by Elly Swartz
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Copyright Page
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To my dad, whose light always shines so bright. Love you huge.
1
Baby Girl
Baby Girl is the name written on her birth certificate, but I think that’s a bit sad. Mom calls her Isabelle. That feels way too formal for a silky-soft, chubby day-old baby who smells like powder. So I name her Izzie.
I know I’m not supposed to get attached. To the baby or her name. Both are temporary. That’s what Rita said. She’s the woman with the rainbow-striped sweater who owns Caring Adoptions. She said this little one is with us for only a speck of time. Then she’ll go to her forever family. Who will give her a forever name.
But truth is, I got attached the second I saw this bundle of sweetness. I mean, only a zombie or my big brother, Dillon, wouldn’t fall in love with this tiny human with long, slender fingers that wrap around my thumb. But I’m not the only one attached.
Last night, my little brother, Charlie, said, “I love my new baby sister,” as he hopped onto my lap to read Where the Wild Things Are.
“You know she’s not your sister for keeps,” I reminded him.
And myself.
“But maybe if I’m really good, she’ll stay,” he said, “and I’ll get to be somebody’s big brother.”
I hugged Charlie. “It doesn’t work that way, Bear.”
Sadness stretched across his freckled face.
I repeated what Rita had told us—that Izzie isn’t our sister for keeps. She’s our sister for a smidgen. Rita said it had to do with the birth parents needing that time to make a plan. A really good plan. To decide if adoption is right for them. And, if it is, to find a loving home with a loving family. So in two days, two weeks, or a month, we’ll need to return our little bundle to Rita and the agency.
Like a library book.
But I don’t want to tell Charlie that.
Because to me, she feels like my baby sister.
Even if it’s for just a few days.
2
The Green Jell -O Declaration
I’m not really supposed to call her my sister. That was another thing Rita told me in our meeting after the green Jell-O declaration.
It was Try-This Tuesday family dinner. No one had guessed the experimental ingredient in our maybe-meat lasagna. Not Gramps, Dad, Dillon, Charlie, or me. Green Jell-O with yellow and red fruit chunks was for dessert. Mom was superproud of it. I’ve never really been a fan of desserts that jiggle and contain no chocolate. But Mom told me it was a special one that Nana used to make when Mom was a little girl, so I took a bite. Then Mom stood up and said, “Dad and I have an announcement.”
Dillon and I looked at each other. The last big announcement was that they’d bought new salt and pepper shakers shaped like our dog Batman. I’m not sure that qualified as announcement-worthy. But then Mom said, “We’ve decided to take in a newborn baby awaiting adoption.”
Mom smiled like she was full of happiness, so I told my parents that I thought it was a good idea. Dillon wanted to know if this meant he couldn’t try out for the travel basketball team, and Charlie danced around the kitchen, chanting, “I’m going to be a big brother!”
The next day, after my parents reassured Dillon that he could still try out and told Charlie that our fostering was short-term, we took a family field trip to Caring Adoptions. Mom said Rita had to be certain we’d be good temporaries.
I wasn’t sure what that meant until Izzie arrived with tiny fingers and steel-blue eyes and the smell of powder. Now I know that taking care of little ones for a speck of time is an important job. Maybe the most important.
Caring Adoptions was bright, and the bells on the office door chimed when we entered. Rita greeted us, and said that she’d talk to Dillon first, me second, then Charlie with Mom and Dad. While Dillon met with her, Charlie sat on the green carpet, playing with a floppy teddy bear. Mom and Dad held hands at the too-small table. Mom looked happier than I’d seen her in a while. Her face was soft and warm. And less sad. After Nana died a year ago from some infection that crept into her lung, Mom had a great big hole in her heart. I know because I had one, too. Mom said I shouldn’t worry. She just needed time. To heal.
But then last month, Mom put on her Women-in-Charge T-shirt and went to a conference for women-run small businesses. Mom joined the group when she started The Application Adviser, to helps kids applying to college. At the morning workshop on networking strategies, she met Rita and learned that a newborn was coming who needed a home. A loving home. For a short time.
After Mom’s big announcement, I realized that maybe Mom didn’t really need time. Maybe she just needed a new little human to love.
I sank into the big, fluffy blue couch in the waiting room and wondered if it was that way on purpose. To make visitors like me feel safe. And tucked-in. Then I looked around and realized I was surrounded by hundreds of cards with pictures of smiling babies and happy parents, and words like wonder, peace, miracle, and joy.
When Dillon came out of Rita’s office, it was my turn to go in.
Rita was wearing a sweater with all the colors of the rainbow. I liked the orange stripe best. It reminded me of Pumpkin Pie, my favorite colored pencil. The sign above Rita’s desk said:
A NEW BABY IS THE BEGINNING OF ALL THINGS—WONDER, HOPE, A DREAM OF POSSIBILITIES.—EDA LESHAN
“Hi, Maggie. Thanks for coming.” Rita offered me a piece of butterscotch candy from the bowl on her desk. The candy reminded me of Nana. Butterscotch was her favorite. I wondered if that’s something she remembers in heaven.
