How Grandma called to try and
talk us out of this “craziness,”
this idea that Uncle Andy
did something wrong,
that Mom’s banished him,
that he can’t ever
see me again.
Grandma doesn’t believe
he did anything,
says he denied it
to the cops,
is mad they
even questioned him
after Mr. Jenkins told Mom
he was filing a report and
she agreed to be part of it.
Of course he would deny it.
Mom sighs, putting a hand
to her forehead
like she has a headache.
I don’t remind Mom how
she thought that at first too:
her favorite, baby brother?
It had to be a mistake.
Mom says Grandma
thinks I’m too young
to understand,
that’s why she thinks
I’m wrong and
he’s right.
Mom says it calmly,
like they had discussed
it over tea.
But I remember her face
when she was screaming
into the phone.
Her face said what I feel now:
Grandma didn’t choose us.
LAILA
It wasn’t your fault—
blah-blah-blah
—wasn’t your fault.
It wasn’t your fault.
That’s about all
this lady can say,
this lady sitting
across from me:
a therapist
named Laila.
She looks about
the same age as
Tilda’s older
sister who’s a
teenager.
It wasn’t your fault.
And this is what
she keeps saying
to me.
It wasn’t my fault,
over and over.
And even though
she looks so young,
she says
It wasn’t your fault
sitting up straight
as a tree trunk
across from me,
her eyes like a hawk’s
holding mine,
their prey,
locked on hers.
It wasn’t your fault.
And she means it.
It wasn’t your fault.
Really means it.
It wasn’t your fault.
She seems to know.
It wasn’t your fault.
Like she’s the Earth and
everything that goes on
is her domain.
Until…
Wait,
could Laila be
right?
BUT THEN I REMEMBER ALL THE THINGS I DIDN’T TELL HER…
On the long car ride home,
the What-Ifs
start up again.
What if I’d paid attention
to the strange feeling in my gut,
to the weird look on his face?
What if I hadn’t still been afraid
of being alone after school
and he hadn’t been there at all?
What if I’d said,
That makes me uncomfortable, or
Stop it!
like you’re supposed to…
and he had?
RHEA AND MASON (AND ME)
Rhea and I are
at recess,
leaning up against
the brick wall.
Mason, says Rhea.
Mason, Mason, Mason.
Mason is the boy she likes.
It must be cold out.
I can see my breath.
Mason, says Rhea.
Mason said he—
The door to the basement—
there it is
in my mind again.
Mason, says Rhea.
The stairs, the chipped paint on the walls going down.
Don’t you think that Mason…? says Rhea.
Don’t you think, Tori?
Do I think? I think about the
battered, beat-up old couch,
the playing-around couch,
the stuffing coming out
that feels both rough and soft
when you poke at it
when you stare at it
when you want it to stop.
Cheap leather,
smooth on the edges but
cracking up
at the very center.
Tori? says Rhea.
She doesn’t say
Mason.
Tori?
And suddenly I’m back,
brick wall at my back,
Rhea’s face
inches away.
And her eyebrows are all
angry caterpillars.
Tori! Why are you frowning like that?
And her voice is all
porcupine-prickly and
mad at me.
If you don’t like him, then just say so!
And she turns
away from me,
brown hair swishing,
and stomps off.
And I wonder how
we got into a fight
when I didn’t
even hear
what she said.
I FIGURE IT OUT
Taylor won’t come down
to dinner tonight.
Mom tries a little
to coax her out of
her room, but then
lets Taylor be.
A few days ago
I overheard Mom
talking with Tay
about IT, asking
Tay if HE
ever touched her.
And He didn’t so
I guess Mom’s not
that worried
about Tay
being upset.
In my room later, though,
I’m staring at the wall,
trying as usual
not to think about It, when
something pokes at the edges
of my mind,
something shifts around stuck
in my chest,
like it’s trying to roll a
a boulder.
Suddenly my big-sister antenna sense
kicks in
with a mind-picture of Tay in her room
alone
with this earthquake
that’s jolting apart our family,
this bad thing that is
kind of
happening to her too.
And I know then
what I have to do.
LET ME IN
Knock, knock.
My knuckles rap again, but there’s
no Who’s there? not
like when we used to tell jokes
till the milk went up our noses.
I stare at Taylor’s closed door,
the KEEP OUT sign she
always has up,
even though she’s never
meant it before.
Now it’s different, and
I wonder how I’m going to
convince her to let me in.
It’s me, I say to
the crack by the knob,
right up close
so she’ll hear.
And I al-
most fall in-
to her room be-
cause the door op-
enssofast
TAYLOR
Taylor’s room is different
than I remember.
We haven’t played much
the last couple years
(even before all this
happened).
The dolls and stuffed animals
that used to crowd her bed are
&nbs
p; now just a few
favorites—
her tattered pink elephant,
her American Girl doll—
and there are some new
posters up—that singer
Mandy—hey, I like her too!
I must have seen this
all before, but now
it seems new,
like my little sister
standing there
looking at me
with serious eyes and
a pinched-up mouth.
She’s not going to be the first
one to talk.
So here goes…
SISTER SURPRISE
Somehow we end up
in sleeping bags
on the floor,
even though it’s
only 7:30.
Somehow she ends up
understanding,
better than Mom,
even though she’s
only eight.
