Fighting Words

by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

  “Nah,” I said.

  Except. What if Suki had died? What would have happened to me then?

  I needed Suki to sing to me. I needed Suki to hold my hand.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  All weekend, at least some of what I felt was happy that Suki was still alive, but by Monday morning the only feelings I had left were terrible. What if Suki had died? How would I have ever lived without her? And the persistent voice, like a train rumbling along tracks through the back of my mind: My fault. My fault. My fault.

  I felt all tight inside. I hadn’t slept—couldn’t get used to being by myself in the room—and I couldn’t believe I had to go to school. I did, though. Francine went to work.

  We started off with a spelling test. I’d forgotten about the test—not that I was likely to study for it anyhow—and I don’t like spelling on a good day. Ms. Davonte said a word, and I swear I’d never even heard it before, much less knew how to spell it. I stared at my blank paper. I didn’t know where to start.

  Ms. Davonte said a second word. She walked past my desk, glanced down at my paper, stopped. Tapped the paper. “I expect you to at least try,” she said.

  I didn’t move. I’d numbered the side of my page, one down to twenty. We had eighteen words to go.

  Ms. Davonte said a third word.

  I mean, I could hear it. My ears worked. But between my ears and my brain was some kind of wall made of Clifton. What he’d done. What it was like, living in his house, afraid all the time. What it was like, knowing I hadn’t been nearly afraid enough.

  What it had been like for Suki.

  Suki with that knife in her hand.

  “Della,” Ms. Davonte said. She tapped my paper again. “I don’t care if you try and fail. I do care if you don’t try.”

  Try. T. R. Y. I could spell that.

  Die. D. I. E. Suki. Didn’t. Die.

  Ms. Davonte stood over me. She said, “I am not moving until you write some words on that piece of paper.”

  I wrote SNOW.

  Only, of course, it wasn’t actually snow.

  SNOW. SNOW. SNOW. SNOW.

  29

  Ms. Davonte grabbed me by the shoulder and hauled me out into the hall. She said, “You are not fooling me with this stupid act, Della! You have got to do better! You owe it to yourself!”

  I rolled my eyes. “What. Ever.”

  She sent me to the principal’s office. Which at least got me out of the spelling test.

  The principal—Dr. Penny—said, “Good morning, Della.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  This was the first time I’d gotten sent to her office—it was well before all that snow with the family tree—so we didn’t know each other yet.

  “What brings you here?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Ms. Davonte didn’t like the word I wrote on my spelling test.”

  Dr. Penny asked what word I’d written. I told her. She said, “Did you spell it correctly?”

  Which maybe I would have found funny some other time. As it was, I just nodded. Then Dr. Penny said, “Della, what happened?” and I started to cry.

  I hated crying and I felt like I’d done nothing but cry and yet there I was again, tears and snot all over my face. Dr. Penny didn’t say anything else. She handed me a wad of tissues and told me to sit down in her comfortable chair, and when I was finished crying, suggested I just stay put until I felt calmer. She didn’t ask again what was wrong. That was good, because I didn’t know how to explain.

  I went back to class right before lunch. As soon as Ms. Davonte dismissed us for the cafeteria, Nevaeh grabbed my arm. I jumped, but she held on. “Della,” she said, looking right at me, “what happened?”

  I didn’t cry this time, but I still didn’t answer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. Davonte lean in, listening. I didn’t want her to overhear. I shook my head once, hard. Nevaeh nodded. She didn’t say anything else. She got her lunch and sat down next to me, her shoulder almost touching mine. We ate together, in silence. Neither of us said a word.

  Nevaeh was my real true friend.

  At the end of the day, Ms. Davonte wrote something on a piece of paper and sealed it in an envelope and handed it to me. “Take this to your mother,” she said.

  I handed it back to her. “Better if you just mail it,” I said. “Not that she’s going to reply.” Ms. Davonte looked at me. “My mother’s incarcerated,” I said. “In Kansas.”

