Every Shiny Thing Read online

  So I yanked my hand out of Mom’s grip and turned toward the window, watching the North Carolina mountains fade into the distance as the plane took us farther and farther away from Ry.

  Back at home this morning, there were two rectangular presents at my place at the kitchen table—one big, one little. I didn’t have to open them up to know what they were.

  “We’re proud of you, too, Laur,” Dad said. “We know none of this is easy.”

  But somehow fancy new stuff is supposed to help?

  “Now you have the same phone Audrey does!” Mom said. “And a fast new computer for your schoolwork.”

  They were both looking at me, their faces so cheerful. So sure that—poof!—a new phone and laptop would make me forget how terrible it was to leave Ry.

  I left the presents where they were and grabbed a bagel.

  “I’m ready to go to school,” I told Mom. “Can you take me now?”

  She’d said I could go late, since we hadn’t gotten home from North Carolina until after ten. But I had no desire to stay in our too-clean, too-quiet, Ryan-free house with that terrible thought blaring louder and longer in my head, like when Ryan pushes one of the pedals on the piano to make a note ring out.

  I missed the bus, but Mom dropped me off before advisory was over. I took a seat next to Audrey, who turned to a new piece of loose-leaf in her science binder and scribbled a note. How was the school? You feel better now??

  I pressed my top and bottom teeth together, hard, so I wouldn’t scream. Audrey’s just so completely sure that my parents are right. That going to Piedmont’s this amazing, exciting opportunity and it’s just so completely awesome that Ryan can do it.

  I didn’t write her a note back, because there wasn’t any point. When Ryan first left, I tried to tell her why I was worried, but she didn’t listen at all. She kept saying, “Didn’t Ryan say he wanted to go?” and, “Look, the website says they have a concert piano!” and, “I bet once you see it for yourself when you visit, you’ll feel better about everything.”

  And that was wrong, wrong, wrong. I don’t feel better at all.

  Ms. Meadows stopped what she was saying to the group and smiled at me. “Morning, Lauren. We’re just going over how we’ll choose our student government rep.”

  Audrey pointed to her note with the top of her pen, and I managed a shrug.

  “I can only nominate one student to be a representative, and it’s a big responsibility,” Ms. Meadows said. “But raise your hand if you’re interested, and I’ll talk to each of you over the next couple of days before I make my recommendation.”

  Audrey glanced at me as her hand shot up. We’d both done student government in sixth grade, but we weren’t in the same advisory then. Ms. Meadows couldn’t choose both of us now.

  Three other kids raised their hands, too, but I kept mine down. Audrey’s dark brown eyes went from nervous to confused, and then she stuck out her chin. That’s what she does when she’s annoyed.

  We always used to go for all the same things, Audrey and me. Sometimes I think she isn’t sure something’s worth having if I don’t want it, too. It’s just . . . student government was important to me last year, but all we did was plan the themes for dances and organize bake sales so we could pay for real DJs instead of having high school students do it. Everybody got so worked up choosing between an outer space theme or a winter wonderland, but nothing we did really mattered.

  “Terrific,” Ms. Meadows said after she’d written down names. “And I’m also hoping one of you might be willing to be our Worship and Ministry rep.”

  Everyone looked down at their desks. Nobody ever volunteered for Worship and Ministry. Nobody Audrey and I were friends with, anyway.

  “Mr. Ellis is advising this year, and he has a lot of exciting ideas! He wants to have the first meeting during lunch today.”

  Mr. Ellis teaches history, and he’s new and young and funny. That was a good start but probably not enough to convince anybody, and Ms. Meadows knew it.

  “It’s a very important job,” she went on. “This semester we’re focusing on the Quaker testimony of simplicity, and the Worship and Ministry group will help us figure out how to make simplicity meaningful.”

  “Simplicity!” Max Sherman pumped his fist. “Woo-hoo, my favorite SPICE!”

  The other guys all laughed.

  SPICES is the word we learned back in lower school to remember the Quaker ideas we’re all supposed to follow, since we go to a Quaker school. Simplicity, peace, integrity, community, equality, stewardship.

  “Does that mean you’re volunteering, Max?” Ms. Meadows asked.

  Max shook his head so hard, I was surprised his Phillies hat didn’t go flying. “No way. Sorry.”

  Ms. Meadows sighed. “Well, I won’t force anyone. But if any of you change your mind . . .”

  I thought of those two rectangular boxes waiting for me on the kitchen table at home. Somebody needed to teach my parents about simplicity.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Audrey’s mouth fell halfway open.

  “Thank you, Lauren,” Ms. Meadows said. “I’m sure Mr. Ellis will be thrilled to have you.”

  Then she changed the subject right away, probably so I couldn’t take it back.

  On the way out of advisory, Audrey cornered me. “Worship and Ministry club? Really? What’s going on with you today? Are you OK?” She tapped the toe of one of her brand-new gray lace-up boots against the floor, waiting for me to answer.

