Give and Take Page 2

  “Want to shoot around?” he asks, swishing a foul shot with the basketball Dad got him after Dillon confessed he had no interest in trapshooting.

  I nod.

  Dillon passes me the ball, and I knock in a left-handed layup. He’s the one who taught me how to shoot lefty. “Is Izzie home?” I ask.

  “Nope. Mom took her somewhere.”

  I let the rebound fall. My breath catches in the place that holds my worries.

  “Not to her new family?” It’s too soon.

  He shrugs and chases the rebound.

  I’m not ready.

  “Dillon, where did they go?” My voice coated with desperation. I need to know.

  “No idea.” He sinks a three-pointer from the top of the driveway.

  My body tightens. I think back. Did Mom leave a note or text me about saying good-bye? I search my brain but find only blank space.

  “Oh, wait. I think she went to get more baby stuff. I guess you need a lot of diapers and formula when all you do is eat and poop.” Dillon hits another three. “Don’t see why it matters, anyway. If she’s not leaving today, it’ll be soon.”

  He may be right, but it still matters.

  To me.

  A whole heap.

  5

  The Kind of Thing Big Sisters Do

  I lose to Dillon. It’s sort of inevitable. He’s on the high school varsity team. As a freshman. But the last time we played, I came closer to winning. He beat me with a backward eyes-closed shot from the crack on the far-right side of the driveway. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t that close, but closer.

  While Mom’s out doing baby errands, I sneak into Izzie’s room. It smells like talcum. And love. Before this, I didn’t even know that love had a smell.

  I peek into the white straw bassinet. It’s hard to believe anything other than Charlie’s stuffed T. rex fits in here.

  Last night, Mom laid Izzie in the bassinet, and then she and I waited until Izzie fell asleep. It was her first night with our family, and neither of us wanted to leave her. We sat on the gray-and-cream-swirl carpet listening to the sound of Izzie’s sweet breath. Mom pulled a photo off the shelf. It was a picture of Charlie as a baby resting on my six-year-old lap. His tar-black sprig of hair, and beautiful round eyes looking into my big sister face. I was in first grade, learning about the life cycle of a frog when Charlie was born. Mom said I wanted to know if Charlie was hatched.

  We sat like that for a while last night. It reminded me of that time with Nana. It was a little over a year ago, a few months before she died. I’d just come home from trap practice. Nana was in the kitchen with Mom. The way she had been a hundred times before. She was wearing the soft navy sweater I’d helped her pick out and drinking iced coffee with lots of milk. She looked up at me.

  “Hi, Nana,” I said.

  She said nothing.

  And that’s when I felt it. She didn’t know me. She saw a girl with long, wild red hair and green eyes. A girl with a peace sign on her shirt. But that girl wasn’t the granddaughter she’d loved forever.

  That girl was just a girl.

  Any girl.

  I ran from the kitchen into this room. Batman was here. He snuggled into my body as I cried. I’d been forgotten. By someone who’d loved me my whole life.

  Mom found me after Nana went home, and we sat together on the swirly carpet, sadness filling the space between us. That day, my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.

  My nana had forgotten.

  All of me.

  I look around the room now and am happy it’s flooded with the smell of powder and sweetness. Tiny human love. And wipes, binkies, and board books. Mom says research shows that babies love the sound of your voice when they’re being read to. Mom’s into research and studies, and things that make sense. I grab Pat the Bunny.

  I run my hands across the pages. The tuft of the bunny’s tail feels soft against my palm.

  I wonder if Izzie will remember me reading this to her.

  Giving her a bottle.

  Being her sister.

  It’s been twenty-four hours.

  I head to my room, turn on my speakers, and let the music of “I Found You” by Alabama Shakes fall around me. I slide one of the brown cardboard boxes out from under my bed. I took it from the recycle bin. It was the one that Batman came in. Not the actual black Lab who eats my shoes and steals my socks, but the stuffed animal version I got for Hanukkah last year. The other boxes in my closet were too full to add even one more thing after I saved the green bath mat from the garbage. Mom had thrown it away, like she didn’t care about all those times my toes had touched the fuzzy kiwi-colored mat.

