a wall. Dark here. No lights.
I could … But I can’t. Bryce.
I love Bryce. “No. I don’t. Stop,
please.” But he doesn’t even slow
down. You little prick tease.
His breath is rum and his hands
are rough. And he is strong.
Too strong for my drunken struggle.
Just as I’m sure he’ll do exactly as
he pleases, a male voice interrupts.
Take your hands off her, you little
shit, or I’ll kick your lily-white ass.
It’s Trey. I never thought I’d
actually be happy to see him.
Micah acts like I’m burning him.
He lets go so fast, I sway without
his support. Uh. Okay. Sorry, man.
We’re just a little d-drunk here, a-a-and
I … guess we got our signals crossed.
Not looking for trouble. He whips
a U-turn, heads back toward
the party. “I, uh … Thank you.”
It’s all I can say to Trey before a half
pitcher of mojitos comes boiling
up my throat. Talk about burning!
I turn my head and let it fly.
Summer
CONDEMNED
One thing I’ve learned.
Life isn’t fair. Even when
you try to do the right thing,
someone else’s wrong
thing bites you in the ass.
Dad drives drunk. Stoned.
The judge throws the book
at him. Still, it’s me going
away. He’ll be out of jail
long before I escape foster
care. Maybe if I hadn’t
been such a smart-ass to
her, Kortni would have
agreed to keep me in
her care. Probably not.
The State of California
is concerned about your
welfare, Ms. Shreeveport
said when she delivered
the good news. I wish it
were possible to leave you
here, but your safety is our
prime concern. Drug use and
driving under the influence
cannot be tolerated. We’ve
found you a new placement.
Unfortunately, it’s in Fresno,
so you’ll have to change
schools. But at least you’ll
have the vacation to settle in.
New home. New foster
parents. New school. Just
when everything was going
kind of okay right here. Dad
and I were communicating.
Kortni and I were in truce
mode. I was getting good
grades. Excelling, in fact.
Will they even have AP
classes in my new school?
And what about Kyle? He
and I were hanging strong.
I don’t want to be without
him. My life will be a well,
drained to gravel and dust.
TELLING HIM
Was something like getting a cavity
filled. Without Novocain. Evil pain,
the words drilling through the roof
of my mouth to deep inside my brain.
It was raining that afternoon, the world cold
and gray. I haven’t yet shaken the chill.
Ms. Shreeveport gave me a three-day
reprieve, time for an early Christmas
celebration. So much to celebrate
and all. I didn’t tell Kyle when I called
him. Wanted to do that face-to-face.
We were actually belly-to-belly on
the seat of his truck when I started
to cry. “Hold me. I don’t want to go.”
I can’t hold you much tighter.
And you’re not going anywhere.
“Yes. I am. They’re taking me
to Fresno. To a new foster home.”
He looked down into my eyes.
When? How long have you known?
“Day after tomorrow. I just found
out yesterday. It’s because of Dad.”
He brushed the hair away from
my face. Dried my cheeks with
the back of his hand. Shook his
head. I can’t let you go. Not now.
You make life worth living.
If you leave, I have nothing.
I lifted my face. Kissed him.
“I don’t have a choice. It’s all set
up. I start school at Roosevelt
after vacation.” He slumped down
on me. Heavy. Weighted. Then
he started to cry. This is fucked up.
Which made me cry more too.
We cried together for a long time.
Finally I said, “Make love to me.
I need to remember how it feels.”
It felt rough. Like punishment.
Punishment for his own pain.
I REMEMBER HOW IT FELT
All the way to Fresno.
Ms. Shreeveport tries
to make conversation.
For about fifteen minutes.
I surround myself with
a silence-bricked wall.
Finally she gets it.
You’ve got a lot on your mind.
Well, yeah. Like not
knowing what’s coming
next. Like wondering why
my life can’t remain static.
Like thinking about
Kyle and me, on the seat
of his truck, learning
how much real love hurts.
Like remembering what
he said, when our tears
had dried. On the surface.
Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.
I WASN’T IN LOVE
With Bakersfield. (Only
with a guy who lives there.)
But I already hate Fresno.
It may be the gateway
to Yosemite’s stark glory,
but unlike the Sierra
sneaking up behind it,
the city of Fresno is an
ucking fugly collection of
east-leaning buildings,
blade-bare lawns, and
half-digested asphalt.
