Ms. Radkte walks over and smiles at me.
Have you been singing again?
I’m so startled by what she asks
that the noise coming from my throat stops.
Which is when I realize
I’ve been humming to myself
this whole time.
Um, I say.
I don’t tell her about Bathtime Bomp.
Luckily she doesn’t seem to need a real answer.
Well, you’re welcome to join in for
the spring concert if you want.
Ms. Radkte sounds a little more
like her matter-of-fact teacher self now.
We’re doing two songs from last year.
I manage a little nod. Maybe.
I could even send a new song or two
home with you to practice.
Maybe. I nod a little harder.
She gives me another non–Ms. Radkte smile,
then loses it fast as she catches sight
of some poor first grader running
wild rings around the HUG AND GO sign
and heads over to tell him off.
I turn back to my bike
and blow on its layer of dust.
When that doesn’t work,
I swipe at it with my sweatshirt.
I hum all the way home.
LOST AND FOUND
We are in the lunchroom kitchen,
sliding our trays onto a cart,
when I see something in the corner.
What’s that? What’s that
brown spot over there?
Oh, Tori, says Rhea.
THE SPOT
Two steps,
four,
too many
more—
And there’s the little brown
spot that isn’t a spot
at all.
Rhea reaches out a hand—
Rhea who’s so squeamish
she shrieks at worms on the
sidewalk after the rain—
Rhea touches Furball,
gently picks her up.
And I look—
I REALLY look—
at the tiny still body,
at the small helpless creature.
I look because I understand
that someone broke her, even though
she never did anything wrong.
I look because
I know I can’t change
what’s happened.
I look because
all I can do now
is caress her damp fur
with my tears.
NO GOING BACK
I don’t want another hamster,
I declare at dinner that night,
heading off Mom’s likely
solution to my sad news.
What would I even name it?
Furball’s the only good hamster
name, and it’s already taken.
I know this isn’t reasonable,
but I can’t help it.
There can’t be two Furballs.
There just can’t.
Maybe we can get a dog,
I shouldn’t promise, but…
Mom’s voice is panicky and her eyes
dart around the room like she’s trying
to figure out where she’d fit a dog in our
overstuffed kitchen with its in-the-way table
and counter crammed with cereal boxes.
Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes, Taylor chants.
No, I say, shaking my head. It’s okay, Mom.
It wouldn’t be the same.
I don’t want to replace her.
Taylor glares at me like I’ve just given back
a trip to Disneyland, like why, why, WHY
would I EVER say that?
I shrug at her.
What CAN I say?
There’s no going back.
LAILA (FINALLY) CONVINCES ME TO TALK TO MOM
Tori wants to share something
with you. Something that was
very hard for her when she
first told you about being
molested.
Laila pauses and looks at me,
totally relaxed and patient,
like she could wait
in that moment
forever.
Mom coughs and looks at me,
her face all worried and tense,
to shoot her.
Okay, fine. I guess I’ll put
her out of her misery.
I catch Laila’s eye,
and she nods.
I take a deep breath,
and begin.
BELIEVE ME,
TAKE TWO
(WITH A LITTLE
HELP FROM LAILA)
She didn’t—
(Tell her, not me.)
You—you didn’t—
(Try to look at your mom.)
When I first
told you
about Uncle Andy,
(It’s okay, keep going.)
you didn’t—
You said maybe I
Misunderstood—
Oh! But Tori, I—
(Let her finish.)
You said he wouldn’t—
wouldn’t ever
do that.
Oh, Tori!
(Shh… hang on… you’ll get your chance.)
You didn’t believe me,
not at first.
And then Mom’s crying.
Oh, honey, and her tears
soak into my hair,
but I don’t care.
I just didn’t want it to
be true.
I didn’t want it to
be true—
for you.
But I’m so glad you told me.
My baby…
And I let her hold me,
her baby.
I’VE GOTTA ADMIT…
Laila’s right sometimes.
LOTS MORE MAYBES
Summer is all anyone
can talk about,
its sun shining on everyone
from
5,
4,
3
weeks away,
dazzling them with dreams of
lazy mornings,
days stretched out so long,
late-night ice cream.
Do you want to come
to Camp Aqua with me this year?
Rhea asks.
Maybe, I say.
Camp is expensive.
How about joining
Summer City Choir?
Ms. Radkte proposes.
Maybe, I say.
Probably yes.
I’d like you to consider
our summer mathletes program,
Mr. Jenkins says.
Um… okay, I say.
Seriously?
But this summer bug hasn’t
really infected me
until one day in May
Dad calls out of the blue
and says Tay and me
are invited to California for
the whole month of July.
Wait. Can I talk to him?
Mom snatches her phone back.
This is the first I’ve heard.
Mom turns red, then pale,
looks worried, then unhappy.
Tay and I shoot each other knowing glances
about how this is going to go.
But then—
The summer sun
shines its rays
all the way from July
across Mom’s face
and she SMILES.
No, wait. Is she laughing?
Tay and I go googly-eyed.
&nb
sp; A break would be nice, she says,
thank Melanie for the idea,
then hands the phone back to me.
Now our mouths drop open,
cartoon-style.
So what do you think?
Dad’s voice is waiting on
my response,
My Choice.
Maybe, I say.
He still needs to
apologize to Tay—
and to me.
But the happiness
in my voice is clear.
Good, he replies.
We’ll keep talking
about it.
The summer
waves hello
to me,
hopeful
that I’ll join it
with all of its Maybes.
WHY THAT OLD WIRE CAGE IS SITTING NEXT TO MY DESK AGAIN
It might seem weird,
digging it out of my closet now,
after it’s too late.
I’m still sad when I look
at the empty cage, where sometimes
a shadow seems to move around,
nosing the purple food dish,
burrowing in a wood chip nest.
