Every Shiny Thing Read online

  “You know I’m not wild about football,” Mom said. “But even I think that sounds fun!”

  But I thought it sounded terrible. The whole Dad-and-Lauren upper-level experience ruined so we could go to a fancy party that happened to be at a game.

  “I don’t think I can go this weekend,” I said. “It’s almost Halloween. I have to make my costume with Audrey and Sierra.”

  Dad’s face fell.

  “We can buy you a costume, sweetie,” Mom said.

  I stood up. “No! I need to make it!”

  They both stared at me as if they weren’t so sure who I was anymore, but they’re the ones who keep changing. Not me.

  I excused myself to work on homework, but instead I went back to the site where I’d posted the jeans.

  I almost posted Audrey’s bracelet, but then I got this picture in my mind of her crouched down next to me on her driveway, grinning as she set up the last block for our guinea-pig maze, and I couldn’t.

  So instead I posted the signed Brian Dawkins jersey Dad gave me a few Christmases ago. People pay a ton for jerseys, especially if they’re signed, and everyone loves Brian Dawkins. Dad got the jersey signed for me at some fund-raiser he went to right after the Eagles had a special ceremony to retire Dawkins’s number, because he was that good. I’m sure somebody will pay a lot for it.

  And if Dad only wants to watch games from a suite, then there’s no reason I’ll need to wear it again.

  SIERRA

  FATES

  Audrey invited Lauren and me

  over to make our costumes.

  I was pretty sure she only invited Lauren,

  me, tagging along

  like when I was 8

  and Mom and I lived with Nan.

  Because we had no other choice.

  She and Dad still shared custody,

  he wasn’t dealing yet.

  He would bring me to Uncle Al’s

  with Tammy or his buddies,

  I would sit on a bar stool, drink Cokes, play solitaire,

  and he would call me his smart kid, mumbling into his whiskey.

  Audrey’s house has a huge front room,

  on a huge wooden table

  fabric

  markers

  thread

  in neat lines.

  Audrey asks if her housekeeper can get us a snack before we get to work.

  Lauren asks for Coke & chips,

  but when I say no thanks,

  she says forget it,

  “I don’t need anything, either.”

  Says it like she’s got something to prove.

  Audrey glares, my heart pounds.

  Doesn’t Lauren know what she’s doing?

  Tempting the Fates.

  That’s what Tammy would say about Dad.

  Another drink, man, and you tempt the Fates.

  He would say, he was a tempting sort of man.

  “So what should we do that would work for three? But also embody simplicity?”

  Lauren asks. Ignoring Audrey’s glare.

  My mind still on tooth-stained Tammy, Dad.

  “The three Fates?” I suggest.

  “Like in that movie Hercules we loved in, like, second grade.

  There’s the spinner, the one who measures,

  and then the one who cuts.

  Remember, Audrey?”

  Lauren asks. Audrey’s stare fades, she giggles.

  My heart pounds slow down.

  We work, with

  scissors,

  string,

  tape.

  Maybe me coming here,

  Tammy’s slurring words

  echoing in my head

  spin,

  measure,

  cut,

  wasn’t by mistake?

  But, Then

  Audrey says

  she doesn’t want to be

  the one with the scissors

  the crone who designates death

  she wants to be the spinner

  Lauren says

  Sierra’s perfect for the young blond spinner

  Audrey looks like she might cry

  I tell them I don’t care what Fate I am.

  But it’s too late

  we split in bits like all this string

  scattered on the polished floor.

  So Many Things

  On the way home,

  Lauren tells me to ignore Audrey,

  that she’s always been too possessive.

  She needs to get over it.

  Lauren tells me we can do our own costumes.

  Without her.

  My stomach lurches.

  How can I take away Lauren’s anger?

  Make things the way they were before?

  I think how when our moms would get wasted together,

  Cassidy and I would pretend her room

  was the mall.

  Dress her younger sisters in scarves and old high heels.

  Pretend her broken toys and DVD cases with no movies

  were things worth buying.

  How we distracted ourselves from our moms singing

  too loud, falling down, inviting over men.

  I ask her if she wants to keep working

  at her house.

  Lauren asks if we can go to my house instead.

  At first I don’t know what she means.

  I don’t have a house.

  But I nod

  when she says at Anne’s there’s more

  inspiration for simplicity.

  “No kidding,” I say.

  She laughs.

  Anne tries to give us raisins and carrots

  on the way to my room,

  but Lauren follows me now when I say no.

  I make a funny face on the way up,

  trying to make her laugh again.

  Remind myself of Cassidy, always joking

  away discomfort.

