Give and Take Page 9

  When I was making the chart, I thought about the reward points. Mom and Dad suggested credit on MusicTunes, new sketch supplies, or the bike I saw at Landon’s Bike Shop. It’s way better than Dillon’s hand-me-down. But I don’t want any of those things.

  I know what matters most. I’m saving for the photo book I saw at Remember Me, the stationery store in the mall next to Candy King. It’s leather with a gecko on the cover. Just like the one on the necklace from Nana. This is the reward that I want, to hold all the photographs of my baby sister. This is the book I want to keep forever. One of Dr. Sparrow’s approved ways to save. This is where most of my tens will go.

  But first, I have to toss my number ones.

  I roll the wrappers between my thumb and pointer finger and walk out of my bedroom. The Dr. Sparrow plan is that all the stuff in the boxes gets tossed in the parent-approved garbage in the kitchen. With Mom or Dad watching. And no givebacks.

  As I head down the stairs, my heart kicks up like it’s turning on. Reminding me that it’s paying attention. Promising me that it will remember.

  When I step into the kitchen, it smells like chocolate. There’s a we’re-proud-of-you chocolate cake with chocolate icing and chocolate chips sitting in the middle of the table. It’s from my parents. This is their thing. The other day when Charlie was going to stand up to Emma Rose at recess, they made a you’ve-got-this apple pie. Turns out, Charlie didn’t actually stand up to Emma Rose that day, but the pie was amazing.

  Mom and Dad are by the garbage, and Izzie is sleeping in her baby seat. Mom’s wearing her practical gray sweater, and Dad’s wearing his I-love-you smile. I look at my parents and my baby sister and want to turn around and run back into my room. I want to tuck the wrappers into the corner of my box, close the lid, and leave. I want to scream. But I can’t. Because as much as I want to hold on tight and never let go, I don’t ever want to feel the anger that clawed at my insides again.

  I walk to the garbage in silence. The lid flips up like jaws opening wide. I count. There are five wrappers.

  I will remember. I don’t need these. And I don’t need you, Cipher. Go away!

  One wrapper falls from my fingers, and the silver foil floats on top of the leftover chicken parmesan. Then I let go of the second one. And the third. Until my hand is empty. I stare at the foil splayed across the tomato-basil sauce blanketing the garbage pile and close the lid.

  I look down at the tiny human next to me. I kiss her forehead and whisper in her ear that I did it. I think she smiles. Then I sit down and take a slice of we’re-proud-of-you chocolate cake.

  31

  Burn Baby Burn

  During Beyond Poetry in English the next day, I wait for Mason to tell me why he wasn’t at the last practice, but he doesn’t.

  Instead, he tells me that he found an alliteration. “What about ‘Dunkin’ Donuts’? That’s like ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,’ just shorter. Right?”

  I nod and add it to our list. Which also now includes a metaphor from today’s sports page, “Rigley Smith was a beast on the basketball court in last night’s blowout game, scoring 48 points.”

  He’s back on his laptop searching for more poetic stuff in the wild.

  “So, you weren’t at trap practice. Were you sick?” I ask.

  “No,” he says.

  “Did you go away?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have a hundredth birthday celebration for one of your great-grandparents?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Death of a great-aunt or your kid brother’s play?”

  His lip curls, snarl-like. “I wasn’t sick. Don’t have a kid brother. No one died or turned a hundred. Why are you asking me all this weird stuff?”

  “I want to know what you did that was more important than coming to trap.” I pause. “Or did you quit?”

  “I’m not a quitter,” he says.

  “So why didn’t you come?”

  “Just couldn’t make it.” He turns back to search for more poetic things online.

  “That’s not good enough. We’re a squad. That means something. We’re not just some girls who shoot trap. We lost a squadmate to make room for you, so you need to show up.”

  He stares at me like there’s something he wants to say.

  I wait a long beat, but he says nothing. “Does this have to do with your dad?” I ask.

  His steel-blue eyes tighten around me.

  The bell rings for the end of class, and he walks away.

  At lunch, I meet Ava and Sam at our usual lunch table. It’s the one with the fewest gobs of old gum stuck to the bottom.

  “Find Me is almost done.” Ava takes a prototype sweater out of her backpack. “You put this on your dog. Then sign into the app. There’s a coded strip sewn into the back of the sweater that shows your pet’s location.”

  “It’s so small,” says Sam, adding hot sauce to her mac and cheese.

  “This one’s for Bruno. He’s only about eleven pounds,” Ava says.

  “I definitely want one for Batman!” I say. “It just may need to be a bit bigger.” I hand the sweater back to Ava.

  “I’ll make him a large blue one once we know the prototype works.”

  “Thanks,” I say, swallowing a big gulp of my milk. “I stopped by Belle’s the other day. You know, to see how she was about the whole trap thing.”

  “And?” Ava asks.

