Letter to Jenny

is thirteen. It is 1999. Flared jeans and baggy t-shirts are in. She is at the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, on a seventh-grade school trip. The sharp, feline eyes of Mrs. Watson dart around, looking for one single hormone-driven, angsty, rebellious foot to step out of line. Before long, the chaperone spots her prey and pounces, with unexpected speed, on a squirmy boy with greying socks who has somehow breached the code of conduct. He has braces, bad skin, and a perpetually sad look of his face.

  Matilda sighs, eager to be off Mrs. Watson's radar. She slumps her shoulders, attempting to make her curvy figure less noticeable. As a child, Matilda was what her mother called "solid." She envied her older, leaner brother who ran faster because his legs were so long. Her mother would pat her back and murmur comforting words in Albanian. Men like women who are small and compact. Her mother would rub her own growing abdomen, ripe with a third child, and pronounce the ease with which she could deliver her children. Wide hips means less pain! Matilda's mother was only partially correct with her hypothesis. While the delivery of her next child would take a mere twenty-two minutes, those twenty-two minutes would be filled with words that the devout Orthodox wife rarely uttered.

  Matilda pressed her face against the glass and stared into the dark tank. Supposedly there was a dolphin here, but she was unable to see anything except oily residue from other visitors and a half-completed piece of vandalism scratched into the glass with someone's keys. F-U-C--. Matilda smiled and giggled.

  ------

  I always imagined Matilda was who Jenny would have become. The dark eyes. The olive skin. The slight accept. But no. Jenny was someone else. Jenny was scrawny, with thick curly brown hair. She liked legos and trucks, sometimes. Other times it was just Barbies. Pink. She wanted her hair to be crimpy. She was missing a tooth in the side of her mouth. You know, the canine tooth. It gave her this crazy mischievous look. Remember when we started the food fight at lunch, Jenny, and you had to sit with the principal every day for a month? We saved you a seat every day, in defiance, like some sort of vigil held for a prisoner of war. We we could see you over there, right across enemy lines, sitting next to the principal, eating your lunch while he tried to be a princi-PAL to you (he always thought that would make us students be less afraid of him). And you just grinned that crazy, gap-toothed grin at us as you had your head bowed, planning the next mashed potato war. We kept the seat saved for you. Our vigil while you were alive.

  At recess, you challenged the boys in kickball, football, basketball. Those were the boy sports. We settled for the tetherball circles and four-square courts. That was the way things were. But you dragged us over anyways. You told the boys us girls WERE allowed to play. Your breath came out in tiny, angry puffs of condensation. I remember it. Your nose was running but you didn't wipe it.

  (Later, your older brother would stand in this very spot, on this very playground. It would be March, the weather would still be cold, and the whole world would seem unable to move on from January. Your brother would be wearing an oversized coat and gloves. Leaning against a shovel, with so much weight to bear, planting a memory tree, with snot and tears running down his chin and neck, he would bear a striking resemblance to you.)

  I never really liked football. I would have preferred to remain in the safe oasis of girls in neon windbreakers, playing house and sweeping up the fall leaves. I watched you from afar, Jenny. Its how I see you now. From afar. I asked myself today if I remember who you really were. I hope so.

  You are more than just the last yearbook photo you ever took. You are more than a clipping in the paper. You are more than the tragic four minute long feature on the Channel Six news. you are more than just a memory. You are you.

  The birthday party. You turned ten, remember? Your mother invited us all over to your family's apartment. As soon as I entered, I was greeted with the rich, warm, buttery smell of a different culture. Different foods, Different paintings on the wall (Orthodox Kristos, lit up with painful eyes and emaciated bodies. His eyes were dark, just like yours). Your mother kissed us all on the cheek. We blushed, painfully American.