EMPTY
My dreams are haunted by
twitchy whiskers
a little pink nose
tiny furry feet.
I wake up one night in a cold sweat,
shovethatemptycage deep into my closet,
bury it under all my old soccer jerseys.
SORRY
We’re all late
for school
for work
Mom muttering
like she does
when she’s stressed:
the bank later—oh, an
accident—I’d better take
the back route—forgot
to tell Dan the report got
moved up—
I toss my plate
into the sink,
half-eaten muffin
under the sink.
Is that a leak?
Mom screeches,
catching the cupboard
door before it closes.
Mom clasps her head
in dismay
at the water puddles
under the pipes—
everything fall-
ing apart—I’ll have to
ask Andy to—
She stops midsentence
and looks at me,
horrified.
What am I saying?
she says, her tone chipper now,
almost jokey.
We don’t need any
Mr. Fix-Its. I can learn
to fix a leak. I’m going to
teach you girls—tonight!
Tay groans.
I give a little nod,
duck my head,
and leave the room
so Mom can’t see my face.
I catch a peek of
her sorry face
on my way out
and it makes me
feel even worse.
Mom doesn’t have time
to fix the house.
She works
full-time,
overtime
since Dad left.
Now no more
Grandma to watch us,
no more help
with the house.
I feel bad
she has it so hard
because of what happened
because of me.
SOCKS
I just can’t find
them
my socks
I keep looking all
over
and it’s
driving
me CRAZY
those socks
and I fling
everything
all over
my room
because I
can’t
find them and
I haven’t seen
Grandma
in over
a month
(Grandma
promised He
won’t be
there, Mom said.
She promised.)
and it’s
Thanksgiving
and we’re
LATE
(COULD He
show up?
Will He
be there?)
Socks, must
focus on
my socks
Not in my
closet or
my drawers and
this is
going to
make us more
late late LATE
where are
those socks
where ARE
they?????
Then
all of a
sudden
Mom peeks
her head in the
door and
says, What are you
doing, Tori?
We’re la—
And then she says,
We won’t go.
Just like that.
And we don’t.
And I don’t
have to worry
about finding
my socks
anymore.
NOT HERE
Tay’s voice tugs at me
through my bedroom door,
an urgent whisper:
Tori, Rhea’s here,
she’s right out front,
asking for you.
But I’m under
covers again,
undercover
playing a girl
who isn’t here.
Tell her I’m not here.
GROWN-UPS ARE CRAZY
I hit a lamp off Laila’s desk today
when she wouldn’t leave IT alone
with the And-how-do-you-feel-today?
CRAP.
She clapped.
She said,
Anger is good.
This is news to me.
Tell that
to Ms. Radtke.
MR. JENKINS’S LIE
Today we’re having
a special presentation:
Beyond Stranger Danger.
My gut starts to squirm
as I realize what it’s about.
We don’t only talk about
Stranger Danger anymore,
say two ladies with
visitor name tags.
And it’s like they read
my secret
from their clipboards:
Kids are most likely
to be abused
by someone
they know well.
A flush creeps up
my neck,
my face
starts to get hot.
Does anyone see me blushing?
And that awful thought makes it worse.
My cheeks burn,
stomach churns,
and my seat under me is a
gangplank
of doom.
I can barely keep
myself from squirming
all over.
But, please, don’t let anyone see.
Then, suddenly,
as if the nightmare
in my mind has
slipped into the world:
my name
zings through the air.
But it’s just Mr. Jenkins
saying,
Tori,
I have a note here that you
are to go to the office.
He slips it into my hand
and ushers me out the door.
I look at
the note that
sends me to the…
COUNSELOR’S office.
He wrote it himself.
So someone did notice.
Thank God for Mr. Jenkins.
MEATLOAF CHAT
I pick up Mom’s phone today, and
it’s Grandma, and she sounds normal.
She talks to me about
meatloaf,
which is a typical
topic of conversation
for us.
How she w
ishes I
could taste the
one she’s making,
it was Grandpa’s
favorite, and
too bad Mom
has to be a
vegetarian
and never make it.
Then she says she
never sees me
anymore,
misses me,
wants to
see me.
Would like to
talk to me,
is sure she
could help
me to
under-
stand
what
hap—
I don’t hear the
rest because I am
moving the phone
away from my ear.
And I feel kinda bad about it,
but I hang up on her.
LOST
Nothing’s really
fun anymore—
not like it used to be—
but I try
for Mom’s sake
for Taylor’s
to enjoy the Saturday
we drag out the boxes
and boxes
and boxes
of holiday decorations.
Everything’s going
pretty well—tree up
and half done, all the old
favorites dangling:
the paper cutouts
that Mom loves,
mine the silver skate
Dad gave me,
Tay’s kooky
scarfed squirrel.
And then my hand brushes
tissue paper and finds
a tiny stocking.
So cute and mini.
The one I always
insisted we put up
for Furball.
And my heart turns
into a lump in my chest,
in my throat.
I cover it back up
for someone else
to find
and tell Mom
I’m too tired
for any more fun today.
GETTING BETTER
Mom checks on me later,
her cool hand touching
my forehead,
like when I’m sick
and she brings me Sprite
to settle my tummy,
or rubs Vicks on my chest
to help me breathe.
It’ll get better, Mom says,
sitting there with me,