by Celeste, B.
Rhett boy. Grandma’s nickname stuck with Marge, and she’s the only one I let call me that these days besides Granddad.
“Night, Marge. Thanks again.”
She leaves like always, going home to get ready to repeat it all tomorrow. It’s the same thing every day, seven days a week. She doesn’t get a break because she wants me to.
He’s my granddad, I’d tell her.
But not your responsibility, she’d reply.
But how can I turn my back on him after everything he’s done for me? I promised him I’d do anything I could to make him comfortable, to make him better. And I’m a Tucker.
Tuckers don’t break promises.
6
River / 13
A month has gone by since I moved in with the James family. Jill has stopped by twice, once every two weeks, to check in. She goes through a long list of questions about how I’m doing, asking about school and home and people I’ve met. It’s protocol, I know, but I genuinely think Jill cares.
Some social workers see their fosters as a burden. One lady who resembled a bird with her large beak nose used to trash talk the kids assigned to her, saying they’ll never get forever homes. I’m lucky to have Jill. Everyone says so. I’m one of the kids who spent most of my time with her, so a bond was bound to form.
Over the past month, I’ve started eating lunch with Steph, the girl from art class. Her last name is Malone, and she’s one of the Bridgeport Malones, not that I know what that means. She says she likes me not knowing.
We used to talk about the art assignments, because it’s common ground. But then she would ask me other questions, personal ones. Most of them I don’t answer or skip. Like when she asks where my parents are. I don’t know, so I can’t tell her. In fact, I don’t know anything about my father. Or when she asks if I liked the other homes I lived in. I didn’t, but I don’t say a word. I find that most people don’t like the nitty-gritty of reality; they prefer seeing life through rose-colored glasses. I don’t burst their bubble with the murky, gray truth.
Jill has always told me the past is the past. My mother left me to have a better life, and I finally have a chance at living mine.
“Don’t dwell on what you can’t change,” Jill told me right before she left.
I try not to, I really do. But the picture of me being held by a stranger still lingers in my duffle bag under my bed. Sometimes I take it out at night and stare at it, trying to figure out if I really look like her or not. Jill says I do but I don’t see it.
Bridgette saw me looking at it one day and told me my mother is beautiful. I thought she was just trying to be nice, but her face seemed genuine. I suppose the woman is beautiful. Her body is slender, her cheekbones are sharp, and her hair looks long and luscious. But all I see is the person who gave me away, the one who supposedly chose drugs over her own daughter.
That’s not beautiful, that’s tragic.
When Bridgette offered to get a small frame for it, I told her no. I tell her that a lot when she offers stuff; it’s okay or no, thank you. The James’ have already given me so much; a bed of my own and a closet full of stain-free clothing I don’t have to share with anybody. They’ll always ask if they can get me something, but never accept when I tell them they’ve given me enough.
During lunch on Thursday afternoon, Steph tells me about the time there was a food fight in the cafeteria. It started when the sixth graders declared war on the seventh graders during spirit week, some rally leading up to Christmas break. She said it was spaghetti day, so it was extra messy, and her blonde hair was stained orange for a week, which made her mom really mad.
Abruptly, she changes the topic. “Where’s your brother these days? You know the tall one. I haven’t seen him lurking in a couple weeks.”
She’s talking about Everett, not Oliver. I think she has a secret crush on him, because she asks about him all the time. The last time Everett came to the cafeteria, Steph smiled and invited him to eat with us. Her blue eyes got all big and cheeks grew pink, especially when he thanked her for the offer, but said he was just checking in.
I know he doesn’t want me going to the art room instead of lunch, so I’ve only done it a few times over the last few weeks. Now that Steph and I are sort of friends, he seems happier.
“He’s not my brother.” I’ve told her that before, but she says he practically is. I guess she’s right. Oliver says he’s family too, so I might as well stop correcting her.
She shrugs, biting into her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s seafood day, but I finally agreed to let Darlene pack my lunch. She made me a ham and swiss sandwich with some chips, apple slices, and a cheese stick. She even added a tiny bottle of apple juice, Motts not any other brand because she must have noticed me sneaking a few glasses when I crept into the kitchen while she baked.
Steph doesn’t give up on whatever pursuit she’s on. I’ve noticed how determined she is in everything she does. Her persistence makes me like her, except for when she pushes me about Everett. I don’t know why, but a funny feeling tightens my chest whenever she brings him up.
“Does he not like coming around anymore?” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and looks around the room like she’s hoping Everett will pop out from behind the trash cans.
I pick off a piece of the ham and mumble out an “I don’t know” hoping that she’ll drop it.
He’s satisfied with me having someone to sit with, so he doesn’t bother coming in. Sometimes he’ll pass me in the hall when I’m walking to lunch, which I think he does on purpose to make sure I’m not sneaking off to Cohen’s art room. Oliver says they have study hall somewhere in the high school wing, so it doesn’t make sense why he’s around here this time of day.
She stays quiet for a minute. Then, “He’s popular, you know? I hear him and Oliver run the high school.”
