and pour myself a glass of milk. She sits at the table, looking around the room. It doesn’t look like she’s planning to leave anytime soon.
“So how do you know?” I ask, but not really caring. No one would believe her anyway.
“I just do.”
“Great. That’s really going to help me.”
She doesn’t answer.
“This is all your fault.”
“Why’s that?” She sits up a little straighter. I think maybe I’ve ticked her off. Good.
“Everyone’s going to think I’ve turned out bad because you’re bad.”
“I’m not bad, Darcy. I was self-destructive before I went to prison, but I’m not bad.”
“You tried to kill my sister. That’s not bad?”
“I didn’t try to kill your sister. It was an accident.” She’s looking at her hands.
The images that hit me on the sidewalk outside her apartment that day blindside me again. My stomach lurches. We’re not going to discuss that day. Not now. Not ever. Things are bad enough already. “I’m going to bed.”
“Darcy, we need to talk.”
I’m already down the hall. “We have nothing to talk about.” I slam the door to my room and flop facedown on the bed.
The door opens. I become aware of perfume again. Ms. LaRose’s perfume. “Yes, we do,” she says. I hear the chair from my desk slide out and then creak when she sits on it.
“First of all, Darcy, I want you to know that my years in prison were…were really good in a lot of ways.”
“Huh?” I have to glance at her. She’s talking crazy now.
“I had people taking care of me. I was being fed. I was being counseled. It felt like people were concerned about what was going to happen to me. That was a first.”
“Yeah, well, while you were in prison being cared for, I was on the outside fending for myself and taking care of Kat.” I bury my face in my pillow again.
The silence lasts so long that I begin to think she may have left. I lift my head and glance over at my desk. She’s still there.
“The other day,” she says, very quietly, “when you came to visit me, you remembered the…that day, didn’t you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“No!” I bury my face again. I won’t go there. I won’t I won’t I won’t.
“What do you remember, Darcy?”
“Nothing!”
“C’mon, Darcy. Talk to me.”
“I can’t remember anything,” I tell her, trying to convince myself, but the images are coming back, vividly. “ NO NO NO ! ” I shake my head, willing the memories to go away, but they’re flooding my consciousness, forcing me back to that day. I remember a TV documentary…lab-coated guys dropping cats upside down from various heights while filmmakers captured the way they contorted—mid-fall—to land on their feet. The film clips were shown one frame at a time and I’d watched, fascinated, as the cats turned themselves and landed right side up…
I pull the blankets over my head, but it’s too late.
I am that little boy again. Now Kat’s little body is falling, falling…I remember every detail of her descent. It happened in slow motion, frame by frame… her arms are flailing, her body twisting…she’s a fluttering leaf, ripped from a tree in a gust of wind…
A gasp startles me. I look back at Mom from the little patio table I’m perched on. Mom, standing in the doorway, covers her face with her hands. I peer back over the rungs of the railing just in time to see Kat’s tiny body land—flat on her back—in the overgrown shrubs that crowd the sidewalk. For a moment she doesn’t move, but then I see her tiny blonde head turn, and she looks up at us, wide eyed, shocked. Her mouth opens and I hear kitten-like mews…
Why is she on her back?
I slam back into the present, crouched on the bed, trembling. “ SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO LAND ON HER FEET ! ” I scream at my mom. “ HER NAME IS KAT ! ” Mom just stares at me, her face pale.
“Her name is Kat,” I repeat, quieter now. “Cats land on their feet.”
I cannot hold the sobs back. I’m
“So how do you know?” I ask, but not really caring. No one would believe her anyway.
“I just do.”
“Great. That’s really going to help me.”
She doesn’t answer.
“This is all your fault.”
“Why’s that?” She sits up a little straighter. I think maybe I’ve ticked her off. Good.
“Everyone’s going to think I’ve turned out bad because you’re bad.”
“I’m not bad, Darcy. I was self-destructive before I went to prison, but I’m not bad.”
“You tried to kill my sister. That’s not bad?”
“I didn’t try to kill your sister. It was an accident.” She’s looking at her hands.
The images that hit me on the sidewalk outside her apartment that day blindside me again. My stomach lurches. We’re not going to discuss that day. Not now. Not ever. Things are bad enough already. “I’m going to bed.”
“Darcy, we need to talk.”
I’m already down the hall. “We have nothing to talk about.” I slam the door to my room and flop facedown on the bed.
The door opens. I become aware of perfume again. Ms. LaRose’s perfume. “Yes, we do,” she says. I hear the chair from my desk slide out and then creak when she sits on it.
“First of all, Darcy, I want you to know that my years in prison were…were really good in a lot of ways.”
“Huh?” I have to glance at her. She’s talking crazy now.
“I had people taking care of me. I was being fed. I was being counseled. It felt like people were concerned about what was going to happen to me. That was a first.”
“Yeah, well, while you were in prison being cared for, I was on the outside fending for myself and taking care of Kat.” I bury my face in my pillow again.
The silence lasts so long that I begin to think she may have left. I lift my head and glance over at my desk. She’s still there.
“The other day,” she says, very quietly, “when you came to visit me, you remembered the…that day, didn’t you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“No!” I bury my face again. I won’t go there. I won’t I won’t I won’t.
“What do you remember, Darcy?”
“Nothing!”
“C’mon, Darcy. Talk to me.”
“I can’t remember anything,” I tell her, trying to convince myself, but the images are coming back, vividly. “ NO NO NO ! ” I shake my head, willing the memories to go away, but they’re flooding my consciousness, forcing me back to that day. I remember a TV documentary…lab-coated guys dropping cats upside down from various heights while filmmakers captured the way they contorted—mid-fall—to land on their feet. The film clips were shown one frame at a time and I’d watched, fascinated, as the cats turned themselves and landed right side up…
I pull the blankets over my head, but it’s too late.
I am that little boy again. Now Kat’s little body is falling, falling…I remember every detail of her descent. It happened in slow motion, frame by frame… her arms are flailing, her body twisting…she’s a fluttering leaf, ripped from a tree in a gust of wind…
A gasp startles me. I look back at Mom from the little patio table I’m perched on. Mom, standing in the doorway, covers her face with her hands. I peer back over the rungs of the railing just in time to see Kat’s tiny body land—flat on her back—in the overgrown shrubs that crowd the sidewalk. For a moment she doesn’t move, but then I see her tiny blonde head turn, and she looks up at us, wide eyed, shocked. Her mouth opens and I hear kitten-like mews…
Why is she on her back?
I slam back into the present, crouched on the bed, trembling. “ SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO LAND ON HER FEET ! ” I scream at my mom. “ HER NAME IS KAT ! ” Mom just stares at me, her face pale.
“Her name is Kat,” I repeat, quieter now. “Cats land on their feet.”
I cannot hold the sobs back. I’m
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