A dull ache in my chest throbs
along with this ghost-memory.
But I want to remember;
it doesn’t haunt me.
It was trying to forget that did.
MY UNCLE
My uncle,
I remember,
once picked me up.
I’d fallen down
roller-skating,
and he swooped in
and saved me
before I got
steamrolled
by all the other kids.
My uncle I remember.
My uncle,
I remember,
once picked me up.
I’d been alone
after school
and he drove up
and got me
because I got
forgotten
when my sister broke her arm.
My uncle I remember.
My uncle,
I remember,
spending time with him
was so easy.
I’d loved him all my life,
and then he did that
and changed things, and
made everything confusing.
Because I miss him on the days
when I remember my old uncle,
my uncle I can’t forget.
THE GIFT
A small, bright red present
from Rhea,
looking nervous,
as if she’s going to vomit
like she used to back in preschool
when she got excited or
scared or mad or whatever.
We’re gathered in the backyard,
my family and hers sitting
at the dingy old white plastic
picnic table.
(Rhea’s wild-child brother,
Roan, is under the table,
animal-style.)
I peel off the paper,
pull off the lid.
Oh! Rhea,
she got me a…
But this hamster’s
so different and
mousy looking,
its long snout sniffing.
It rocks back
on its hind legs
to stare at me.
Furball never did that.
DIFFERENT
But the only good name
for a hamster
is already gone.…
Taylor says in a hushed voice.
Then Roan pops out
from under the table,
for some reason only wearing
Superman underwear.
That’s a gwerbil!
I think he’s right, Mom says,
peering at the small gray
creature in my palm.
Hamsters have shorter snouts.
And look at that tail!
Oh, Rhea says, voice
trembly as the gerbil.
I got it from a family.
I thought they knew.
My fingers stroke the poor thing,
its heart beating life into my fingertips.
No, no, I say, trying to smile
at my sweet best friend.
Gerbil can be her own hamster.
That’s her name, Tay screeches,
and she falls over in a giggling fit.
Her name is Hamster!
My lips curl in a smile.
And I feel ready,
ready to make new,
different memories
with Hamster the gerbil.
A DAY LIKE TODAY
Do you think it’s possible
to forget the most horrible,
terrible thing for hours at a time?
I laugh today, swinging up, up,
into the sky, Rhea in sync with me.
Do you think it’s possible
to be happy in the middle of it all,
to feel your cheeks ache again with joy?
I run through the grass, which tickles
my feet and makes me laugh harder.
Do you think it’s possible
to take a break from stale, recycled tears,
to gulp air fresher than a brand-new day?
I reach the front door, out of
breath,
from all that
running, from so much
laughing.
Do you think it’s possible
to tie the dragging sadness to a tree
at the park, and leave it behind?
I shut the door behind me and there’s the spot
on the carpet where he spilled coffee last summer.
And I remember, and
it comes back and
sinks its teeth into
my belly and won’t let go.
But still.
A day like today…
It’s possible.
I know that now.
THE LAST WORD
It’s too late now
not to know
what I know.
And what I think—
what I know—
is that sometimes
you’ll wish
you’d never heard
the words that,
put together,
make that horrible,
terrible poem
about what happened.
But you’ll also know
that even though
the poem tells the truth,
it still didn’t
have the last word.
You’ll wake up one morning, and
you’ll say YES to the day again.
And even if the sweetest
little rodent in the world
sometimes reminds you
of a darkness
you can’t NOT see,
even then you will blink
your eyes clear.
You will wake and say
YES again—
if not that minute,
if not that day,
then the next—
And then
YOU
will have
The Last Word.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Five years ago, I was sitting out in the woods with a notebook when my main character Tori’s voice came to tell me her story, starting with the poem “Believe Me.” Since then, I have felt devoted to Tori’s emerging voice and committed to shepherding this novel into the wider world.
Sexual abuse is—sadly, appallingly, unacceptably—a part of our world, and yet it can feel off-limits to speak about it. If you have been sexually abused and are unable to talk about it, then this silence about your own experience might cause you to feel ashamed or alone. Please know that you are not alone and that there are people who care about you and what happened to you. Following this author’s note, th
ere is a resources section with a list of organizations that can offer you help.
Even if you haven’t been abused yourself, almost everyone (whether they are aware of it or not) knows someone who has experienced sexual abuse. Sometimes we assume, like Tori’s friend Rhea in this novel, that someone’s behavior has to do with a changing relationship, not realizing what they are going through. Even if we know what happened, it may be hard to understand what they are experiencing, and why they are reacting in certain ways. It can be difficult to imagine how much sexual abuse can affect many areas of a person’s life. One of the best ways we can help someone is by listening to their story and believing them.
My hope for this book is that readers will be encouraged to tell their own truths, and—if someone doesn’t believe them at first—to keep on telling until they get the help they need. Healing takes time. However, I personally know—along with countless other people around the world—that healing is not only possible, it IS where all of our stories are going.
RESOURCES
For more information about sexual abuse, or to get help for yourself or someone else, please contact:
StopItNow.org
1.888.PREVENT
(1.888.773.8368)
or
RAINN.org
1.800.656.HOPE
(1.800.656.4673)
For a state by state listing of other helpful organizations, you can visit www.nsvrc.org.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My journey with this novel has been blessed with plentiful support along the way.
I want to start by thanking Phyllis Root and Gary Schmidt, who each provided invaluable encouragement and guidance in the earliest stages of the manuscript. Much gratitude goes out as well to the entire Hamline faculty and community for teaching me the skills essential to the writing life both on and off the page. Thank you to my class, the Max Fabs, for your friendship. It’s a precious thing to connect deeply with others in as much joy and anguish over story as I am.