  I lift the lid and see the gecko necklace from Nana. She gave it to me when I was nine for no special reason. That’s what she said. It was a just-because-I-love-you present. It’s blue with a speck of gold, and I wore it every day until the day she forgot me. Then I took it off and put it in one of my boxes. Where I could never lose it. Or forget it.

  When Nana died last year, I added a tassel from her favorite pomegranate-red scarf. And since then, I’ve added five gum wrappers; three bendy straws; sticks from a hike up Ridge Mountain, Wade’s Pond, and a walk with Charlie; a yellow plastic fork; half a red, white, and blue plate with a picture of fireworks on it; and a butterscotch candy wrapper. I’ve also filled the seven boxes in the closet, the three others under my bed, and most of my school locker.

  Today, I drop in one teeny-tiny yellow sock.

  A little piece of Izzie.

  For me.

  To keep.

  “What are you doing?” It’s Charlie.

  “Um, just looking for something,” I say, quickly closing my box and shoving it back under my bed. Hidden. From everyone.

  “Did you know the heart of a shrimp is in its head?”

  I stare at my baby brother, wondering how his little six-year-old brain can hold so much random stuff.

  “I didn’t,” I say.

  “Also, last week I found Shira’s reading journal and the class watering can. My teacher says I’m the world’s best finder. I can help. What are we looking for?”

  “Got it!” I say, holding nothing.

  “Got what?”

  “Oh, I realized what I was looking for isn’t even really lost. I forgot that I already put it in my backpack.”

  “That was kind of what happened with the watering can. Turns out, Jeremiah left it outside by the baby ficus tree we planted last year for Principal James on Principals’ Day.” He hops onto the end of my bed. “What stinks?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “It’s kind of like minty throw-up,” he says, his nose all scrunched up.

  I remember when my baby brother smelled like powder. He was two months old, and Mom and I brought him into Ms. Sherman’s first-grade class for circle time sharing. That same day, my friend Juan brought in his pet lizard named Slither. I don’t have circle time in seventh grade, but if I did, I’d ask Mom to bring Izzie.

  Charlie hands me a card. It’s the shape of a star, and it’s covered in rainbow-colored pom-poms. “I made this for Izzie.” Sweetness splashed all over his face.

  “It’s beautiful, Bear. I know she’ll love it.”

  “I’m going to make her a card every day. That’s the kind of thing a big brother does.”

  My heart tears a bit. “Remember what we talked about last night?”

  He gives me the smallest of nods. “I know. She’s not my sister for keeps.”

  I reach over and hug my little brother.

  Because that’s the kind of thing big sisters do.

  6

  A Handful of Dandelions and a Few Fat Worms

  After school on Wednesday, I head to trap for the extra practice Dad added so our squad will have the six practices needed to qualify for the state tournament. I don’t care that it’s hot and sticky and my Girl Power shirt clings to my back, because today everyone is here. Today, we’re still the Original Five. Still an all-girl trap squad
—me, Ava, Belle, Gracie, and Sam.

  The air’s thick, and beads of sweat trickle down my neck as I position my feet and lean forward, careful not to lose my balance. I raise my shotgun and see the orange disc fly out of the trap house. My excitement surges from that place that knows the disc’s path. I squeeze the trigger and shoot. As pieces of tangerine fill the sky, happiness zips up from my boots.

  I shoot a 20/25. A good day. I’m up to fifteen push-ups and almost eight pull-ups. Dad says the stronger I am, the better I’ll shoot. Maybe he’s right.

  As we wrap up practice and head to our squad meeting at the picnic table, Ava whispers, “Did you talk your dad out of mixing up the squad?” She’s wearing her Girl Power shirt, too.

  “Tried, but no luck.” I pop a strawberry lollipop in my mouth.

  “We can’t be an almost-all-girl squad. It’s not the same,” she says, pointing to her T-shirt.

  Sam grabs an apple-green lollipop from the big bowl on the picnic table. “Look, if Mason or whoever joins our squad and makes it better, then maybe it’s not a bad idea. I mean, I’m all for girl power and sisterhood, but I want to win.”