Cool enough now, almost
Christmas, but hotter than
Sahara sand in summer.
Really can’t wait to live here.
RIGHT TURN, LEFT TURN, RIGHT …
Do that a dozen or so times,
you end up in the broken-down
neighborhood I now call home.
The houses are fifties era. Built
around the time kids still did
duck-under-your-desk drills,
as if that could protect them
from nuclear bombs. Ha! Maybe
that’s what happened to this
neighborhood. Wonder if I should
worry about radiation. Maybe
wrap myself in aluminum foil.
At last (so soon?) we pull up
in front of a totally inconspicuous
place. (Not!) “It’s fricking pink.”
Salmon pink, with rotten red trim.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”
Who paints a house like this?
Doesn’t matter how it looks
outside. It’s what’s inside that
counts. You’ll like the Clooneys.
SO SAYS SHE
What else would she say,
anyway? She opens
the trunk, and I
grab my
bag. Not much in it, but
only one thing matters—
my cell phone. My
lifeline
to the real world.
The one I’m about to
walk into is
prete
nd.
The uneven sidewalk
tries to trip me. The step
sags beneath my weight.
I don’t
want to see what’s
beyond the door, but
it opens at the bell. I
need it to
be nice inside.
I need something
solid to
hold on to.
CAN’T SAY IT’S “NICE” INSIDE
But it isn’t horrible. My nose
says so. It smells of cinnamon
apple room freshener—fake
but not bad. You couldn’t call
the place neat, but it isn’t dirty.
Everything shrieks “seventies.”
Red/purple shag carpet. Thick
velour drapes. Linoleum in
the hall (and, no doubt, kitchen
and bathrooms). Dated. Used.
I notice all this without stepping
foot through the door. Too many
people in the way right now.
Ms. Shreeveport has to work
her way past a short, too-perky
blonde and a bear-sized, bear-
colored man. Brown hair.
Brown skin. Brooding brown
eyes. George Clooney,
he ain’t. Wonder who he is.
FINALLY, I’M IN
Introductions are passed round.
Blonde, with a loopy smile.
Hi, Summer, I’m Tanya.
Bear remains quiet, so Shreeveport
says, And this is Mr. Clooney.
Bear finally opens his curtain
of silence, corrects, Call me Walter.
I stand in wordless defiance.
Bear asks Shreeveport, She’s
not, like, a mute, right?
I am so loving him already.
Shreeveport says, Of course
not. Say something, Summer.
I use sign language: “Hi.”
Blonde (Tanya) takes the high road,
giggles. Ha. Hi to you, too.
Shreeveport does not find it
funny. Please don’t be difficult.
Bear (Walter) asserts control.
No such thing as difficult here.
I push back with a silent “Bet me.”
Tanya ignores my defiant look.
Come meet the other girls.
I shrug, start to follow her.
Shreeveport doesn’t quite drop
it. Cooperation is important.
I grab my bag, turn shadow.
Walter goes all syrupy.
There’s a good little girl.
I try not to notice the way my skin crawls.
I NOTICE THE WALLS
Are eerily bare. No photos. No
paintings. No cheap ceramics.
Apparently Tanya isn’t much into
the Martha Stewart school of
homey decor. Fine by me.
Even the Christmas tree, leaning
into one corner of the living
room, is noticeably bare.
I can’t not ask, “What, did
someone steal the ornaments?”
Tanya giggles (and I’m starting
the hate the grate of her laugh).
Oh, no. I’ve just been so busy
we haven’t put them up yet.
Maybe we’ll do that tonight.
Sorry I brought it up. The last
thing I want to do is hang gaudy
crap on a fake evergreen and
pretend like I’m part of a fake
family. Fake. Fake. Fake.
I pad along the fuchsia shag,
thinking about the tatters
of my real family. Dad in jail.
Kortni, happy not to have me
there. Mom. Mom. Where is she?
A RIPTIDE OF SADNESS
Pulls at me, but I will not cry.
Must not show weakness as
I meet my new fake sisters.
This is your room, Tanya says.
It is not much bigger than a closet.
Take that bed over there.
She points to a small twin under
the window. The matching bed against
the wall is currently unoccupied.
Tanya gestures toward it. You’ll
bunk with Simone. Not sure …
Simone? she calls. Come meet Summer.