  I trace a line of dust across the floor

  as she starts to brainstorm simple things:

  A candle,

  vegetables,

  the sea.

  Flash to my mother

  a beach in Wildwood,

  a towel, her curled in next to me.

  We play the cloud game,

  she takes swigs from a flask,

  but I don’t care, ’cause she’s safe with me.

  I see a dragon.

  She sees her favorite flower.

  “I could be a sunflower,”

  I say to Lauren.

  She nods, beaming.

  Look at my kaleidoscope,

  think of the color for friendship.

  “You could be something else yellow.”

  “Yes!” she says, almost jumping up from the wooden chair.

  Seeger comes in then, licking her hand, she laughs.

  He knocks a pencil off the wooden desk.

  She picks it up.

  Beaming again.

  She knows just what she’s going to be.

  I know I’ve done it.

  Taken away Audrey’s angry words

  and made her

  sun-stream

  happy.

  Containing

  Sunday,

  Lauren texts me a yellow heart

  says she’s so excited about our costumes.

  On the way to grocery shopping with Anne,

  I text her, too, a smiley face.

  We get to the co-op,

  tiny compared to the Giant grocery store.

  Bumpy, lumpy fruit and veggies.

  You put your food in big gray bins, not carts.

  Anne knows everyone.

  Doesn’t introduce me as a foster kid, just:

  “This is Sierra, she’s new to the neighborhood.”

  I look down, manage some hellos.

  “Go up those stairs . . . to the bulk section.

  There’s candy . . .” she says, smiling.

  Is she bribing me?

  Thinks if I get candy, I’ll talk more?


  But I go,

  my mouth drops at all the bins.

  Container after container of

  noodles,

  beans,

  flour.

  36 types of granola.

  Is this supposed to be simple, too?

  There’s even candy in bulk.

  Jelly beans, chocolates.

  I wonder why

  they don’t just sell

  Skittles or M&M’s in packages.

  Shrug to myself, fill a bag up.

  And when I go back down, Anne says peach rings, her favorite.

  “Yeah, they’re okay, I guess,”

  I say but don’t offer her any.

  Keep the sugar tart taste all to myself.

  In-Between

  When we get home, lugging groceries,

  candy in hand,

  I know what’s coming.

  Each Sunday,

  I’m supposed to have a

  “feelings-level conversation”

  with Anne and Carl,

  according to Maude.

  I try to answer their questions

  with yes and no,

  information that will not lead

  to more questions:

  “Yes, I am making friends.”

  “No, I don’t miss my parents too much.”

  I chew peach rings in between.

  Rub sugar dust,

  finger

  to

  finger.

  To Rest

  Carl says he needs help

  with garden chores.

  He says he’s putting the garden

  to rest for the winter.

  He has me pull out all the basil;

  he says Anne makes the best pesto.

  I don’t tell him I don’t know what that is.

  The smell of the basil reminds me

  of Dad.

  He told me once fresh basil

  made everything better.

  His Italian grandmother told him so.

  When Carl’s not looking,

  I put a leaf into my mouth.

  Nibble it.

  Carl doesn’t make me talk,

  but he does make me work hard.

  After we’re done, pulling plants

  from each square,

  laying down straw,

  I ask him:

  “Why do you like to do so much work?

  Just for food?”

  He laughs loudly,

  I didn’t think I was joking.

  “Doesn’t it feel good?

  To take care of this land?”

  I nibble a bit more on the basil leaf.

  Dad cracking open a beer as he put basil into sauce.

  Picking me up to stir it.

  I shrug at Carl since

  pretty sure all I feel

  is tired.

  Close By

  Each Sunday evening,

  both my parents call me.

  Dad, always right at 6.

  Always says the same things: food sucks, TV’s not bad.

  Asks me what I’m studying.

  Says in prison he’s gotten a hunger for learning.

  I tell him about the garden. The basil.

  He explains what pesto is.

  Mom’s time is not set. So I need to stay close by.

  She has my new cell and their landline.

  I wait between phones.

  Stomach growing fluttery with each minute she doesn’t call,

  like how I felt at Audrey’s.

  Except then,

  there might’ve been something

  I could’ve said to make them stop fighting.

  Change fate,

  switch colors,

  spin,

  measure,

  cut,

  but with Mom?

  I can’t do anything anymore.

  Maybe she’s having an angry, orange day

  and she won’t call at all.

  She Insists

  Anne serves her “famous veggie lasagna,”

  which is full of zucchini and other vegetables

  my own parents never insisted I eat.

  I sort the noodles, cheese, sauce

  from the green things,

  put them to the side.

  Carl says I need to eat my greens.

  Smiles, points to his EAT MORE KALE T-shirt.

