Give and Take Page 11

  It’s Mason.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. I’ve always thought of this place as my spot. The thick canopy of leaves and branches keeps it hidden.

  Mason shrugs. “My dad’s at work. I didn’t feel like going back to an empty house. And we don’t have trap practice today.” Then he looks at me. “What about you?”

  “Just like it here.” I first came to the pond by accident. I was riding my bike and trying to keep up with Dillon when I took a wrong turn. And landed at this place. It was quiet and beautiful. And felt like it was all mine. Until now.

  “Yeah, me too.” He smiles.

  I guess I could share.

  “Those are really good,” I say, pointing to his sketch pad.

  He says thanks, and we move on to talking about skipping stones and trap. And the burger with a fried egg and lots of hot sauce at The Burger Shack. Apparently, both of our favorite.

  “I found another one of those things for the Beyond Poetry assignment. There’s a sign in the window at Mac’s Pizza that says BEST PIZZA EVER. Total hyperbole. I mean, it’s good, but best ever? That’s questionable,” I say.

  “I’ve never had a slice there,” Mason says. “Just their steak-and-cheese sub with onions and peppers. And that could qualify as best ever.”

  I grab a stone and then swap it for one with a flatter side. “Do you think your dad will come around to your being on our squad?” I ask.

  He looks at me. “Doubt it.” He glides a smooth gray stone across the water. Five hops.

  We skip stones for a while longer. Mostly without words. My thoughts flood with Izzie. I think about her slender fingers and the smell of powder. I wonder what she’s doing now. And if Maya and Asher remember the words to “Lullaby Blue.”

  “I actually need to head back home. Promised my little brother I’d take him to the park.” I look around and realize Mason walked here. “Where do you live?” I ask.

  “On Dudley,” he says, tossing a handful of acorns into the pond, creating a chain of ripples.

  “Want a ride? That’s not far from my house.”

  “You’re going to give me a ride?” he says with a half laugh.

  “Unless you’d rather walk.”

  He takes a second to climb onto the back of my orange-and-black hand-me-down bike and holds on to my waist. It’s kind of awkward but kind of okay.

  “Before I drop you off, I need to stop at my house to check in with my mom.” In person. I don’t say this is part of my punishment for worrying my parents.

  “Sure. It’s not like anyone’s waiting on me at home.”

  When we walk through the bright-blue door, Mom’s working at the kitchen table and Charlie’s standing there with a fistful of worms.

  “Hey, Bear, why the worms?”

  “They’re for Bert. He’s hungry,” Charlie says. Then, “Are you ready to go?” He shows me the time on his watch.

  “Soon. I just need to take my friend home first. This is Mason.”

  “Hi. I’m Charlie and these are for Maggie’s turtle,” he says, sticking the worms in Mason’s face. “Bert is a forever pet,” he says. “My little sister wasn’t a forever sister.”

  I wrap my brother in a love-you hug.

  “Didn’t know you had a little sister,” Mason says.

  “We don’t,” Charlie says. “We borrowed her and then had to give her back.”

  I can’t believe it’s been two weeks since she went to her forever family.

  “Her name was Izzie,” I say. “She was our foster sister.”

  Think that’s the first time I’ve ever said those words out loud.

  Our. Foster. Sister.

  My. Foster. Sister.

  39

  A Really Good Thing

  Dad adds another practice to the trap schedule. We have a little over two weeks until the state tournament, and he wants us to feel ready. “And confident,” he says.

  In the truck, I put in my earbuds and listen to Julia Brennan’s “Inner Demons.” I’m certain that Cipher’s my demon. Just not sure who my angels are.

  Before I can figure it out, Dad pulls into the parking lot of The Baking Room. From behind the counter, Ida lets me try the chocolate-peanut-butter brownies as if I don’t already know they’re melt-in-your-mouth delicious. When I smile and nod, she fills Dad’s bakery box with a dozen.

  In the car, I twist the twine from the box in my fingers, willing myself to remember this moment without the string. Then I let go of the twine, put the brownies in the back seat, pop in my earbuds, and stare out the window.