I’ve heard the same thing. Sports are a big part of Freemont, and it’s basketball season. Oliver’s navy jersey has the number one on it, which Robert says is the best he could have gotten. I wonder what that means for the seven on Everett’s jersey. The gym teacher said he thinks they can win nationals, which sounds like a big deal. Oliver doesn’t always come home the same time I do because he has practice after school, but everyone says he’s going to take their team to the top, so I don’t get why they need to practice so much.
Robert suggests I join a club to get more involved in the school. I think he got the idea from Jill when she was here last week. She told me getting involved in school activities would be a fun way to meet new people. We have different definitions of fun.
When I told Robert that I didn’t want to join any clubs, he pushed the matter. He says the James family gives it one hundred and ten percent. He used to play football and Oliver plays basketball. Now that I’m a James, according to him, I need to participate too.
Bridgette thinks it’s a good idea but told me not to rush into anything until I’m ready. Robert seems to think the exact opposite, like I should always ready to dive right in. I’m not like him at all and I wonder if he can accept that.
“I’m just saying,” Steph continues, “they could probably make you popular by association. Brittney already noticed them sitting with you your first week here. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried snatching you up for her own group of minions yet.”
My mind tries recalling who Brittney is. There’s a brown-haired girl that goes by Britt who wears tight clothes and lots of jewelry in my math class. She stares at me sometimes, but I usually ignore it because she’ll whisper something to the blonde next to her. What’s worse than talking about myself is knowing when other people are talking about me.
But I’m used to it.
Instead of skidding around the topic like usual, I’m honest. “I don’t want to be popular. I just want … to be invisible.”
Her lips weigh down at the corners. “I get it, but I think that’s impossible for someone like you. You’re new, so everyone is going to want to claim yo
u for their own clique. Plus, you’re associated with the James family. They’re a big deal in Bridgeport, if you haven’t noticed. They even donated a bunch of money to Freemont to redo the football field and upgrade the gymnasium.”
My lips part. It shouldn’t surprise me that they did that, especially knowing how much sports means to Robert. Of course, he wants the gym to be in the best shape for games.
I just don’t want people thinking I’m like them, the rich girl. I’ve got two pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, and a baggie hoodie to my name. Not money. Not fame. Nothing.
Steph must see the anxiety bubbling inside me, because she dismisses the whole thing. “But hey, you chose the right company on the invisible front. People say I’m annoying because I talk too much. I mean, sure, my dad is Bill Malone. But most people here don’t care about that because he’s nothing compared to Robert James.”
My lips twitch again, and I nearly ask her what her father does. If he’s like Robert, he’s in some business trade. I’ve learned a little bit about what Robert does since coming here, but most of the stuff Bridgette tells me doesn’t really stick. All I know for sure is that he’s the founder of a large company called the JT Corporation that deals with investments in other big businesses.
“I doubt you’re invisible,” is all I can think to murmur.
She laughs, the sound smooth and carefree. “I am, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. You probably have it right. If we’re invisible, people can’t touch us. Right?”
I’m sure she doesn’t mean literally, but it still makes me stiffen. Being the newest addition to a family like the James’ means people watch me, waiting until they come up with an opinion. The teachers will smile and play nice, but their eyes flash with judgment they think they’re hiding. I’ve seen it before at every foster home with nearly every person who took me in. They wait until I do something bad, something that will inevitably get me kicked out.
To them, I’m another body to feed on what little the government gives them in return. A burden, that’s what I’ve been called the most.
“We should tattoo it on your head,” my last foster mother spit at me. “That way nobody will be tricked by your innocent looks. A burden, that’s all you’ll ever be.”
I’m shaken by the loud ding of the bell that tells us lunch is over. Staring down at my half-eaten sandwich, I frown. Darlene won’t like it if I bring all this leftover food home. So, I follow Steph up to the large gray garbage can lining either side of the wash station and toss the sandwich and fruit away. I keep the cheese stick and chips for later, knowing hunger will settle in the pit of my hollow stomach before last period.
“Ready?” Steph asks.
No, but I nod anyway. What else is there to do but grit my teeth and hold my head up high as I take things one day at a time?
I miss the bus and Bridgette and Robert are away until later tonight, so I wander around the school while Oliver’s at practice. He told me he’d take me home quick, but he’d miss the beginning of his drills. I should just suck it up and walk on my own, but I decide to stay behind and wait for him because I’m not comfortable going anywhere by myself yet.
Mrs. Cohen’s brows go up in surprise when I walk into her room. She looks like she’s ready to go home. It’s almost three thirty, and most teachers high tail it out as soon as the last bell rings.
“Are you all right, River?”
“I missed the bus,” I mumble, looking at the too-new shiny finish on my shoes. Somehow, missing the bus feels like this big awful thing I’ve done, and I hate admitting it out loud.
“Do you have a ride?” There’s a stack of papers clutched in her hands, ready to be put away.
I nod. I know I should use my words, but I can’t make myself part my lips to get any out. Silence is safe.
She taps her chin and then a small smile forms on her face. Holding up one of her fingers as if to say, wait here, she disappears into the supply closet at the end of the room. Something shuffles and falls before she makes her way out with a large sketch pad in her hands.