We talked for a while about seventh grade, apple picking at Billow’s Orchard, and how chocolate cake with chocolate icing and chocolate chips might be the best dessert ever. Then she asked, “How do you feel about being a foster sister?”
“Sounds good. I mean, I like being a sister, so I think I’ll like this, too. Plus, babies are supercute, and Mom and Dad said these babies really need us.”
“That’s true. These babies do need lots of love. This is an important job, Maggie. A special kind of fostering. It’s for a few days, a week, or a handful of weeks at most, until the babies can go to their forever families.”
I twirled the candy around my mouth with my tongue. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything.” Rita popped one of the butterscotch candies into her mouth.
“If these little ones are going to be adopted, why do they need us? I mean, why don’t they just go right to their forever families?”
“In Massachusetts, birth parents can’t sign papers allowing an adoption until four days after birth.”
“Why?”
“It gives the birth parents time to select their baby’s forever family and to make sure adoption is the best decision for them and the baby. That’s where I come in. I help them find a loving short-term foster family that can take care of their baby while they’re figuring these things out.”
“Like us.”
“Yes,
like all of you,” Rita said. “But remember, Maggie, you’re not the baby’s forever sister.” She smiled. “Your family’s job is to help this little one have a wonderful start to life. And not to get too attached.”
Turns out I’m not so good at that last part.
3
Eagle Eyes
I wake extra early when I hear Izzie stir on her first morning as a sort-of member of the Hunt family. I hop out of bed, grab Bud the Bear, slide into my fuzzy slippers, and twirl my ruby-red hair into the clip Charlie bedazzled with rhinestones for my twelfth birthday. When I walk into Izzie’s room, her cry doesn’t sound like sadness. It sounds like, Hey, anyone awake?
“I am,” I say as I gently cradle her tiny body against my chest. I spin around so she can see the black-and-white elephant pictures that Mom hung above the white straw bassinet that Dad rolled into the office yesterday. Mom says the color contrast is good for a baby’s eyes and brain. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I stand there for a minute just in case. Then I tackle the whole diaper thing. Mom taught me how to wipe, tuck, and fold when Charlie was born. Dad says I’m a natural. I think he says that because he hates changing dirty diapers.
When I’m done, I sing “Lullaby Blue” to a clean and happy Izzie, in the rocking chair that used to be Nana’s. Izzie stares at me with her big blue eyes. Batman licks her toes and then sinks his gigantic body next to us. Four years ago, Dad showed up with a Labrador retriever puppy. A sweet black ball of fur that Mom called a disaster. Until she fell in love with him. Now she calls Batman family.
I pick up Bud the Bear. “Okay, Little Bean. When I was born, Dillon gave me Bud. Now I’m giving him to you. To borrow. He’s soft and will watch over you. I promise. He’s watched over me for the last twelve years.” I set Bud the Bear on the wooden table next to the bassinet.
“I’ll take her now,” Mom says from the doorway in her beige robe, tired dripping from her eyes. Turns out Izzie was up most of the night.
“Dad’s making breakfast, and then you guys have to get to practice. It’s Saturday.”
I kiss my baby sister’s soft cheek and hand her to my mother.
“You know, you have a beautiful voice,” Mom says. I’d forgotten that part. The part where there’s now a baby monitor in the room so she and Dad can supervise the care of our tiny human. And listen to me sing.
I inhale a plate of the best banana pancakes ever and sneak Batman a piece of I-love-my-dog bacon.
An hour later, I’m looking down the barrel of my trap shotgun. I line up the beads the way Dad showed me, one stacked on top of the other. He calls it “the snowman.” A trick he taught me when I first started trap. I’d been tagging along with him for years to his sportsmen’s club, Fish, Fur, and Fly. Everyone knew him there. He’d been coming since before he met Mom. Eventually, when I turned ten and was old enough to shoot on the junior squad, he showed me the snowman.
My mind turns to Izzie. Rita had said she’ll likely be with us for only a few days or a week. And then all that sweetness will be gone. Except for that thing I saved. I took it this morning after pancakes. Dad was in the kitchen and Mom was downstairs giving Izzie her bottle. They don’t know. No one knows.
It’s my secret.
A little something. To remember.
So my memories don’t disappear.
So I don’t forget Izzie.
Like Nana forgot me.
I focus my eyeballs on the top of the trap house, where I imagine the bright-orange clay pigeon will spring from. I yell, “Pull!” as the world stops breathing. Then I see it. Feel it. Hit it. The pumpkin-colored disc shatters into a million pieces of confetti in the air. I watch the bright-orange rain while the smell of sulfur dances under my nose.
I love this moment.
Ava gives me a way-to-go nod. Sam doesn’t move. Her eyes are laser-focused, and wisps of her midnight-black hair fly out from under her Red Sox cap. She stares into the sky, waiting for her turn. Ava’s next, then Sam, Gracie, and Belle. I spy Gracie’s purple socks peeking out from her jeans. Ever since she scored 23/25 while wearing them, she’s worn them to every single practice and shoot. After the first fifteen rounds, I’m leading, Ava’s in second, Sam’s in last place. Twice she’s grazed the disc. But no shatter, no rain, no confetti. So no points. I glance over and give her a don’t-worry-you’ve-got-this smile, but she turns away.