  At practice, Dad starts a fire in the wood-burning stove in the red cabin to erase the chill in the air. Ava, Sam, and Gracie put on their vests and grab their eye protection and earplugs. I unzip my bag, take out my trap stuff, and quietly tuck a small green ribbon into my pocket. It’s Belle’s. I spied it on the floor that day I went over to her house to make sure she was okay. It must have fallen out of her hair during the dance party. I slid it into my backpack and, when I got home, put it with my trap stuff. I thought she should be here with us, and this way, she kind of is.

  Mason’s alone over by the fake green plants on the right side of the room. His messy dark hair is gelled back today. I walk over with the box from The Baking Room. Nothing says team like warm brownies. Everyone moves toward the smell of peanut butter and chocolate.

  Dad starts practice with an announcement. “The morning of the state tournament, we’ll be leaving at seven o’clock and traveling as a squad in one of the club’s vans.”

  I see Mason look away and wonder if his father will let him go.

  My dad finishes with his safety tip reminders and our squad heads to field one. The clay discs are already loaded. I take position one, and Mason, Ava, Gracie, and Sam find their spots.

  “Eyes and ears!” I call, then look around to make sure everyone has their eye protection on and their earplugs in. Ava has new safety glasses, they’re green, like her earplugs and socks.

  I mount my gun, press my cheek into its cold, hard side, and dig the butt squarely into my shoulder. It feels easier and lighter since I’ve been doing the push-ups and pull-ups.

  “Pull!” I yell, waiting for the neon orange to find me. After a few seconds, there it is. Bright and beautiful!

  I see it.

  I feel it.

  I hit it.

  It shatters like fireworks in the sky. I feel the rhythm and precision of the moment. My insides warm and dance.

  Ava gets a 25/25. Which is a huge deal! She’ll finally get her 25 patch, and our vests will match. I hug her tight. But Sam ends up with only 13. She’s not happy. At all. Dad talks to her about switching her stance, trying something different. All she says is how much she hates steel shells.

  I agree the lead ones make it a lot easier to shatter the clay discs. I used them once. But we can’t use them at our range because it’s protected. It’s over a pond, and if the lead gets into the water, it could poison the wildlife. Like Bert.

  “I’m worried about Sam,” I say to Ava.

  “Me too. It’s got to be hard. Especially since her little sister just keeps getting better. At everything.”

  I nod, and as I walk over to Sam, I ask the universe to please take care of her. Then I offer her a second brownie. I know it won’t make her shoot better, but maybe it’ll make her feel better.

  “You’ve got this,” I say to Sam.

  “Not likely,” she says, walking away.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Mom, Dad, and I head to Dr. Sparrow’s office. I go in first. Alone. I tell Dr. Sparrow the things I’ve tossed and how much I hate the trash can.

  “I know this is difficult,” she says. “But you’re moving in a positive direction.”

  “I guess. Like my whole body isn’t as sad as it was eighteen days ago, when I said my forever good-bye.”

  “Exactly. That’s progress,” Dr. Sparrow says.

  “But, true confession, there are still times
I worry that I’ll forget. Everything.” I look down at my hands.

  “That’s okay. As we’ve discussed, this is a process. And it takes time.”

  I nod, wanting so badly to believe that someone wearing a bright-yellow sweater with tulips wouldn’t lie.

  Then I take out the phone my parents returned to me last night and show Dr. Sparrow my new playlist. She’s a jazz fan. But says any music is a good distraction when Cipher shows up. We listen to “Mr. Tambourine Man” while we wait for Mom and Dad to join us. They told me last night they wanted a few minutes to talk with me and Dr. Sparrow today.

  They both smile when they walk in and hear Dad’s favorite song playing.

  “We are so proud of Maggie,” Mom says.

  Dr. Sparrow enthusiastically agrees.

  Then Mom clears her throat. “But we’re also worried.” She looks over at me. “Maggie has already started talking about fostering again, and we feel it may just be too hard.”