  I look down and see a turtle. I know it’s my friend from the other day when I spy the heart-shaped marking on his shell.

  I scoop him up. He’s about the size of my phone.

  This time, I tuck him and the rock he’s sitting on into my open vest pocket. With a handful of dandelions.

  Quietly.

  Slowly.

  Carefully.

  So when I leave trap and Dad parks his truck in the driveway of our brick home with the bright-blue door—the one Mom painted so people could easily find our house—I don’t talk about practice or the still-all-girl squad or the new color of our front door. Instead, I go straight to the garage. My turtle friend needs a forever home.

  I find a big plastic tub, empty Dad’s jumper cables, wrenches, and mound of extension cords onto the neighboring shelf, and scrub off the dirt and dust that’s caked onto the sides. When it stops smelling like Dad stuff, I fill it with water and head to the backyard to get some of the rocks that Batman’s dug up.

  Then I bring the tub into my room. Push aside my beanbag chair with the plaid duct-tape over the hole, my dirty clothes, and old sketch pad, to make room for the new home. Carefully, I remove the little guy from my pocket and hold him in my hands. His orange belly is so bright and beautiful. I place my hard-shelled buddy into the tub, take out my phone, and do a quick search.

  Turns out he’s an eastern painted turtle. I hop online to see what else this little guy needs. I search a bunch of caring-for-your-pet-turtle sites.

  “What should I call you?”

  His back legs stretch, but his head stays tucked in his shell.

  “What about Bert?” That was the name of my favorite class pet–a beautiful garter snake who lived in Mr. O’s second-grade room and loved juicy slugs.

  Slowly, I see the tip of my turtle’s nose untuck, then his head.

  “Welcome home, Bert.”

  I hand him a piece of romaine lettuce I swiped from the refrigerator. “So happy I don’t have to get permission from Rita to keep you. She doesn’t have to say I’ll be a loving family who can do this superimportant job. Because I already know.”

  I sneak into Dillon’s room and borrow his heat lamp. Last year, he used it for some school science experiment to see if beans grow faster with artificial heat or sunlight. Neither worked, because Batman ate all the beans. I clip the heat lamp to the side of the tub, careful it doesn’t touch the plastic, and turn it on. I feel the warmth ooze out.

  Next, food. Turns out, Bert’s an omnivore. I give him another piece of romaine, then run back outside and gather a handful of dandelions and a few fat worms. I check the websites one more time to be sure I haven’t missed anything. When everything’s in place, I peek over the tub. “Okay, buddy. You’re home now.”

  I promise him that I’ll be his family.

  For keeps.

  7

  The Napping Room

  I use a little baby shampoo to wash off any leftover pond grime, then watch Bert swim in his new home while I practice my speech. Over and over and over again. When Bert stops swimming to bask on a rock under the warmth of the heat lamp, I take it as a sign that I’m ready. And persuasive. I scoop him up, inhale all the courage floating in the air around me, and walk downstairs.

  “Um, hello?” I say.

  Dad rolls over like he wasn’t just sound asleep on the brown leather couch under the blue afghan Nana crocheted before she forgot how. The one that feels like the best hug ever. “Hi,” he says, ignoring my snoring mom and drooling dog who are also asleep on the couch.

  “Why is everyone sleeping?” I look around the Napping Room.

  “Isabelle,” Dad says. “She was up a lot last night. So neither of us got much sleep. Thought I’d just lie down for a little. What’s up?”

  I pause and scour my brain for what I was going to say, but can’t remember my rehearsed speech. So I just hold out my hard-shelled friend. “Meet Bert. I made him a home in my room.” I quickly add, “I promise I’ll take good care of him and he’ll be no extra work for you.”

  Mom chooses this moment to stifle her snores and open her eyes. “Maggie, sweetheart, you can’t save everything,” she says.

  “But I can try.” I hold Bert close to my chest. He smells like baby shampoo. And worms.

  Before Mom or Dad can respond, Charlie comes in, spies Bert, and says, “Did you know turtles fart?”

