yet, lost in thought, waiting. The light turns green.
* * * * *
7.
Her hands are nearly as tough as the rock she’s working. Some days, she wonders if there’s any difference between them and the stone at all. But accidents happen, as they’re prone to, and blood spills on the marble or granite and she’s assured of her solidness again.
* * * * *
2.
The new house is bigger, but worse. She hates it there. Most days, she walks to the center of town, if you can even call it a town, and sits on a bench to read. She does this every day, waiting for summer to end. She’s there in the rain, an umbrella propped against her shoulder, and she's there in the sun, mostly, and she's there to watch the few cars entering and exiting town. No one talks to her. She reads.
* * * * *
5.
The night goes on. The sun begins to rise, and no one is coming. The light changes to red. She shoulders her bag and walks home in a daze. She sits on her floor, back against her bed, and dials a familiar number, the keys of it worn away. It doesn't go through. She hangs up, then dials again and again, sure she hit a wrong number, sure she got the day wrong. But the calls fail. Her breaths are fast and hard, almost hyperventilating. She pulls a shoebox out from under her bed, opens it with shaking hands, frantically rereads words she has almost memorized. At the intersection, the light turns green. Finally, it sinks in, and she pulls her knees to her chest and sobs. No one is coming.
* * * * *
8.
She used to work with clay. She still likes clay, but she doesn't trust it. Clay listens faster, easier than stone. It’s not a battle. But it’s sneaky. It remembers every slight, returns to your mistakes in the kiln, out of sight. Stone is honest, unforgiving and real. Her thumbs cup the face of the statue, the hardest part, and she stares and thinks. It’s familiar. She can't place it, though. Her heart beats faster when she looks at it, and she smells rain on concrete, but it always slips out of her grasp before she can tell what she’s remembering.
* * * * *
3.
School is no better than summer. She doesn't talk to her classmates. Her head is full of things she doesn't want to say, doesn't know how to say, and unable to spill out of her mouth, it spills out of her hands. She sculpts, draws, paints. Mostly sculpts. It takes her mind to the same place stories used to. She has a friend. Someone from her old city, maybe, or did they meet online? They exchange letters, envelopes stuffed with pictures of their work. She can’t remember how they met, but it doesn't matter. They talk on the phone for hours, an unknown number of miles between them, and in between critiques and laughter and tears, they plan.
* * * * *
6.
Eventually, she gets out. She goes to art school, gets her own place. She gets by.
* * * * *
9.
She's surprised to realize she’s finished. She takes a step back, and suddenly she knows who this is, though she’s never seen her. Her friend. How did they meet again? She wants to ask a million questions — but really, just one. She leaves her studio, unable to face her creation any longer. She does other things, for months. All the while, she dreams of the statue. In her dreams, the statue is alive. She’s flesh and bone, busy and happy. She talks on the phone, often, and the sculptor knows exactly who she’s talking to. In the waking world, she’s terrified they’ll run into each other, though she knows it’s not possible.
She dreams of the last time they talked, and wakes up filled with anger she thought had dissipated. It’s dark out. She drives to her studio, yanks the door open. She doesn't know what to expect. The statue hasn’t changed. It stands, a smile on its face, and the sculptor stands, staring. Then she grabs her biggest hammer, raises it high over her head, and brings it smashing down. She does it again and again, until there's nothing but dust and rubble. She pants, wipes her hands on her knees, and goes home. When she crawls in bed, still in her dust covered clothes, she sleeps deeply for the first time in years. Finally, she understands.
She slouches in the back seat of the car, seat belt across her neck instead of her chest. A book, heavy in her small hands, is propped against her knees. She’s nauseous, but keeps reading anyway. The road gets smaller, the twists and turns becoming tighter, but she doesn’t notice. Tucked into the window is a long sleeve shirt, to keep the sun off as it dips toward the horizon. When it finally slips away, there are no streetlights to illuminate the pages. She nods off.
* * * * *
4.
It’s past midnight. The stop light switches from green to yellow to red to green, over and over again, but no cars pass by. The concrete beneath her jeans is cool and rough, and her face is illuminated by the changing colors. It’s a round face, like her mother’s, and her hair is pulled away from it in a ponytail that’s starting to give her a headache. She hasn’t noticed yet, lost in thought, waiting. The light turns green.
* * * * *
7.
Her hands are nearly as tough as the rock she’s working. Some days, she wonders if there’s any difference between them and the stone at all. But accidents happen, as they’re prone to, and blood spills on the marble or granite and she’s assured of her solidness again.
* * * * *
2.
The new house is bigger, but worse. She hates it there. Most days, she walks to the center of town, if you can even call it a town, and sits on a bench to read. She does this every day, waiting for summer to end. She’s there in the rain, an umbrella propped against her shoulder, and she's there in the sun, mostly, and she's there to watch the few cars entering and exiting town. No one talks to her. She reads.
* * * * *
5.
The night goes on. The sun begins to rise, and no one is coming. The light changes to red. She shoulders her bag and walks home in a daze. She sits on her floor, back against her bed, and dials a familiar number, the keys of it worn away. It doesn't go through. She hangs up, then dials again and again, sure she hit a wrong number, sure she got the day wrong. But the calls fail. Her breaths are fast and hard, almost hyperventilating. She pulls a shoebox out from under her bed, opens it with shaking hands, frantically rereads words she has almost memorized. At the intersection, the light turns green. Finally, it sinks in, and she pulls her knees to her chest and sobs. No one is coming.
* * * * *
8.
She used to work with clay. She still likes clay, but she doesn't trust it. Clay listens faster, easier than stone. It’s not a battle. But it’s sneaky. It remembers every slight, returns to your mistakes in the kiln, out of sight. Stone is honest, unforgiving and real. Her thumbs cup the face of the statue, the hardest part, and she stares and thinks. It’s familiar. She can't place it, though. Her heart beats faster when she looks at it, and she smells rain on concrete, but it always slips out of her grasp before she can tell what she’s remembering.
* * * * *
3.
School is no better than summer. She doesn't talk to her classmates. Her head is full of things she doesn't want to say, doesn't know how to say, and unable to spill out of her mouth, it spills out of her hands. She sculpts, draws, paints. Mostly sculpts. It takes her mind to the same place stories used to. She has a friend. Someone from her old city, maybe, or did they meet online? They exchange letters, envelopes stuffed with pictures of their work. She can’t remember how they met, but it doesn't matter. They talk on the phone for hours, an unknown number of miles between them, and in between critiques and laughter and tears, they plan.
* * * * *
6.
Eventually, she gets out. She goes to art school, gets her own place. She gets by.
* * * * *
9.
She's surprised to realize she’s finished. She takes a step back, and suddenly she knows who this is, though she’s never seen her. Her friend. How did they meet again? She wants to ask a million questions — but really, just one. She leaves her studio, unable to face her creation any longer. She does other things, for months. All the while, she dreams of the statue. In her dreams, the statue is alive. She’s flesh and bone, busy and happy. She talks on the phone, often, and the sculptor knows exactly who she’s talking to. In the waking world, she’s terrified they’ll run into each other, though she knows it’s not possible.
She dreams of the last time they talked, and wakes up filled with anger she thought had dissipated. It’s dark out. She drives to her studio, yanks the door open. She doesn't know what to expect. The statue hasn’t changed. It stands, a smile on its face, and the sculptor stands, staring. Then she grabs her biggest hammer, raises it high over her head, and brings it smashing down. She does it again and again, until there's nothing but dust and rubble. She pants, wipes her hands on her knees, and goes home. When she crawls in bed, still in her dust covered clothes, she sleeps deeply for the first time in years. Finally, she understands.