  I was sitting at my desk. I probably said it loud enough for half the class to hear. I didn’t care. I was past caring.

  Ms. Davonte blinked. “I mean, give it to your foster mother,” she said. “I’m sorry, Della. I forgot.”

  I know she had, like, twenty-five kids to teach, but it still didn’t seem like something she ought to forget. I mean, it was the second-most important thing about me.

  The first-most important thing was Suki.

  Ms. Davonte pushed the envelope into my hand. “Tell her I need a reply,” she said.

  Awesome. Francine was going to be so happy. She’d had a stellar few days from Suki and me.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  I went to the Y. I didn’t want a snack. I wasn’t about to do homework. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I sat down at my usual round table and buried my head in my arms.

  Nevaeh sat next to me. She leaned close. She said, “Can you tell me yet?”

  It was the yet that got me. Like she knew for sure I would tell her eventually. Knew for sure I would trust her.

  I lifted my head a few inches. I said, “Suki stuck a knife in her wrist. A big knife. Deep.”

  Nevaeh’s eyes got wide. She whispered, “I’m so sorry.” After a minute she whispered, “Did she live?”

  I nodded. I put my head back down and didn’t lift it up again. I heard Nevaeh say, “Nah, I’m not going to swim today.” I heard other noises too, but I ignored them.

  Eventually Nevaeh nudged me. “Time to go home,” she said.

  I sat up. She’d taken crayons and drawn a whole field of flowers on a white sheet of paper, all colors and sizes, blue and red and yellow and purple above a sea of green. She said, “When I’m sad I like to draw happy things,” and gave the paper to me.

  30

  Francine read Ms. Davonte’s note, sighed, wadded it up, and threw it away.

  “You need to answer that,” I said.

  She said, “I will.”

  Francine phoned Ms. Davonte. She went into her bedroom and shut the door so I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I could imagine it. Clifton. Foster care. Hospital. Suki’s knife and all that blood.

  Francine came back into the kitchen. “Cut me up some carrots, will you?”

  “No way,” I said.

  “Yes, way.” Francine said. She reached into the drawer and pulled out a smaller knife. “Use this one,” she said.

  What Suki did with the knife from the drawer. What Clifton did to Suki. What Clifton tried to do to me.

  “Take a breath, Della,” Francine said. “This is hard, but you’ll get through it.”

  I glared at her. She said, “I mean it. Breathe deep, count to three, let it out.”

  I breathed deep. She counted. I let it out. “Good,” she said. “Do that again.”

  I did. I felt a little better. “What’d you tell Ms. Davonte?”

  Francine said, “That you’d be late to school tomorrow. You’ve got an appointment with a therapist at eight.”

  “What for?”

  “Whaddaya mean ‘what for’? To help you.”

  I didn’t know how it would help. I didn’t know how anyone could help who wasn’t Suki.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  I still wasn’t allowed to phone Suki. I asked. Francine was all matter-of-fact about it, but
later, at bedtime, she said, “You can sleep out here on the couch if you’d rather. Keep the TV on if you want.”

  It would probably be better than being alone in the bedroom. I studied Francine. “Did any of your other foster kids ever—”

  “That is actually none of your business,” Francine said. “I told you before. Their stories are their own.”

  “But—”

  “You and Suki aren’t the only kids bad stuff has happened to,” Francine said. “I’m sorry. Bad stuff happens all the time.”

  “You mean bad stuff like Clifton or bad stuff like Mama?”

  “Both,” Francine said. “I’m sorry.”

  She tapped her fingers on the arm of the couch. She said, “I told you, nobody goes into foster care for good reasons. Foster care might be better than anything you’ve ever had in your life so far, and it will still never be as good as what you should have had. If the family you were born into was what it should have been.”

  I thought about this for a minute. I said, “It was my fault.”

  “It was not,” Francine said. “Don’t start down that road.”

