Pieces of My Mother by Melissa Cistaro

people stare longer when they have been smoking grass. I take a swig from my bottle of orange Fanta and try not to look at my mom or Ray. Eden complains that there’s no dessert. Jamie dips his canned sardines into a bowl of ketchup and says he’s eating bloody fish. Ray and my mom kiss some more.
    I climb up to the rafters, tired and queasy, and lay out my sleeping bag between the two-by-fours. The floor space is divided up into small rectangular plots, so each of us has our own sideboards to prevent us from rolling on top of each other—or off the rafters.
    I’m so tired but I can’t quiet all the thoughts in my mind. Jamie and Eden are already asleep across from me. I stare at the wooden beams just above my head, watching shadows dance from the candlelight down below. I hear my mom and her boyfriend whispering. When I press my eye to a crack in the floorboards, I can see a thin slice of them. Down below, underneath the torn quilt, he is allowed to touch her skin. He can touch her in a way that I can’t. I wonder why she lets him. In this moment, I hate her. I wish she were more than an occasional mother to us. I imagine her skin, cool and polished like sea glass. I wish that I were Ray, nestled close to her, her warm skin touching me and her arms hugging me until I knew I was safe.
    When I wake, it is black all around me. I am full of orange soda and have to pee badly. I recall my brother’s words, “Hope you brought your shovel and some toilet paper.” But I didn’t think about having to pee in the middle of the night. I can hold it , I tell myself seven times in a row until I can’t any longer. Shoot, I’m not afraid of bears and wolves.
    I get up as quietly as I can and edge myself down the ladder. I can see through the screen door. Tiptoe, tiptoe, slow. I grab onto the spring of the door so it won’t creak as I open it, and I slip onto the porch.
    I look up at the sky. There is a blanket of brilliant white stars—stars like I have never seen—and the moon is so big that it lights up the whole yard. The scent of ripe berries surrounds me. If only I didn’t have to pee so badly.
    I step off the porch. Where to go? My mom said to go into the woods, but even with the full moon, it is too dark in the thickness of the trees. I take a left toward the junkyard. Maybe I can find a place near the old bathtub.
    And then I freeze. Something is coming at me from out of the shadows. Two beasts side by side. They are ready to attack. I can see it in their red eyes and puffed-up chests. It’s George and Martha. The two geese stand in my path with their orange bills raised as high as my shoulders.
    â€œPlease, I have to pee,” I plead.
    I take a step backward. They take a step forward.
    I don’t even need to look down. I know what are on my feet. I pulled them all the way up to my knees before going to sleep. Red socks. Not just any red, but a bright neon red like a clown would wear. The one color the geese hate.
    I run back toward the house. George and Martha honk and lunge at me. They continue to chase me—a chicken girl running through the night in red socks. Behind me, their big orange feet pound the earth like elephants’.
    I jump onto the porch and turn around. They stop and glare at me. I want to be brave and kick them in the chest like Ray.
    â€œFine, you stupid geese,” I whisper. “I don’t have to go anymore anyways.”
    I slip back into the dark house and stand very still. I think the sound of my heart beating might wake someone but the lumps under the quilt are motionless. A sour milk smell fills my nose again. I tiptoe back up the ladder and crawl to my section of wood. I try crossing my legs together tightly. I try to get in my sleeping bag, but I can’t. There are gallons of orange soda inside me. I sneak over to the far corner of the rafters, where the roof touches my backbone, and crouch down as low as I can.
    I