After the Death of Anna Gonzales (9781466859524) Read online

  APs and SATs.

  We gasp for breath in

  revised résumés and

  agonized essays

  knowing all the while that

  the brutal tide of competition

  and

  the bait of spare time

  will force most back to

  be more bottom feeders.

  I cannot do that.

  I will not drown.

  Study don’t sleep.

  Study don’t socialize.

  Study don’t loosen up.

  Being number one still might

  not be enough,

  but it’s a start.

  Ms. Mason’s face frowns as she hears about Anna.

  “Don’t postpone today’s test!” I pray.

  Tomorrow’s a calculus test.

  Tonight’s for memorizing math.

  PRESSURE.

  It peels everything else away.

  Randal Mallander

  Anna—

  If only you had some idea of how

  Many times I went by your house

  Once walking almost to your door.

  Then, courage canceled, I crept away too

  Unwilling to risk your rejection.

  From the first time I saw your big brown eyes,

  I thought, “There’s a girl I want to know.”

  And I hoped that one day

  someday,

  The right words would come.

  And you would

  See me and smile.

  Now that will never be.

  Still, I cannot quite believe

  That those big brown eyes

  Are forever closed.

  Somehow, I feel almost blinded myself.

  And I am forever left to wonder

  Whether telling you how truly special

  You were

  Might have made a difference.

  Mike Bradler

  Okay, I’ve got ten bucks from Eric says I won’t do it.

  Matt says that goes double for him.

  And Gary’s in for another ten.

  That almost pays for Homecoming.

  But hey … even without the money … why not?

  It’s a whole Staying Alive, disco, ’70s look

  That I found in our attic.

  White suit, shiny shirt.

  Slicked hair.

  Like Travolta before the fat.

  So this morning I told Stephanie.

  Said I thought we could sucker in a few more guys

  If she’d dress up too.

  “Hey, isn’t life all about fun?” I asked.

  And that’s when she said,

  “Grow up, Michael.

  I just realized that

  I’ve got the right dress,

  But the wrong date!”

  Girls.

  How can God give ’em such great bodies

  And take away their sense of humor

  All at the same time?

  Karen Covington

  Mixed-up Memories

  Of the daddy

  Who introduced me to Winnie-the-Pooh.

  Who sang every verse of kids’ silly songs.

  Who whispered the lullabies that lured me to sleep.

  Mixed-up Memories

  Of the dad

  Who cheered my summer softball

  Even if I never got a hit.

  Who promised I would always be

  His most perfect princess.

  Mixed-up Memories

  Of the father

  Who guaranteed he’d be the proudest of all the parents

  At my college graduation.

  Who vowed he’d walk me down the aisle even if I married at forty.

  Who predicted no one would be a better grandpa.

  Mixed-up Memories

  Of a morning last summer

  When I learned

  My hero had taken his own life.

  When that was the truth,

  Everything I understood of love and safety

  Was a lie.

  So, Anna, did you know

  That when you kill yourself

  Those you say you love,

  They die too?

  Kendra Jones

  You don’t have to be Someone

  To be someone special.

  You don’t have to live the dream

  To believe in the future of dreams.

  Sometimes, I seem to forget that.

  Bogged down in the stresses and stupidities of my life

  I feel

  Insignificant in Jarod’s indifference

  Forgotten by Francine’s clique

  Betrayed by Brittany’s gossip

  Imposed upon by my mother’s edicts

  Battered by my teachers’ busywork.

  But I’m going to try even harder

  Not to give in to the negatives.

  Today may be a yawning trap of terribleness

  But there’s still tonight or tomorrow or ten years from now.

  Sometimes, I’m afraid I could be

  Another Anna.

  So, until I’m sure I believe it,

  I’ll say it 20 or 20,000 times.

  I don’t have to be Someone

  To be someone special.

  I don’t have to live the dream

  To believe in the future of my dreams.

  Lanny Laring

  A suicide.

  Different.

  A quick look around the room.

  No one knows quite what to do.

  For once, even Old Mason is silent.

  Alexis looks like she’s going to pass out.

  Lynn looks almost mad.

  Everyone’s avoiding eye contact.

  Except Aaron, of course,

  He can’t wait to earn another A today.

  A suicide.

  What’s my slant?

  Life’s all about seeing the slants, analyzing the angles.

  And it’s so easy to play the part of winner.

  Like the time I “accidentally” ran into Damon.

  As planned, it bruised his knee pretty badly.

  Greg got into the game,

  And I got ten bucks richer.