  I was miles down that road. I picked at the edge of my fingernail. I said, “Did bad things ever happen to you?”

  Francine took a big breath in, counted three, blew it out slow. She said, “Yes. But that’s my story. Not that I won’t ever tell you, but it’s nothing for you to worry about right now.

  “Go to sleep,” she said. “I am.”

  I took Suki’s pillow and our blanket out to the couch. I turned the TV on with the volume down low. I turned out the living room lights.

  The light from the TV flickered blue across the walls. I watched it. My purple high-tops, that I’d taken off and left by the door, bounced in and out of shadow.

  Suki’d bought me the high-tops. She’d used part of her own clothing allowance. I remember her laughing in Old Navy. I remembered her saying, “Who needs more than two bras?”

  In the emergency room they’d cut off the clothes she was wearing. Her shirt and her bra and even her blue jeans. Francine had had to pack up the rest of Suki’s clothes and take them to the hospital so she would have something to wear. She only had one bra now.

  Would they let her do laundry in the psych hospital?

  Do I have to do everything for you?

  She had. She’d even bought me those snowflake shoes out of her own clothing allowance, when I couldn’t make do with mine.

  I took too much from her.

  My fault.

  I loved my high-tops, but right at that moment I hated them too.

  31

  In the morning, I still couldn’t stand the sight of my high-tops. I went into Suki and my bedroom and dug my old free-clothes-closet shoes out of my dresser’s bottom drawer. I shut my high-tops in the drawer instead.

  If Francine noticed me wearing my old skank shoes, she didn’t say anything.

  The therapist’s office was in the same building where I’d gone to talk about Clifton into the camera, for the trial. Suki wasn’t there. I asked. The therapist’s room had white walls and blue chairs, a desk, a couch, and some tables. The therapist wore blue jeans and sandals. No socks. She came into the room with a big yellow dog at her heels. “I’m Dr. Fremont,” she said. “This is Rosie, our office dog. Some people like to have her sit with them while they’re talking to me. Would you like that?”

  I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know many dogs, mainly just the neighbor’s yappy one I never messed with. But Rosie walked up to me, very quietly on great big feet, and put her head next to my knee. She looked me right in the eye. I put my hand on her head, and she sighed and leaned against me.

  Sort of like a really friendly soft yellow wolf.

  So yeah, she could stay.

  Rosie jumped up on the couch and put her huge head into my lap, and I could stroke her and talk at the same time. Though I didn’t have to say much. Which was good, because I didn’t want to say anything.

  “Would you like to talk to me about your sister?” Dr. Fremont asked.

  I said, “Absolutely not.” I wanted to talk to my sister, but nobody was letting me do that.

  “Is there anything else you want to talk about right now?”

  “Nope,” I said. I’d maybe rather be in school than sitting in this office. Even though the office had Rosie instead of Trevor and Ms. Davonte.

  In this office, I didn’t know any of the rules.

  “All right,” Dr. Fremont said, not ruffled even a little bit. “What I’d like to do is talk about feelings. How are you feeling right now?”

  I had no idea. Zero. Zip. None. I mean, I knew I didn’t want to be sitting there. I knew I didn’t feel good. Besides that? I shrugged.

  Dr. Fremont handed me a piece of paper that had rows of different cartoon faces drawn on it, like little emojis. The faces were labeled: happy, silly, proud, annoyed. She handed me a pen. I looked at the faces and started circling. Sad, scared, sleepy. Worn-out. Angry. Confused. Disobedient, grief, lonely. Guilt. Strong. Ashamed.

  Dr. Fremont took the paper back. “That’s a lot of feelings,” she said.

  I nodded. Once I’d got to circling, it was hard to stop. Invisible? Worried? On edge? Turned out I was a lot of things.