  “She was fine. Which was good, but kind of surprising.”

  “I think it’s weird that she doesn’t care that she’s not on the best team anymore,” Sam says.

  “She told me she likes that her new team is less intense and less competitive.”

  “Definitely weird.” Sam sprinkles crunched-up potato chips into her now-spicy mac and cheese.

  “Not any weirder than your mac and cheese,” Ava says.

  “I don’t get why it doesn’t bother her that we’re not still together,” I say. “You know, the Original Five.”

  “Maybe there’s a chance she can still come back,” Ava says, cutting her peanut-butter-and-fluff sandwich and giving me half. “What did you find out about Mason?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You were partnered with him all of English, and he didn’t say anything?” Sam asks before slurping her green Jell-O.

  “He told me that he found an alliteration and a metaphor.” I look at Sam and her jiggly dessert. “You know, dessert really shouldn’t wiggle.”

  She smiles and slurps down the rest of the green slime.

  “The entire time in class, he didn’t say anything about why he wasn’t at trap practice?” Ava asks.

  I remember the look in his eyes today when I mentioned his father and the sort-of promise I’d made after his first practice not to tell my friends about how angry his dad got in the parking lot. “The only thing he said about trap was that he didn’t quit.”

  Ava and Sam don’t seem convinced, but they move on to arguing about what’s better—peanut butter and fluff or mac and cheese with potato chips and hot sauce. I glance around the room to make sure no one’s looking, tear off a small piece of the Burn Baby Burn hot sauce label, and slip it into my backpack.

  32

  Broken Promise

  When I walk in the front door, Mom’s waiting for me. She wants to know how my math test went and if we had mystery fish for lunch again. Then, as if it’s as normal as asking me about my day, she tells me to empty my backpack. Another Dr. Sparrow thing—the bag check.

  “The test was fine except for the last problem, which I didn’t get to. And no mystery fish today.” I start to walk away.

  “Maggie,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Your backpack. Please.”

  My body stiffens.

  I hand my mom the bag and bite a hangnail on the pointer finger on my left hand. She pulls out my yellow geometry notebook, my dog-doodle-covered Spanish folder, my drawing of Izzie from art class … and the ripped red label from the Bu
rn Baby Burn hot sauce.

  She turns to me, looks at the label, then turns back to me. “Why don’t you throw this away for bonus reward points?”

  Sometimes I hate the chart. And the rules. And the tossing.

  I take the torn label from my mom’s hands and walk slowly over to the garbage can. Then stand there. Frozen. I tell Cipher to go away. To leave me alone. That I’ll remember. That I don’t need this stupid piece of paper.

  I grit my teeth, open my palm, and toss my memories.

  Just like that.

  “I’m proud of you,” I hear my mom say as I leave the kitchen.

  The label reminded me of Mason. He was sitting in my sight at lunch. I wasn’t spying. Not really. He was eating with Miguel and Robbie McGhee, who always introduces himself with his full name so now everyone just calls him Robbie McGhee. When Ava and Sam asked me about Mason, I caught him looking my way. I said nothing, finished my lunch, and then tucked the torn label into my backpack. Now it’s in the trash. Gone. Forever.

  I know this is the plan—Dr. Sparrow’s plan, the one I agreed to. The one she promised would make the mad go away.

  In my room, I lean over the plastic tub and watch my turtle happily swimming in his forever home. He won’t make me throw anything away. I sit next to my newest box. Anchored. I slide in my earbuds and listen to “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls, trying hard to believe their words. I peek into the box and survey my stuff.

  Straws. Tassel. Necklace. Candy wrappers. Cartons. Hair. Threads. Tabs. Photos. Rocks. Sticks.

  Wait!

  I look again.

  Bud the Bear’s button is missing.

  I check under me. Nothing.

  Under the box. Nothing.

  Under the bed. Nothing.

  Worry flips in my gut. Where is it?

  I check the other boxes under my bed.

  Nothing.

  The boxes in my closet.

  Nothing.

  Then I know what happened.

  I leave my room. Pass Charlie building his Lego fort and Izzie sleeping in her bassinet. Stomp down the stairs. Mom’s at the kitchen table on her computer.

  “You broke your promise!” I yell, my mad spilling all over the kitchen.

  “Honey, Dr. Sparrow said you’d need to share the contents of your bag at times. We discussed that.” She closes her laptop.

  “I’m not talking about the hot-sauce label.”

  “Then what?”

  “You promised that you wouldn’t go into my box! That you wouldn’t touch my stuff!” My voice is loud and hollow.

  She stares at me with the same wrinkled forehead she had when Charlie told her that snakes don’t have eyelids.

  “You broke your promise! You went into my box! You took my Bud the Bear button!”

  She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t break my promise. I didn’t go into your box. I didn’t take your things.”

  “We had a deal,” I say, the tears falling off my cheeks onto the tile floor.