  For me.

  “I absolutely disagree,” I say. “I think another baby would be a good thing. A really good thing.”

  For me.

  I fold my arms across my chest.

  Dr. Sparrow listens intently. “I understand your desire to foster again, Maggie, and your parents’ concerns. For now, you need to focus on overcoming the worries that cause you to collect and keep things. You need to learn to let go. Of people and things. Without the fear that you’ll also be letting go of the memories you cherish.”

  When the appointment ends, I tell my parents that I still think they’re wrong about fostering again.

  “I know,” Dad says. “And that’s okay.”

  “Let’s put all our energy into Dr. Sparrow’s plan,” Mom says as she pulls the car into the mall parking lot. “We saw your charts this morning. You’ve earned your first reward.”

  My frustration slips behind a sliver of pride.

  In Remember Me, there are gift cards and stationery and YOU ARE THE BEST mugs, and pillows and pencil cases and puzzles, and notepads in rainbow colors. Then I see what I want. It’s on the table in front of me, the journal with the gecko on the cover. I look at my parents and smile. This is it. And it’s beautiful.

  That night, I fill the book with all the photos I took of Izzie.

  When she was still my baby sister.

  40

  Rock Day

  The ants are gone, and my boxes are getting lighter. Every day. Even my locker is less stuffed. I let go of the napkins and milk cartons. Each time I toss something else, I tell myself its story. The name-that-dish mystery meal with Ava and Sam that we ate blindfolded, the milk from the first day with Izzie, and the napkin from the last. I think about Taco Tuesday or Fish Friday or Meatball Monday. Who I sat with. What we talked about. I replay each of these moments so I won’t forget.

  Today is Rock Day.

  I need to throw away the smooth rocks from the pond and the ones from my walks with Charlie. I don’t want to. I want to keep them with me. But I don’t ever want to feel the ugly anger that tore at my insides. I roll the stones between my palms. I know Mom or Dad will be at the garbage can, watching, so I can’t just pretend to toss.

  I donate a few to Bert’s tub. I decide that’s not cheating. It’s helping Bert have a happier home. I set down the speckled stone from the walk in the woods with Charlie and Izzie, the smooth skipping stone from the pond, and the almost-white one from the beach at low tide, when Batman ate three dead crabs, then puked. I walk down to the garbage. Mom’s waiting for me by the trash can with her hair tucked behind her ears.

  “Ready?” she says.

  I nod and, in my head, talk back to Cipher.

  Leave me alone! I don’t need you. I don’t need these rocks. I will remember anyway.

  I walk over to the metal trash can, open its jaws, and throw my rocks on top of the asparagus Charlie refused to eat last night. A combination of way-to-go and don’t-forget fills me.

  Mixed feelings are confusing. They tug at all different parts of me. At the same time.

  When I’m done tossing, I cross it off the chart for my newest box.

  I spread the other eleven charts on the floor in front of me and look at all the x’s. Each day, I toss something from a different box. Yesterday, it was my old purple toothbrush that played the “Happy Birthday” song. The day before, it was the empty cup from the lemon slush, which I’d been saving in a box in the back of my closet. I got the slush the day I went to Maker Farms with Gramps. It was the best afternoon. A mama cow and her baby had just moved to the farm, and the owners were holding a naming contest for the calf.

  I filled out an entry slip and found out a week later that Ruby was chosen to be the name of the youngest resident of Maker Farms.

  41

  Worth Missing

  The next day, Dad, Mom, Dillon, Charlie, and I are huddled on the couch under Nana’s blue afghan, playing Litmus on Dad’s tablet. The category is presidents. Dad’s the house champion of all things presidential. The electronic board displays the question: Where in the Constitution are the qualifications for the president set out?

  Dad: “Article Two, Section One, Paragraph Five.”

  Next: Which president had the nickname “The Last Cocked Hat”? Stroking his beard, Dad says, “James Monroe.” But it’s Charlie’s turn and he guesses Andrew Johnson.