  There was cake, but nothing else familiar. Us girls politely nibbled off Dixie plates filled with mysterious, dark, bubbling foods. Your brother brooded from one room to the next, not pleased at the gaggle of ten-year-old girls present in his abode. He was somewhere in the vicinity of fourteen to thirty-four. We didn't know and didn't care. An adult boy. Gross. As we poked our food, your eyes were lit up with anticipation. Presents, streamers, your mother taking polaroids of the party guests decked out in turtlenecks and leggings (it was Fall, and it was 1995). Those pictures would be forgotten. Only the one of you would be treasured. But none of this mattered to you. You only wanted adventure. You only wanted the next best thing. You wanted to climb off the balcony into the tree.

  We ran into the back bedroom, closely avoiding collision with your brother, who swerved off into the bathroom at the last moment as he recognized the small herd of girls headed his way. Jenny, I have this crazy memory of you, as you swung around and you announced your plan through your frizzy hair (the crimping didn't work) and we, not understanding fully, watched with eyes open as you seemingly - pop! - jumped out the window. For the tiniest slice of time, we understood what it was like for you to be taken away so suddenly and without explanation or warning. And then you popped your head back in the window and announced success. You could, it seemed, get to the tree by way of the balcony.

  We all tried it - you had to take this terrifying jump to get to the thick, sturdy tree branch. You did it without hesitation. We all hesitated, some of us too long. Mary fell off the balcony, as half her body refused to comply with the short flight. She fell, broke her wrist, and the party was over. And then our mothers were there to pick us up, and you remained in that tree branch, sad that the adventures were over. Your mother appeared at the window, waving her hands impatiently and telling you something in Albanian. Probably telling you to get down and thank the guests for coming.

  October third. Sixteen years ago. What else do I remember of you? Standing in line, waiting for lunch. Leaning against the wall, flicking your newly permed hair over your shoulder. You said a swear word! You dropped it so casually that we barely registered it, and then our skin prickled and our ears reddened at the sound. Eyes darting back and forth, we scanned for teachers. None. You were just standing there, with that insane crooked smile. The kids gathered around you, repeating the word, hoping for your approval. You smiled and threw your head bad and cackled. You accepted everyone, but never needed an ounce of affirmation. You were the epitome of confidence.

  At this point in our lives, friend groups were just beginning to form and separate. Cliques, as they would become known as, in middle school. But you never made it that far. I wish you could be here now. I have so much to tell you. So many things have happened, Jenny.

  Your cousin moved here, all the way from Albania. Her name is Matilda. She, along with her older brother Emilio and parents, moved into the apartment across the hall from me. It was May, and Spring was finally arriving; with red-rimmed eyes and hollow cheeks. The Winter had lasted too long. But it was hard to let go. I immediately was drawn to the warm, dark smell of my new neighbor's apartment. They invited me in, fed me more dark, bubbling food that I stared at and felt a strange absence in my gut. Like a photograph with the faces cut out. They introduced me to their daughter, who was just a year younger than me. A year younger than you. She had your same eyes. It hurt to look at, like looking at the television screen too closely. Her face was fuller, though, and her body so solid compared with your slight build. And she didn't speak a word of English. I wanted to talk to her, to gossip with her, to plan a food fight in the cafeteria. But she just got out her dolls and toys and babbled away to me in Alb
anian.

  The months passed. I learned a bit of Albanian (its crazy how fast kids pick up languages) and she mastered the basics of English. One day, she painted my nails bright red. I told her my parents didn't let me paint my nails! But she smiled, grabbed my hands and painted them anyways. I could have said no, my parents told me sternly, later. I know I could have. I remembered the food fight, the balcony, the schemes. I wanted to be a rebel, like you, Jenny.

  But Matilda was never fully you. I wanted her to be. I made her in my mind to be you. I pretended, stubbornly, as we went into middle school, that this girl, with her short, straight black hair and solid build (becoming increasingly curvy as we entered our teens), was you. At school, Matilda tried to blend in. Not like you, Jenny. You, with your bright clothes and permed hair, with your loud accented voice and constant gum-popping, stuck out like a sore thumb. The kids accepted you exactly as you were. The Albanian girl. Jenny. That gap-toothed smile was your trademark.

  You never got to go