  Or like the time I found Lauren’s missing bracelet,

  She kissed me and called me super.

  How could she ever know how easily I had stolen it?

  So what’s the angle in this suicide?

  Showtime.

  Another victory waits.

  Michelle Magden

  Every time my father sees me frown,

  He says,

  “Are you upset?

  You know you can talk to me.”

  Every time my father hears me mad at my friends,

  He says,

  “Are you lonely?

  You know you can talk to me.”

  Every time my father thinks I’m sad,

  He says,

  “Are you depressed?

  You know you can talk to me.”

  Ever since my father got custody,

  He’s been reading books about parenting.

  When he read that one in three teens thinks of suicide,

  My father made me repeat,

  “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

  I’ve told him,

  “Dad,

  Sometimes, I get irritated or angry.

  Sometimes, I feel stupid or sad.

  Sometimes, I feel left out or lonely.

  But I am not,

  have never been,

  will never be

  Suicidal!”

  Still, I cannot convince my dad.

  Once he hears about Anna,

  He’ll never let me out of his sight.

  His anxiety will destroy

  The little bit of social life I have.

  “I don’t know why Anna didn’t know,

  But, Dad, I do …

  Really, I do understand

  That ‘suicide is a permanent solution

  To a tempora
ry problem.’”

  Jeff Cook

  So my dad is sitting in the stands

  When I score another basket.

  And he hears this father tell his son,

  “Do you know that guy?”

  And the kid answers,

  “Sure, everyone knows Jeff.

  He’s only about the most popular person in the whole school.

  He’s in everything, does everything, is everything.”

  And the dad says,

  “Well, that could be you when you’re a senior.”

  And the kid rolls his eyes and answers,

  “Get real, Dad!”

  My father can’t wait to come home and tell me all this.

  His chest is puffed out with pride

  As he says, “How about that!”

  I figure it’s probably not the best time to inform him

  That I do know everyone

  And no one …

  And a lot of the time,

  What I really feel

  Is alone.

  Ms. Standring, Attendance Secretary

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  They should inscribe those words above this office door.

  Then all the kids that come through it could just point.

  Today’s troops,

  Most of them tardy or in trouble,

  Wait unwillingly to see

  Whether they’ll get off

  With only a warning from me

  Or hit the big time and

  Earn a detention from the dean.

  But this day,

  They’ll all have to wait a little longer.

  For as I hear them

  Joking,

  Flirting,

  Complaining,

  Cajoling,

  I cannot stop imagining the silent forever that

  Anna Gonzales has chosen.

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  I know I’ll hear that a hundred times today,

  And I’ll explain that—“Yes, it is your fault”—

  Just as many times.

  Life can be messy.

  No doubt, a lot of these kids are living proof.

  But in spite of their anxieties and their angers,

  At least —

  They

  Are trying to live.

  Jermaine Clements

  Bomp … bada … bomp.

  Bomp … bomp … bada … bomp.

  This song has the beat

  That makes my whole body move.

  But I’ve got to stay still.

  No Walkmen

  No CD players

  No headphones

  Allowed in this school.

  I should know.

  I’ve had enough of them confiscated.

  But this earphone redefines miniature.

  And the CD’s so small, it slips unseen inside a pocket.

  If I just sit staring at my teachers,

  They’ll never know

  That I’ve tuned out their teaching tortures

  With music that makes school rock.

  Bomp … bomp … bada … bomp.

  No doubt about it.

  Technology is improving my education.

  Julio Contraros

  So many times have our families come together.

  But Anna never seemed sad.

  So many times when mi madre was uncertain of this new country

  Was Anna’s mother there to help us.

  To translate until English we learned.

  To explain so many customs new and strange.

  I will go to la casa de Gonzales after this day of school.

  But I do not know words in any language to help.

  My heart cries for Anna

  And for

  Her mother

  The friend and protector to us all.

  Too late it is to help Anna.

  And Señora Gonzales

  Who can protect her

  In this terrible tragedy?

  Hay también mucha tristeza.

  It is too much sadness.

  Leslie Leiberman

  Forget about that Biology X and Y stuff

  About what makes a boy or a girl.

  It’s really much simpler.

  Guys all have the jerk gene.

  It’s like God says, “Oh, that one gets a jerk gene; so it’s a boy.”

  Like Sean Saunders.

  After I baked him two batches of double-fudge brownies.

  After I offered to watch his dog when his family went away for the weekend.

  After I did his algebra because he was too tired from basketball.