  “Andrew Johnson is wrong,” the computer voice declares. “The correct answer was James Monroe.”

  We play until dinner, then dive into happy, mad, sad. It’s Soup Sunday, which turns out to be all of our happy. My sad is the empty hole left by Izzie, and my mad is Cipher. I don’t share that last one.

  After dinner, I tell my parents again that I think we should foster another baby. They look at each other and say, “We’ll see.” Which usually means no. Like when Charlie wanted an ant farm.

  I visit my boxes and replay my Izzie memories in my head. I’m starting to believe that Dr. Sparrow is right. That I’ll remember the things that are important to me. That they won’t get lost like keys and phones and Mom’s reading glasses.

  The next morning, I stop in what was Izzie’s room. When I close my eyes, I can see her lying in the bassinet in her yellow onesie.

  At school, Mason’s not in English or at his usual lunch table.

  When the bell sounds at the end of the day, I hop on my bike and follow the path down the gravel and dirt, through the prickers, to Wade’s Pond. The frogs sound like really bad band practice.

  When I get there, Mason’s sitting on the stump closest to the pond skipping rocks. “Where were you today?” I ask.

  “Sick,” he says.

  “You don’t look sick,” I say, sitting next to him. That’s when I see pages and pages of cartoonlike drawings of birds and squirrels. And one of a girl. With wild hair.

  He stuffs the sketches into his backpack and grabs a flat, muddied rock from under the brush.

  We skip stones in quiet for a while, surrounded by a cool breeze and the smell of pines. “I like to draw, too,” I say. “Not like you. Mostly just faces. Like in Mr. Rodriguez’s art class. The other day, I drew one of Izzie, the baby we were fostering. Mr. Rodriguez said she looked like me.”

  Then Mason’s eyes catch mine. “Was it hard when she left?” he asks.

  “Not for Dillon,” I say.

  “What about for you?”

  I take a gulp of pond air, nod yes, and look away to hide the tears I know are rolling down my cheeks. “I miss her.” My rock skips two times.

  “Think you guys will get another foster kid?”

  “Don’t know. I want to, but my parents don’t think it’s a good idea. They think it might be too hard. But I think they’re wrong. I mean, some people are just worth missing. Like my nana. And Izzie.”

  Mason nods. “And my mom.”

  “Where’s she?” I ask, handing him a rock with a smooth, flat edge.

  “She died about a year after my parents got divorced.”

  His voice
cracks and his eyes brim with sadness.

  “Things were rough between them. She’d met someone else and moved out. That’s why my dad hates trap.”

  “I thought he just hated it because we were an all-girl team who he thought stunk?” I see a small stone on the ground and stuff it in my pocket. For later.

  “That’s part of it. But for him, it’s not about the all-girl thing or winning.” He pauses. “It’s about my mom. She shot trap.”

  “Oh.”

  “And now, it reminds him of her. That’s why he wants me to stop.” His voice cracks again.

  He grabs a flat gray rock and sails it across the pond. Six skips.

  “And that’s why I can’t.”

  In that moment, I realize I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to forget.

  42

  The Fabric of Things

  At the end of trap, Dad congratulates Ava on her 25/25 at practice the other day.

  “Today we celebrate,” he says. Then Ava tosses her cap in the air, and the whole team shoots holes in it. This is one of my favorite trap traditions. Dad still has his 25/25 hat. And I have mine. It hangs in my room right next to the sketch I drew of Izzie.

  Dad thanks everyone for a good practice and packs up the gear.

  I put my trap stuff in my bag and walk over to Ava. “Congrats again.”

  “Thanks,” she says, holding her holey hat. “Do you want to come over? I think I’ve figured out the coding for the Find Me sweater.”

  “I can’t come now. I’m meeting my brothers at my grandfather’s house for his famous Grandkids’ Pizza Night. The one with fresh basil and tomatoes from the garden.”

  That’s mostly true, except for leaving out that I also have an appointment with Dr. Sparrow.

  Ava nods. She’s had Gramps’s pizza before.