them, watching them color. The tension shows in their small bodies. DeQuan grips the crayons so hard he breaks one, Kenji’s tiny tennis shoes tap the air anxiously, Alicia fiddles nervously with the button on her shirt, and Mason Mayfield III is drumming on a notebook with a pencil. At every sound in the quiet room, heads bob and eyes dart.
Olivia is chewing on her fingers. I reach over and pull her hand away and point to her painted nails. “Pretty,” I whisper, and she smiles and drops her hands into her lap. Carlos cracks his knuckles, then gives me an
oops
look, like he’s been told at home not to do that.
I try to remember what I was like at age six—back in the days when I thought the moon was made of cheese and buffalo wings came from buffaloes and you could dig your way to China in the sandbox. That was about the age Molly and I rubbed dandelions all over our heads, not knowing the bees would chase us. Did I understand real danger?
I always felt so safe when my dad read to me in our big upholstered rocking chair, the one with soft, sink-down pillows and big cushy arms. It was covered in plush red velvet—the kind you could dig your toes into. Mom complained that we’d rubbed half the fabric off the arms, but I loved snuggling with my dad in it. It was our special place.
He read all my favorite books to me, and I’d fall asleep on his broad chest, the vibration of his deep voice rumbling against my cheek. Sometimes he sang to me, or just hummed as I drifted off.
And then one day in third grade, I came home from school—he had already moved out by then—and my mother had recovered our chair in a stiff plaid material. I just stood there staring at what was left of it and feeling my heart break into a thousand tiny pieces.
• • •
DeQuan glances up to see if I’m noticing his good behavior and I give him a thumbs-up. Jake laughs at the way the kids are always showing me stuff. And telling me stories about their dog dying or their grandpa being in the hospital or their mom getting mad or their dad getting fired. With all the trauma at home, it’s easy to understand why they can’t wait to get to school. It’s one way life with my mother and her nightly running monologue has paid off: I’m a very good listener.
It seems like kids are always waiting for something—waiting for a bike without training wheels or for a trip to the beach. Waiting for the puppy they’ve been promised. They shouldn’t be waiting to see if they get to go home from school. Or waiting to be released as hostages.
I try not to think about what would have happened if Jake and I hadn’t been here when Mrs. Campbell passed out. I reach over and squeeze Kenji’s hand. His smile is a little wobbly. Rose is watching Jake. He has a way of putting people at ease, even in the worst situation possible. That trait was a blessing and a curse when we were together. He always talked to everyone, and sometimes I felt a little left out.
When Jake and I had art class together second semester, there was a lot of downtime to chat. Tab and Molly can talk to anybody, but before Jake, I swear I couldn’t form a complete sentence if a hot guy was around.
Jake made it easy. For that whole first month of art class, we talked every day for pretty much the whole period. It was hard to believe the relationship I’d fantasized about since that ninth grade cafeteria rescue was becoming a reality. Tab’s birthday party, the day after Valentine’s Day, was the first time it was just the two of us.
The party was getting rowdy that night, and I slipped out onto the screened-in porch when the guys broke into Tab’s dad’s liquor cabinet. I was listening to the rain in the dark and suddenly he was there.
“Not much of a party girl?” he asked.
“There’s a pretty nice party out here,” I told him, just as a flash of lightning lit our faces.
“Am I invited?”
“If you want to be.”
We talked for over an hour. Jake is so completely
Olivia is chewing on her fingers. I reach over and pull her hand away and point to her painted nails. “Pretty,” I whisper, and she smiles and drops her hands into her lap. Carlos cracks his knuckles, then gives me an
oops
look, like he’s been told at home not to do that.
I try to remember what I was like at age six—back in the days when I thought the moon was made of cheese and buffalo wings came from buffaloes and you could dig your way to China in the sandbox. That was about the age Molly and I rubbed dandelions all over our heads, not knowing the bees would chase us. Did I understand real danger?
I always felt so safe when my dad read to me in our big upholstered rocking chair, the one with soft, sink-down pillows and big cushy arms. It was covered in plush red velvet—the kind you could dig your toes into. Mom complained that we’d rubbed half the fabric off the arms, but I loved snuggling with my dad in it. It was our special place.
He read all my favorite books to me, and I’d fall asleep on his broad chest, the vibration of his deep voice rumbling against my cheek. Sometimes he sang to me, or just hummed as I drifted off.
And then one day in third grade, I came home from school—he had already moved out by then—and my mother had recovered our chair in a stiff plaid material. I just stood there staring at what was left of it and feeling my heart break into a thousand tiny pieces.
• • •
DeQuan glances up to see if I’m noticing his good behavior and I give him a thumbs-up. Jake laughs at the way the kids are always showing me stuff. And telling me stories about their dog dying or their grandpa being in the hospital or their mom getting mad or their dad getting fired. With all the trauma at home, it’s easy to understand why they can’t wait to get to school. It’s one way life with my mother and her nightly running monologue has paid off: I’m a very good listener.
It seems like kids are always waiting for something—waiting for a bike without training wheels or for a trip to the beach. Waiting for the puppy they’ve been promised. They shouldn’t be waiting to see if they get to go home from school. Or waiting to be released as hostages.
I try not to think about what would have happened if Jake and I hadn’t been here when Mrs. Campbell passed out. I reach over and squeeze Kenji’s hand. His smile is a little wobbly. Rose is watching Jake. He has a way of putting people at ease, even in the worst situation possible. That trait was a blessing and a curse when we were together. He always talked to everyone, and sometimes I felt a little left out.
When Jake and I had art class together second semester, there was a lot of downtime to chat. Tab and Molly can talk to anybody, but before Jake, I swear I couldn’t form a complete sentence if a hot guy was around.
Jake made it easy. For that whole first month of art class, we talked every day for pretty much the whole period. It was hard to believe the relationship I’d fantasized about since that ninth grade cafeteria rescue was becoming a reality. Tab’s birthday party, the day after Valentine’s Day, was the first time it was just the two of us.
The party was getting rowdy that night, and I slipped out onto the screened-in porch when the guys broke into Tab’s dad’s liquor cabinet. I was listening to the rain in the dark and suddenly he was there.
“Not much of a party girl?” he asked.
“There’s a pretty nice party out here,” I told him, just as a flash of lightning lit our faces.
“Am I invited?”
“If you want to be.”
We talked for over an hour. Jake is so completely
Similar Books