A door (bathroom?) opens
somewhere and a wraith—
pale as death—appears suddenly,
followed by two darker-skinned
girls, probably sisters. Real sisters,
part of my new fake family.
Good, you’re all here, says Tanya.
Summer, this is Simone, Eliana,
and Rosa. Get acquainted.
SHE GOES TO SAY GOOD-BYE
To Shreeveport. I maintain silence,
cross the room in three steps, claim my bed.
I guess I should unpack my clothes.
Having been on both sides of the “get
to know your new foster sister” dynamic,
I choose the respectful route and turn
to Simone. “Are there empty drawers?”
All three girls drill me with their eyes,
and the air, hanging thick with unasked
questions, prods my temper. “What?”
Nothing, says Ghost-girl. Simone.
Lainie had the right side of the dresser.
Her voice is wimpy, and I’m not surprised.
She sounds like she looks—washed out.
I suspect the answer, but ask anyway, if only
to break the insufferable silence. “Who’s Lainie?”
Young Rosa (maybe ten?) rushes
to respond, She used to live here,
but she ran away. Walter says
good riddance, but Tanya …
Shh. You talk too much, scolds Eliana,
who is thirteen or fourteen and definitely
had … issues. She spits the last word.
I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t we all?”
That shatters the iceberg, or at least
chips it heavily, as everyone contributes
to a chorus of giggles. We’re not exactly
friends, and trust will never happen
here, but at least we don’t hate one
another. And while the mood is halfway
relaxed, I might as well ask, “So what’s
with Walter?” Tanya is easy to read.
The communal amusement vanishes.
And though no one says a word,
I have all the answer I need.
WE CHANGE SUBJECTS
And within twenty minutes, I know
most everything there is to know about
Eliana and Rosa Garcia Famosa.
Their father came from Cuba to
the United States via Mexico, where
he met some very bad people who
he later went into business with.
In Texas, he fell in love (my take:
lust) with their mother, Irena, and
together they came to California,
where the girls were born. Irena
Famosa expected her husband to work
in the lush fields of the San Joaquin,
but Ignacio Garcia chose easy
riches, moving methamphetamine
for a Mexican cartel. One day
he went away and never came back.
Irena grieved for a time, but met
a new man. A very jealous man
who suspected her of things she
never did. He killed her anyway.
END OF STORY
Except for the fact
that this happens to be
the girls’ fourth foster home
in six years, and Rosa can’t
remember her mother’s
face. Sad, I supp
ose.
But “sad” is a main
ingredient in every foster
kid recipe. We must choose
to accept it, or go off the deep
end ourselves. I could
easily dive in
over my head right
now. The others wait for
my story, but this will not be
a straight exchange. “I’ve been
with my dad, but he just
went to jail for DUI.”
Familiar excuse. Nods
all around. And Mom? Why
is it always easier to talk about
Dad than her? “And my mother
has pretty much written me
off.” The truth bites.
I KEEP UNPACKING
As I talk. It doesn’t take long.
My history or unpacking. Everything
I own pretty much fits in three
drawers plus five coat hangers.
Too aware of the three pairs
of eyes, inventorying every article
of clothing and five favorite
books, I find a way to keep my
cell phone discreetly stashed.
Some things need to stay secret.
All I want to do at this moment,
though, is pull out the phone, dial
Kyle’s number, hear his satin
voice promise he’s waiting for me.
Is he waiting for me? Or has he
completely forgotten me already?
IMPOSSIBLE, I KNOW
But even considering it makes me
want to pace. My heart accelerates,
like something wild, snared. Caged.
I can’t let the others see it. As nice
as they seem, if they intuit weakness,
I have rewarded them with a weapon.
I deliberately plop down on the bed,
calm my arterial stutter. No pacing
now, damn it. Now or ever, not here.
Instead, like an imprisoned wildcat,
I lock eyes with the human just
beyond the bars. The one staring
at me with interest I cannot tolerate.
“What about you, Simone? Why are
you here?” Come on, Ghost-girl. Tell
me your story, although I’m half-afraid
to hear it. Half-afraid. Half dying to, because
the eyes mine are locked to are haunted.
ZERO RESPONSE
So I prod just a bit. “Come on.
I told you my sordid little tale.”
Nothing.
I look over at Eliana and Rosa.
Both are wide-eyed, silent.
Nada.
Hmm. This one must be good.