  Dr. Fremont told me she knew about Suki and about Clifton. She’d read a report from Suki’s doctor.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “She’s getting help.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “She’ll get better,” Dr. Fremont said. “It will take some time. It always takes time to heal. But for now, you can trust she’s somewhere safe.”

  I did not know whether or not the psych hospital was safe. How could I know? I’d never been there before. Also? If there was a safe place in the world, I probably wouldn’t recognize it. Francine’s house wasn’t safe, not after what happened to Suki there.

  Dr. Fremont picked up the paper with the faces I’d circled. “Which of these feelings is the strongest right now?”

  Guilt. Ashamed.

  “It was my fault,” I said. “She had to do too much to take care of me and she didn’t want to be around me anymore.” I stared at the tips of my skank shoes.

  Dr. Fremont set down the paper. “It was not your fault,” she said.

  “If I’d let—if Suki hadn’t—” I didn’t mean to, but I squeezed Rosie’s ear hard. She let out a soft moan. “I’m sorry,” I said to her.

  “Rosie likes having her ears rubbed,” Dr. Fremont said. “That was a happy moan. Della, none of this is your fault.”

  “If I—”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But—”

  “A lot of kids blame themselves when bad things happen. It isn’t true. This wasn’t your fault.”

  I was going to fall apart completely, which I didn’t want to do. I sucked in a noisy gulp of air.

  “Breathe slow,” Dr. Fremont said. “Let it out slow.”

  I did.

  She leaned forward. She looked me in the eye. She said, “None of this was your fault. None of it was Suki’s fault. Adults are supposed to take care of children. Neither of you should have been hurt like you were.”

  It sounded nice, but I couldn’t believe it.

  “What I think we should do today,” Dr. Fremont said, “is work on ways to help you feel better, right now. How to feel more calm.”

  “Am I allowed to feel better?” I asked. “After Suki—” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. How could I feel better when Suki felt so sad?

  “Do you want Suki to feel better?”

  Absolutely. I nodded. Dr. Fremont said, “Maybe she already does. At the hospital, they’ll be helping her feel better. She’d want the same for you.”

  We practiced belly breathing again, sucking air in slowly,
down, down, down, until I could feel my belly stretching round like a balloon. Then slowly pushing all the air out, my belly limp and flat. Then breathing in, in, in. Then out, out, out. “Francine already had me do this,” I said.

  “Good,” Dr. Fremont said. “Did it help?”

  “How would I know?”

  “If you felt calmer afterward,” she said, “it helped.”

  “Oh. Then yeah, I guess so.”

  We worked on making lists: five things I could see, four things I could feel. Three things I could hear, two I could smell, one I could taste. I bent my head down to Rosie’s neck. “I smell dog,” I said. “It smells kind of funky, but not awful. But I don’t taste anything.” Was my spit supposed to taste like something?

  “Here.” Dr. Fremont handed me a peppermint, sharp and sweet.

  She gave me more things to try: counting backwards from 100 by 7s. Spelling my name backwards. “You do know my full name’s Delicious, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Actually, I didn’t,” she said. “That presents a challenge.”

  I had to shut my eyes before I could do it. “S-U-O-I-C-I-L-E-D.”

  Dr. Fremont applauded. “And can you tell how much more relaxed you are than when you first came in?”

  I could. My stomach muscles didn’t hurt. My skin didn’t feel itchy.

  “Great,” she said. “Now let’s come up with a list of things you like to do. Things that make you feel happy. Things you can do every day.”

  I liked to eat Cheetos. I liked to be with Suki.

  “Your sister loves you so much,” Dr. Fremont said. “But she can’t heal you. Only you can do that. Plus, what you enjoy is probably different from what Suki enjoys.”

  I didn’t know whether or not that was true. I hadn’t spent much time thinking about what I liked, and I didn’t really know what Suki liked, either. I mean, Cherry Dr Pepper, sure. Pepperoni on her pizza. Beyond that?

  There had to be things beyond that. We’d never looked for them, Suki and me.