  We all laugh.

  Then Mom puts her serious face back on. “I know he’s cute. And you want to give him a good home. I’m just not sure this is the right time.”

  “Mom, please,” I say, then look over at my dad. “Bert’s an eastern painted turtle, just like Bob Dylan.” That was Dad’s turtle when he was a kid. I’ve seen pictures. They look like twins, minus Bert’s heart-shaped splotch.

  Dad smiles. Then looks at Mom. “How about Bert can stay as long as Dr. Yang checks him out and gives him the okay.”

  Mom turns to me. “And you wash your hands after touching him—especially before you hold Isabelle. And you clean his home.”

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll call Dr. Yang’s office today and see when we can bring this little guy over,” Dad says.

  I like Dr. Yang. She takes care of Batman and all the different animals I’ve found through the years. Last time I was there, she said I needed an ANIMAL RESCUER button.

  “And one more thing. You need to find another plastic tub in the garage for all Dad’s stuff,” Mom says.

  “Wait, I didn’t even tell you about the tub.” I stare at my parents, wondering if they have superpowers.

  “Parents know things. Even when we’re sleeping.” Mom smiles.

  That kind of freaks me out and makes me happy. Not that they know stuff, but that Mom seems less sad since Izzie got here. Maybe we’re all less sad.

  The first worst day of my life: Forgot-Me Day. The second worst day of my life was last year at Nana’s funeral. The funeral home was cold and damp, and everything was beige. Before the service, Dad and I went into a small, narrow room with a velvet curtain. I recognized the smell from biology class. Embalming fluid. Dad said I didn’t have to do this part, but I told him I wanted to say good-bye. He held my hand. I held my breath. Nana wore her favorite teal sweater, and her nails were painted Dragon Red. She looked like Nana, but not really.

  Truth was, she hadn’t really looked like Nana since she’d forgotten me. I mean, on the outside she looked the same, but the Nana who had loved me so completely my whole life was gone. After Forgot-Me Day, over tears and iced tea with lots of honey, Mom told me and my brothers that Nana had something called dementia. A disease that makes your brain forget things. Little things. Big things. Then most things. It sounded like walking in the dark. With no flashlight or nightlight or stars.

  I told Nana that I was going to miss her and confessed I was kind of mad th
at she’d forgotten me, but promised I’d forgive her. Just maybe not today. Then I leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  8

  Dried Mango and Other Stuff

  I leave the nappers, put Bert in his new home, and wash my hands. Twice. I slide onto the carpeted floor of my closet and check on my boxes—the ones that Mom thinks are filled with stuff I’ve saved from school. She’s not entirely wrong, I guess. There is the self-portrait I did in first grade and the dirt cups and lima beans I used for my sprout project in third grade. But there’s also the shirt I wore in second grade when Nana and I went to The Scoop. We got root beer floats. I’d never had one. Nana said we had to fix that. So she picked me up after school and took me to The Scoop. We sat on the counter stools and she ordered us each a root beer float while I spun circles on my stool. I remember the fizz and the ice cream were so good together. The shirt hasn’t fit me for years, but I could never throw that memory away. It’s right next to the orange-and-white-striped bathing suit I wore when I passed the deep-water swim test in second grade. I tossed it in the box that day even though it wasn’t totally dry. Then I told Mom I lost it.

  I open the lid of the next box and see the Chinese takeout containers from the last time Nana and I shared Kung Pao chicken. After we finished dinner, Nana rinsed the containers and tossed them into the recycle bin. When she walked out of the kitchen to give something to Gramps, I retrieved the containers, stuffed them in my backpack, took them home, and added them to my box.

  I survey to make sure everything is still where it should be. Then I close my closet door and walk down the hall to find my temporary baby sister. She’s lying in the bassinet. It’s been five days since the first moment I saw her, sleeping in her car seat with her mint-green onesie and sprig of brown hair. I pick her up, careful to support her head and neck. A lesson Mom and Dad gave us on how to hold this tiny person. Her skin is the softest I’ve ever felt.