  Finally, this morning, right before the bell, he wants to ask me something,

  My heart pounds, and I think this is it.

  He’s finally going to ask me to Homecoming.

  But then the bell rings. He gets nervous and says, “Maybe later.”

  I worry that later may never happen,

  So I practically shout, “Now … I mean I can afford the tardy.”

  He says, “You sure?”

  And I say, “I’m sure … just ask…”

  So he says, “Okay, do you know Kendra well enough to find out

  If she’ll go to Homecoming with me?”

  And so now I’ve got this tardy.

  And now I’ve got no date for Homecoming.

  Fact: Guys are filled with jerk genes.

  Fact: Sean Saunders has more than his share.

  Sean Saunders

  In Advanced Art, I made an A+ clay mask.

  Perfect in its features, it revealed

  Interestingly shaped empty eyes

  A flawlessly impossible porcelain complexion

  And a mouth that exposed neither a smile nor a frown.

  Holding my creation in front of me,

  I look out from behind its cold indifference

  Feeling no more anonymous than

  The usual face I wear.

  Each day, I carefully apply another

  Mask to hide the mask

  That almost worked

  The day before.

  Masked behind masks that mask

  Anything that is real.

  This is the only way a teenager

  Survives the hell called

  High school.

  Anna, did your disguise slip

  Or was it just that your eyes could

  No longer find insight

  Buried

  Behind so many masks?

  Kinderlyn Hovoticich

  Anna …

  I remember …

  My first day of school in America.

  Labeled a resettled refugee,

  Lost in this upside-down place,

  Students swirling by—talking a language that made no sense.

  Me—huddling in a hallway

  Feeling almost as anxious

  As when I heard the sounds

  Of bombs in my other world.

  No one seemed to notice

  But you, Anna.

  Using signs and smiles,

  You made sure I got to my classes.

  Showed me how lunch worked,

  How to open a jammed locker.

  You taught me how to smile and

  How to survive in junior high.

  You were my first American friend.

  I didn’t mean to ignore you when we got to high school.

  I really liked the badminton team I joined.

  And it seemed so easy to sit at their lunch table,

  Get in on their gossip, and be part of their parties.

  So I told myself you had a lot of other friends.

  I was the one who had been different.

  And now it was probably a relief that

  The “foreign kid” didn’t need babysitting anymore.

  But if I look deep enough inside myself,

  I wonder if I’ll find out that was a lie.

  And I have no answer for

  How could I have forgotten how

 
You once solved my fears

  Before you even knew my name.

  Maybe my lack of loyalty doesn’t matter at all.

  Maybe it had nothing to do with what you did.

  But maybe if …

  Oh, Anna …

  Jordan Smythe

  Once I had this jigsaw puzzle.

  I worked on it every day.

  It was the hardest thing I’d ever done,

  But I finally got it all finished

  Except for one piece,

  Which was missing.

  I looked for it everywhere,

  Under my bed, behind the table, in the closet,

  But the piece was just gone.

  Pretty soon, when I looked at the puzzle

  All I could see

  Was the missing piece.

  So I threw the whole thing away.

  All my hard work, all my effort tossed in the garbage.

  The next week I found the missing piece

  But, of course, I no longer had the puzzle.

  So why am I thinking about this puzzle today

  When I hear about Anna Gonzales’s suicide?

  I don’t know.

  Maybe it’s one of those metaphor things.

  Andrew Stevenson, Security Guard

  “Security” it says in big yellow letters

  That span the back of my blue staff shirt.

  But I’ve always thought it should say “Insecurity”

  Because that’s what I create.

  I want to make kids feel uneasy

  About smoking,

  Dealing drugs,

  Cutting class, or

  Sneaking out of school.

  Yeah—I know I don’t get them all,

  But school statistics say I’m having an effect.

  Most of the time, when I catch a kid, they just shrug,

  Accepting that they played the game and lost.

  But yesterday, at the southernmost exit of the school,

  When I confronted a boy trying to skip out after second hour,

  He started to shake.

  Said he had a “personal problem.”

  Said it had to be handled now.

  Begged me to just turn the other way

  And let him leave.

  I told him, “No can do—have your parents excuse you.”

  “But I can’t do that!” he shouted.

  I told him, “Wait and handle it after school.”

  “I can’t do that either!” he choked.

  He seemed really desperate,

  But the rules are the rules.

  So I told him, “Head back to class.”

  “Please…,” he begged.

  So I told him, “Go see your counselor.”

  His penetrating blue eyes

  Stared at me in agony.