  Anne says she suspects

  I’ve been eating nothing

  but junk for years.

  She assumes. Insists.

  Her bracelets jangling from her wrists.

  She doesn’t know my dad worked restaurants,

  that he could really cook.

  That he used to show me how.

  She doesn’t know

  when I was really little

  we were almost like a regular family.

  I keep eating the

  noodles,

  cheese,

  sauce.

  Tell her I need to be done so I can be ready for Mom

  when she calls.

  Anne’s dark eyes soften then.

  I excuse myself, rinse my plate.

  Hours later,

  Anne insists

  I go to bed

  and not wait up.

  She says 10:00 P.M. is late

  for a school night.

  I roll my eyes

  tell her my parents let me stay up till 1:00 A.M.

  watching TV, school or no school.

  She says that’s not good parenting,

  that kids need boundaries.

  Who is she to tell me

  what is good, what isn’t?

  She has a secret room

  filled with a little girl’s stuff—

  if she was such a good parent,

  how did she lose her own child?

  I don’t want to ask that question.

  Or know the answer.

  I don’t say anything, just tell her

  you can’t make me go to bed.

  She says this one time she will let me stay up.

  “But this will not keep happening.”

  She leaves, and I watch the clock.

  The green digits glow in the night.

  I imagine Mom

  in a swirl of her own green.

  Lucky, happy, safe.

  Too Much Quiet

  Up till midnight, Mom never called.

  I called Maude, who didn’t answer.

  I texted Cassidy. Lena, even. No one could help.

  In the morning,

  Anne said she got an e-mail from Maude,

  we will know more soon.

  All she knows at the moment

  is there’s another court date set

  “to evaluate Mom’s behavior.”

  Like she’s a kid sent to the principal.

  I ask her if I can stay home,

  think of all the times Mom let me.

  How she found excuses to keep me close.

  Anne says no.

  In school, I sit in something they call Meeting

  everyone just doing nothing

  but being

  quiet.

  Wonder if this is what it feels

  like in jail

  or whether it’s so loud there

  you wish for

  quiet.

  Like at the funhouse carnival,

  trapped in noise.

  Never looking quite

  like yourself.

  Audrey stands up, says,

  “Sometimes people aren’t who you thought they were.”

  Lauren looks at me and sticks her tongue out.

  I smile at her

  stick my tongue out, too,

  but what I

  want to say is

  too much quiet

  might make everything

  grow bigger—

  taller,

  wider—

  than it needs to be.

  Missed

  Check my phone between classes,

  see a missed
call

  from Mom’s jail.

  If Anne had let me stay home from school,

  I would have answered it!

  Anger swells in me

  I want to throw my phone against the wall,

  instead I run to the bathroom,

  pound the heavy door shut,

  let out a silent scream.

  Latching On

  After school,

  I try to push my feelings aside.

  Knowing Lauren needs my help.

  We make posters and flyers for the costume contest

  and the Simplicity-a-Thon,

  Lauren’s big bubble letters

  round and full and shaded

  mine slant and squirm.

  How can she smile at me, draw bubble letters,

  when her best friend’s so angry?

  Doesn’t she want to do everything she can

  to wash that anger away?

  I pretend to be happy, too, for Lauren’s sake.

  Don’t think about Audrey’s glares,

  Mom’s call,

  Anne’s lost little girl.

  Instead, I—

  slow my breath, latch my laugh on to Lauren’s. Try to forget.

  Rest my eyes on her big, bold letters:

  S I M P L I C I T Y

  LAUREN

  Partners in Justice

  On Halloween, we have to wear regular clothes to school, so we can have a “focused and productive morning.” Then anybody who has a costume changes in the locker room after lunch, and we all go to the gym for the Halloween assembly.

  Most people bring their costumes to lunch and leave them in bags under their chairs. But Sierra left her flower costume outside Ms. Meadows’s room, so I went with her to get it.

  The hallways were so empty, I could hear our voices echo, even though we weren’t talking loudly. There weren’t any teachers around because they were all still in the cafeteria, and the kids who hadn’t brought costumes were outside for recess.

  “You want to change in the bathroom up here?” I asked.

  Sierra straightened the bottom of her UNCLE AL’S BAR & GRILL T-shirt, which is too big for her, but on purpose, I think. It makes her look smaller than usual, and younger.

  “Are we allowed?” she asked.

  We weren’t allowed, technically. But the bathroom right in front of us was empty, and the locker room downstairs was going to be packed. And it’s not like we were going to have a soap war or pull all the paper towels out of the dispenser and leave them on the floor or anything.

  I shrugged. “Who cares?”