“Bring it in,” Coach calls out, stroking his black-and-gray beard. “Pizza’s here!”
The five of us huddle around the wooden picnic table next to the range. Gracie tries to tuck her short blond hair behind her ears, forgetting she just cut off ten inches to donate to Locks of Love. We’re the first-ever all-girl squad on Fish, Fur, and Fly’s Eagle Eyes team. I joined Eagle Eyes in fifth grade, as one of the juniors. Then in sixth grade, I dragged in a few of my friends, who rallied a few of their friends. By the time we were done, we were an all-girl squad in a mostly boy sport. Mom got us T-shirts that read GIRL POWER across the front.
Coach walks over, thanks the delivery guy, and sets the pizza down on the picnic table. He’s sort of a big deal around here. He was the top trapshooter for the club five years in a row. The best part most days is that he’s also my dad.
“Next week, I’m adding an extra practice on Wednesday, and then it’ll be the usual on Saturday,” Dad says. “Be sure to bring your lucky socks, coins, shirts—whatever you need to work the magic.”
“Trap’s not about superstition,” Sam says as she pulls the pepperoni off a slice lying in the box and adds it to her own. “It’s about practice and skill.”
Gracie slides her pant legs over her purple socks.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Dad says. “After those practices, there are going to be some changes to the squad.”
I freeze. What? He didn’t say anything about changes at breakfast. Or ever.
“We’re putting together the strongest squad from all the shooters at Fish, Fur, and Fly.”
The cheese sticks in my throat. My brain scans the five squads Dad could choose from.
“What does that mean?” Gracie asks.
“That Mason Lloyd will be joining our squad,” Ava says.
“And one of us will be leaving,” I say.
4
A Whole Heap
Ava stands up, elbows pointy, hands on her hips. “We don’t need a boy on our squad to make it better.” Her lips tighten. The way they do when her four older brothers tell her she’s too young, too girl, too everything to play with them. Gracie nods while taking the pepperoni off her pizza and handing it to Sam.
Dad grabs another slice. “I never said we needed a boy on our squad to make it better. I also never said it was Mason Lloyd who will be joining us. All I said was that a change was coming.”
“Look, as long as this new person can help our squad win the state shoot, I think it’s a good move,” Sam says, the sun making her dark eyes look black as night.
“You know, Coach,” Ava says, “Mason Lloyd may be a good shooter, but he burped the entire alphabet for the middle school talent show.”
I look over at Dad.
Don’t do this. Don’t break up our squad.
“I hear what you’re all saying, but at this point, I’m not discussing who the new squad member might be. For now, let’s just focus on finishing this pizza.”
Then I see it in a puddle under the table. All by itself. I stop thinking about someone leaving our squad. Stop listening to Ava talk about how Dad’s breaking up the Original Five and put my hand on the ground and wait. After a few minutes, it gingerly climbs in, tickling my palm with its tiny claws.
“I have to get this little guy back to his family.”
Everyone turns my way. I open my palm, and sitting in the middle is a turtle with a bright-orange belly and a heart-shaped marking on his brown shell.
Dad nods. This isn’t the first stray animal I’ve helped. A few years ago, I brought home Ginger, a bird with a broken wing. I couldn’t just leave her hopping
in circles. So Mom and I took her to Dr. Yang, the veterinarian who smells like spearmint, and we cared for her until she was ready to fly home. Before that it was Fred the frog.
Ava and I run across the field and down the hill, to the edge of Baker’s Pond. The mud seeps into the side of my boot, where Batman chewed a nickel-size hole last week after eating Dillon’s Nerf basketball.
“Okay, little guy,” I say as I gently open my hand.
The turtle walks across my fingers and onto a rock in the water on the side of the range.
Back to his family.
* * *
The windows are down on the drive home from trap. It’s not helping. Dad’s car still smells like leftover pepperoni pizza. I turn to him as he slows to a stop at the corner of Dudley and Baron Drive. “How can you break up our squad?”
“I’m not breaking up anything. Everyone on the squad will remain a part of the larger Eagle Eyes team.”
“Just not a member of our five-person, all-girl squad,” I say. “I’m the squad leader. I should have a say.”
He shakes his head. “You lead this squad. That’s your job. I create the squads. That’s my job. Besides, I’m just shuffling people around the different squads to make each one the strongest it can be.”
“Shuffling people around and breaking up the squad both end with our all-girl trap squad not being an all-girl trap squad anymore.” I stick my hand out the window, let the air flow through my fingers, and stop listening to my dad’s speech on team dynamics and coaching and blah-blah-blah. Nothing he says is going to change that, come the end of next week, one of the Original Five will be gone, and with it, all our girl power.
When we get home, I hop out of the car and carry my trap bag with my shotgun to the gun safe in the basement. Dad follows me. Only he and Mom have the combination. A two-parent nonnegotiable rule. Dad puts the gun in the safe and locks it, and I head back to Dillon, who’s playing basketball in the driveway. He’s wearing Dad’s old #33 Larry Bird jersey, and it almost fits him.