  But I had no idea what to say to any of those questions, so I shrugged again and headed to first period.

  There should have been twelve kids in Worship and Ministry. One kid per advisory, three advisories per grade, four grades in middle school: fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth. But only four people had signed up. Me, another seventh grader named Mariah, and two guys: Jake, who’s in eighth grade, and Gordy, who’s in sixth.

  I took the seat next to Mariah. Her bangs are dyed neon blue, and she was wearing a T-shirt with a rip down the back and safety pins holding it together. I’ve gone to school with Mariah since kindergarten, but I’ve barely talked to her since, like, second grade.

  “I like your hair,” I told her.

  Plenty of people tint the ends of their hair pink or red or purple or just dye streaks in the front, but nobody else in our grade has hair as bright as Mariah’s. The first day of school, Audrey whispered that Mariah looked like a Smurf and that she could be pretty if she’d stop trying so hard to look weird. But what’s wrong with trying to be a little bit different?

  Mr. Ellis started the meeting. “I want to thank you all for giving up your lunchtime. I hear we have some Worship and Ministry veterans here.” He paused to look at Jake and Mariah. “And some new volunteers, too. We’ve got a big job, people. Let’s get going.”

  He started by asking us all what we thought of when we heard the word simplicity. I was sitting the closest to him, so I was up first.

  I thought of that shiny new laptop. The shiny new phone. Audrey’s shiny new boots. The shiny new cars that my parents drive and that all my friends’ parents do, too.

  “Um . . . I guess simplicity means not getting too wrapped up in material possessions. Like, not thinking that the most important thing in the world is whether you have the newest iPhone or brand-new shoes and clothes when that stuff maybe makes you feel good for a little while, but there are so many people who don’t even have the things they need.”

  I was thinking about how Ryan’s old occupational therapist, Jenna, works with people who can pay for their treatments, like us, and other families who can’t. I used to go with Mom to pick Ry up from OT sometimes, and one time, he and two other kids were playing Jenga together. One of them was a girl with a puffy ponytail and oversized sweats. She looked about my age, and she was kneeling in front of the game, rocking back and forth. I could see in her face how hard she was fighting to keep herself calm. But then Ryan took a turn, and he must have taken the block she wante
d to move, because she got upset and kept slamming her fists against the floor.

  The girl wasn’t there the next time Ryan had a social skills session, so I asked Jenna where she was.

  “Hailey?” Jenna said. “Unfortunately, some of my clients can’t come as often as Ryan. Some of their parents have to work multiple jobs, and they just can’t get here more than once every week or two.”

  “But you do sessions at people’s houses,” I said, because she came to our house a lot. She helped us get the calming space in the basement just right, with low lighting and Ryan’s fish tank to take care of and his keyboard to play.

  Jenna and Mom exchanged a look.

  “Lauren, honey, you know every kid on the spectrum is different. And every family is different, too,” Mom said.

  I thought that’s all I was going to get, but then Jenna said, “The truth is, sessions are expensive. Insurance doesn’t always cover the kind of therapy I do, and I have to charge even more when I go into families’ homes.”

  Now everybody was still looking at me, in case I wasn’t done talking about simplicity, and I was getting worked up remembering what Jenna had told me, because how unfair is that? That Ryan could have better treatment than other people just because Mom and Dad could pay for it and Mom didn’t have to work? And if sessions at people’s houses cost more than sessions at the OT center, I can’t even imagine how much they’re paying for Ryan to live at Piedmont, where they have OTs around all the time.

  We’re so lucky we can afford this opportunity for Ryan. That’s what Mom and Dad had told me on the plane.

  “I just think people at our school . . . we could really do something good,” I said. “So many of us have so much. We could really help people who don’t have enough.”

  Mr. Ellis smiled. “You’re so right, Lauren. It sounds like you have a strong sense of social responsibility. With that kind of passion, we can really make a difference.”

  If Mr. Ellis says I’m right, then I must be. He did the Peace Corps for two years and then taught in a poor school in Northeast Philly before he came here. And Mariah, Jake, and Gordy all nodded like it was really something special, what I’d said.

  In that moment, I felt better than I had in ages—since before Ryan went away.

  And that’s when I got the idea.

  SIERRA

  Crowding

  Lena waves her girls to class,

  keeps my hand.

  We crowd into the office.

  “Good morning. I’m Maude.

  I’m with Child Protective Services.”

  I know what CPS is.

  It’s the organization that splits you

  from your parents.

  It’s what the counselor threatened Mom with

  last spring, when I skipped

  so many days.

  “Unfortunately, because your dad is in jail already,

  and with your mom’s arrest

  combined with her DUI prior,

  and on account of how you don’t have other family members who could take you—”

  “Did you try Uncle Mac?”

