The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: I Can Tell You The Version That Will Make You Take My Side by J Brooke

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CARE NOTE: Suicidal Ideation

EXIT STRATEGY

The very first time I consider ending
my life                                I am four. Me
and my brother are permitted a walk

after dinner                      (us leaving only
after folding our napkins and politely
requesting,                        may I be

excused?) to explore resort terrain
in places                            like Acapulco—
places that put jealous faces on teachers

when we go                       back wearing tans,
delivering show-and-tell trinkets like leftover
pesos                                  and piñatas. We skip,

hop on one leg run fast along pristine paths
snaking                              around spa buildings,
tennis courts, giant swimming pools. We

impersonate                      a tightrope act, balancing
along floating docks yachts cling to by rope.
I stick                                 with my brother, older

by five years he is constantly checking his glow-
in-the-dark                        Timex, deciding when
to turn back. This one night is different: I’m not

excused                              to accompany my brother
on a walk. I’m excused instead to head to the ladies
room                                   (I only call it that to her—

to my mother or she won’t allow me my exit)
I never use                         that word otherwise
and never ever enter doors saying it. Instead,



I slip                                  into mens rooms or when on
vacations like this I’ll use those bathrooms marked
rest                                     room next to the pool. Coming

back, I hear my brother whistling to himself, so I go
quietly                               find him. BOO! I yell so
he jumps laughs chases me and I run then hide

behind                               a tree. He is better at pretty
much everything, except not at hide-and-seek, or jax,
or red-light-                      green-light 1 – 2 – 3 or

kickball or rope climbing. And if I hold my breath
when I hide,                      he gives up, yelling, Come out!
Come out! Wherever you are! without ever finding

me. This night                   after he yells come out I reappear,
begging for one more time so he covers both eyes and counts.
I take off,                            running on grass instead of cement

so my patent leather shoes go silent. I head to the Pro Shop—
darkened                            and closed at night— the headless
mannequins in tennis outfits attract but also spook me so

I try to look /                      not look and I squint a bit and zoom
upstairs to the second level— open air, a canopy top and heavy
chairs jumbled                    like cutlery thrown down a staircase

by folks dragging them into odd positions to watch tennis
matches                                on the courts below. Ready or not here
I come shouts my brother, peeling hands from his eyes, walking

looking                                 behind trees, trying his hardest but not
even coming close to finding me. From my perch I see him
in a way                                I rarely can— tippy top of his head



where his part divides his hair. So neat looking— impossibly
hard straight-                       line side part like he used a ruler. I see
his Timex glowing (he wears it outside his shirt cinching tight

his sleeve                               like a belt around a slim waist) super
unmanly my father says… Except my brother doesn’t care
when anyone                         says stuff like that, simply preferring

not moving his sleeve out of the way to reveal time.
My eyes                                 drool seeing the tops of his loafers
too— perfect shiny brown penny loafers I want to possess

so badly.                                 Instead of pennies I’d put pesos inside
those slots, but my mother says maybe to me getting a pair after
I outgrow                                shoes I wear and hate. Pretty much wanting

everything my brother has and pretty much getting none of it.
Except if                                 his Timex breaks he’ll get another, and
I’m promised his broken one. Why do you want a broken watch

not able                                  to tell time? Leni asks. It won’t matter
I tell Leni because I can’t tell time, I say. Really, I just want
to feel                                    the tight band squeeze my skin— feel

the burning metal heated by sun like what happens when I let
my teaspoon                          soak in hot tea— I use it under the table
to burn my hand, singeing me a little, leaving a mark behind

on my palm                           like a real tattoo like Popeye has. I don’t
like Popeye, but I like sailor uniforms a lot— I like I’m Popeye
the sailor man                       I’m Popeye the sailor man… that song

I hum to myself whenever I’m eating Alpha Bits or Apple Jacks.
I think it’s crazy                    I’m not allowed anything basically
every other kid gets to do, and yet I can make myself breakfast



from cereals                           no other kid ever gets to eat. Sugar
I appreciate but it can’t stop me thinking about suicide. Not this
very first time                        on this vacation in Acapulco— while I’m

playing hide-and-seek with my brother I hear screaming,
Jimmy!                                  It’s my mother calling him Jimmy!
She just keeps screaming until he pops up like toast popping

out from                                the toaster— then he jumps to attention
like my GI Joe saluting Yes? My mother, still screaming, Have
you seen                                that sister of yours? My brother’s head

darts side to side like a pinball desperate trying to discern
from where                           her voice is screaming. From my perch
I see her smoke first, clouding above tall hedges quickly

moving                                  in our direction. Peering over the railing
to the tennis court below I know if I jump, I won’t
                                                bounce

                            like a
tennis
              ball,

or even                                 like a racquet hurled hard at the rubber
surface by older kids getting mad during lessons. I know
I will die                              quickly— upon impact, leaving my body

lying in a jumble like on CSI before the sheet covers the corpse
I imagine                             my blood spreading outwards, a fat puddle
all around me like red wine infecting a cocktail napkin when

the glass                               gets over-filled. I imagine my mother, still
smoking, looking down at me. Would she touch me? I wonder,
see if I                                  have any life left in me? I decide she wouldn’t—



instead, she’ll have my father lift me up and carry me—
my corpse—                        away to where? Where will my body be
kept until vacation ends and we all go home for my funeral? Why

I don’t                                  jump this night doesn’t matter. What matters
is I think something I can never unthink. That matters a great deal
to me.                                  Even if I didn’t think about dying more

than other kids growing up in unhappy families, I now knew
something—                       I now held the power to control one perfect thing
in my life— even if it ended up becoming the last thing ever in my life.

Now armed,                        I was a fire fighter commanding infinite water
extinguishing violent flames. Later, while catching hell from my mother
I pretend-                            fall asleep amidst screaming and my heart

pounding like it does when I’m in trouble. Except now, cushioning
my heart                             beats as a piano damper pedal muffles sound,
floated this new, light, soft impossible freedom—

freedom                              to get away, for good.
That carried me off to sleep this night, an angel
cocooning                           me safely upwards.

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