“Take it.” I hesitantly wrap my fingers around the yellow pad, looking at her skeptically. Her smile is as warm as ever. “You know where the supplies are. I was going to head out, but I don’t mind sticking around. I enjoy seeing what you create, River.”
She’s giving me a sketch pad? It’s huge, full of blank pages and endless possibilities. The two projects I’ve worked on have been the same figure, my mother. Or, someone like her. The charcoal drawing is Mrs. Cohen’s favorite, because I left the woman’s arms branching out into open space. I planned to draw a little baby, a toddler, a little girl that she yearned to touch.
I left it blank. Empty.
Every project needs to have a title, so I captioned it with The Void. It’s not what I thought it’d be when I started. I’m not sure whether the woman is still my mother or me. Maybe it’s both, reaching out for everything we can’t have.
I settle into my usual seat and open up the pad to the first page. My fingers brush against the empty sheet as I wet my bottom lip. A month ago, I channeled my emotions into the image of the woman. Mrs. Cohen told the class our emotions are the best inspiration for true masterpieces. But I don’t feel the same way I did when I first moved to Bridgeport. The hollow ache that echoed in silent desperation has closed a fraction. It’s still there and probably always will be, but it’s shaped differently.
I’m not sure how long I spend on my new picture before I hear someone call my name. I glance from the image in front of me to Oliver, who’s walking through the door with damp hair and holding my backpack while his is slung over his shoulder.
“Sorry, Mrs. Cohen,” he apologizes. “Coach had practice run a little later than planned.”
He passes me my bag and looks at the colorful jumble of lines in front of me. They’re woven together, in gray, black, and red, a mixture of lines that don’t really have a start or finish.
“That’s uh …” His head tilts and eyes narrow like it gives him a better idea of what I’ve made.
I call this piece Emotion. It’s a mixture of a weight I don’t understand, a feeling foreign to me that sits on my chest. Eventually, it’ll have other colors and hidden shapes. Right now, it’s exactly what I feel, which is too much to pull apart.
“…interesting,” Oliver finally settles on.
I can’t help but smile to myself. He doesn’t get it. I don’t tell him that I don’t either, because I’m probably supposed to. Instead, I let him help me clean up and gather my belongings.
Before we leave, Mrs. Cohen tells us to hold on and grabs a paper off her desk. She hands it to me with an expectant smile.
Art Club - every Tuesday at 3 PM.
“Consider it,” is all she says before waving us off.
Oliver peeks over at the paper, nudging me with his elbow. “Are you going to join? Looks like it’s right up your alley.”
Nibbling my bottom lip, I read over the description. It doesn’t say how many people are involved or what mediums we have to work with. It’s probably open to anything but I can’t be sure.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He gestures toward the paper with his open palm, so I deposit it into his waiting hand. His eyes scan over the information for a short moment as we make our way down the stairs and toward the front doors.
“Mom and Dad would be really happy if you did this,” he points out, passing it back to me. “I know Dad seems kind of pushy about stuff, but he means well. Plus, it could be worse. He could be shoving you toward joining the cheer squad.”
The thought alone makes me pale. Well, paler than normal. Being in front of people is not my forte, much less a stadium full of loud fans cheering on a sport I don’t even understand.
He laughs when he sees my face. “Chill. He knows better than to suggest that. Even Mom told him to let it go, and she loved cheerleading.”
Bridgette was a cheerleader? It shouldn’t surprise me. She seems like the typ
e that would be involved with that kind of stuff when she was younger.
“It’s how they met, you know.” He unlocks his car and stops outside the driver’s side.
I tug on my backpack strap. It’s mint green, kind of like Everett’s eyes, with floral print. Bridgette picked it out for me. Its way better than the scrap of material I usually carried around. “Really?”
He nods. “I can tell you about it, but Mom really loves the story. Maybe she can share it when they get back later.”
I’ve always loved love stories. Mostly because they give me hope. It’s why I sneak books and devour the romance, waiting for my time to be swept off my feet and into the arms of a knight in shining armor. It’s cheesy, really cheesy, but it’s what keeps me going when I just want to stop. Stop feeling, stop hoping, stop wishing.
I say, “I’d like that,” because I would.
I’d like that a lot.
7
Everett / 17
Granddad has finally been getting better after the second dose of meds kicked into his system a few weeks ago. His coughing fits are nowhere as bad as they used to be, so both of our anxiety levels have calmed down. He knows I won’t be bothering him to drink fluids and rest despite wanting to tinker on some project in the add-on garage.
I’m walking around the kitchen of my home away from home making myself a quick snack before heading down to the media room with Oliver and the rest of the guys when quiet footsteps come in from the connecting dining room.
River still does her homework in there even though Bridgette tells her she can do it wherever she wants. Sometimes she’ll escape to her room, especially if Oliver has the guys over. Unless it’s an art project or some sort of free drawing, she stays put with her books and assignments stretched out across the long oak table top.
I tip my chin at her as she walks toward the fridge, pulling out the half-empty bottle of apple juice and then a clean glass from the cupboard. “Hey.”