  Mom’s brother in Florida she hasn’t spoken to in years.

  “Unfortunately, he’s very busy with his job and his kids.”

  Nan, already dead.

  Dad’s family, addicts.

  “Seventy-two hours and then we will go to court,

  it will all be more settled then.”

  I look to Lena.

  She twitches her hands, like

  she needs a cigarette.

  “I can keep her that long—”

  “Very well,” says Maude.

  Gives her some paperwork.

  “So Mom could be back in a few days?”

  Maude and the school counselor look at each other.

  Then back at me.

  “Anything’s possible, Sierra.”

  She says she’ll see us in court.

  I close my eyes

  and imagine myself surrounded

  by the luckiest color, green.

  Collide-o-scope

  I always thought Mom was saying collide-o-scope.

  She would say:

  Sierra—

  red’s for love,

  yellow for friendship,

  blue for the sad kept inside of you,

  green for those lucky days,

  orange, the anger.

  She said whichever

  showed the most swirls

  as they spun and shook

  and shaped one another

  was your day’s fortune.

  Sometimes her breath heavy with wine,

  sometimes toothpaste fresh,

  either way, curled to me,

  asking me always

  about the colors I see.

  Rushing

  After school,

  Lena and I stop by the room Mom’s been renting

  so I can grab some stuff.

  Pack quickly but make sure to grab

  the kaleidoscope.

  Back outside, I notice

  someone’s littered where

  Mom tried to plant a garden

  last spring.

  I bend to pick up the trash but—

  the lady who rented us the room

  runs out,

  yells at us, saying the rent’s overdue.

  Lena yells back a quick sorry,

  “In a rush!”

  Hurries me back to the car.

  Impression

  Seventy-two hours of pillow fights, TV binges, dance-offs

  Then—

  I have to—

  Maude arrives, says Mom is still in jail.

  “Pack up.”

  I tell Cassidy

  I’ll be back soon.

  She tells me a dirty knock-knock joke,

  says I should memorize it,

  in case I need to make a good impression.

  Maude sighs, says we have to go.

  Cassidy gives me a hug

  and a handshake,

  when I open up my palm

  I see she’s given me

  her last stick of gum.

  On the Way

  I was named for Sierra Road,

  a big house there

  Mom always wanted to be

  ours.

  Mom said

  on the way to my birthday disaster

  that she was going to get out of that room rental

  that she got a raise at Wawa

  we were going to move into

  a new apartment development.

  We’d lived in three of them

  before.

  This new one was called

  Brighton Acres.

  This one had a pool,

  Mom said.

  It was closer to the mall,

  Mom said.

  On the way to court,

  just past the Wawa where Mom was working,

  I spot the apartments.

  Maude says they have some excellent foster parents lined up for me.

  I want to yell,

  Let me out here.

  I want to run

  across the highway,

  dodge cars,

  go to the place

  where Mom and I were supposed to live

  together, next.

  Safety

  At court,

  I have a “child advocacy” lawyer.

  She asks me a bunch of questions

  about Mom and my life with her.

  How often she held a job.

  How often I skipped school.

  How often she was evicted.

  Because she’s a lawyer

  I’m scared to lie

  though most of me wants to.

  They say

  I’ll be going

  somewhere safe.

  But strangers aren’t safe.

  CPS says they’re protecting you

  but they’re taking you from the people

  who love you.

  Mom’s red love
for me

  fierce as

  bear to cub.

  Even though I had to tell the truth

  answering those terrible questions

  I know,

  I know

  she will

  do everything she can

  to get me back.

  Proceedings

  I see Mom on video.

  She’s watching the proceedings.

  They say to get me back

  she needs to follow the guidelines on the

  Child Permanency Plan.

  Once out of jail,

  she needs to stay sober,

  secure housing, a job.

  I want to dive into the video,

  tell her she can do it.

  I need her to do it.

  The caseworker congratulates me,

  says I couldn’t have asked

  for a better foster home.

  Says they are experienced foster parents,

  live in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Philadelphia,

  can afford to send me to private school.

  I’m supposed to be happy about this?

  I don’t want to look at them,

  my eyes glued to hers in the screen.

  The foster parents are waving, smiling at me.

  Him white, her black.

  Nan would’ve said

  something rude about it,

  but she was so old-school,

  Mom would say

  you love who you love.

  But they also look too old

  to be taking in kids.

  Their names are Anne and Carl,

  both so tall.

  I come from short people

  with small hands.

  They both try to take one of mine

  like I’m a little kid.

  We wade through the courtroom

  a sea of eyes

  fluorescent lights

  tissues, coughs, grunts.

  I want to cry out to Mom to save me,

  these people trying to hold my hand

  no different than anyone

  all of us

  strangers

  in a crowd.

  Drive

  Their car’s bumper sticker reads:

  ENCOURAGE YOUR HOPES