  “And we still do,” Mom says sternly with pursed lips and arms akimbo. “I didn’t take anything, Maggie.”

  “I don’t believe you!” I yell.

  “Maybe you misplaced it or tucked it under something else. Either way, you need to calm down. And not speak to me from that angry place.” She gets up from the table and takes a long, deep breath. “Let’s look for it together.”

  “No!” I wipe my wet cheeks. “You can’t fix this! You can’t fix me!”

  33

  All of Me

  I.

  Need.

  Space.

  “I’m taking Batman for a walk,” I tell my mom.

  She exhales a big breath. “No, you’re not. Not like this. Let’s sit and talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  “Then we can just sit quietly.” I wonder if she learned this from Nana.

  “I don’t want to sit.” A stretch of silence wedges between us. “With you.”

  “I get that. But right now, that’s your only option. You’re not leaving this house upset.” Mom’s using her final-decision voice.

  I close my eyes and count to twenty. Then I softly say, “Look, I’m not going to freak out.” I know this is what Mom’s worried about. Me totally losing it. Erupting. Again. I promise a million times that’s not going to happen, but she still makes me sit for thirty minutes. The same amount of time I need to wait between eating and swimming. Then she talks to me about respect and the danger of accusing people of wrongdoing without all the facts.

  I swallow my response, say I’m sorry I yelled, and play two rounds of Litmus on my phone at the kitchen table. When she sees I’m calm, she says, “You can go for a walk now, but I need you back home in thirty minutes to watch Charlie for me. I have to leave by four o’clock for an appointment. It’s important. So bring your phone and don’t lose track of time.”

  I nod.

  The sun casts streaks across the trees as Batman and I walk down Vine Street. We weave around Greenwood, up Dudley, and down Kessler. I snap a picture on my phone of the sprawling oak at the corner of Puddingstone and Brookline. I think about its strong branches protecting Izzie, keeping her safe. I hope her forever family is like the oak.

  We go past Piper’s Pet Cemetery, around the high school football field, and to the park. I listen to Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” on my headphones and wonder if he ever found the answers he was looking for. I take more pictures for Izzie—of the ducks, the dogs, the neighborhood. My neighborhood, which is also hers, even if it’s only for a short bit. I check my watch. It’s 3:45. Time to turn around. Retrace my route. Go home.

  But I can’t.

  Not yet.

  I keep going.

  My cell rings. It’s Mom. I ignore the call. I look around and realize I’ve wandered farther from home than I’d planned. Not on purpose. I guess. But I don’t want to head back. Not yet. It’s 3:55. I need more time.

  I keep walking.

  The sky splays a pink shadow across the sidewalk as the sun moves across the sky. Batman and I pass a swing set, and I settle onto the middle swing as he rolls in the grass. The seat is low and green. It reminds me of the other day at the park with Mom, Dillon, Charlie, Izzie, and me. Dillon played basketball with some kids at the court. Mom and I took turns chasing Charlie through the tunnels and singing to Izzie. We all ended up by the swings. Dillon was daring me to go higher. Charlie was laughing as he pumped his legs faster and faster. Izzie was sleeping peacefully in Mom’s arms. The memory tugs on my heart.

  Mom calls again. It’s 4:10. I don’t answer. I turn off my phone and put it in my pocket.

  34

  Moon Days

  Charlie always says that Batman is like the moon. They both have their own unique measure of time. One dog year equals one-seventh of a people year. One moon day equals twenty-nine Earth days. I wonder how much time in moon days I have left with Izzie.

  As Batman and I leave the park, I look at my watch. It’s 4:20. I was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago, and I’m still ten minutes away. The chill in the air crawls down my back. A sweet, floppy beagle across the street bays at Batman. The woman with the dog smiles at me. She reminds me of an older version of Mom with practical shoes.

  “Good afternoon,” Practical Shoes says.

  I wave.

  “Looks like you’re the same age as my youngest grandkids. I have ten—no, eleven altogether. The last two are Joshua and Gregory.” She opens her mailbox and riffles through the stack. “All bills. I used to love getting the mail, but no one writes letters anymore. A lost art.” She closes her mailbox and pats her dog.

  I start walking.

  Turn on my phone.

  Ten missed calls from Mom.

  Ten worried messages.

  * * *

  When I step through the bright-blue front door at four thirty, Mom runs over, wraps me in her arms, and holds me tight. “Thank goodness you’re okay.” I feel the giant
relief and stabbing fear from all the what-ifs that ran through her brain when I didn’t answer the phone. “What happened? I tried calling, but it kept going right to voice mail.”

  Phone died. Lost track of time. Met a friend. Didn’t mean to.

  Guilt squeezes all my excuses.

  I open my mouth and the truth shoots out. “I wasn’t ready to forgive you. I needed more time.”

  Mom’s angry eyebrows appear. The ones I saw after Batman ate the entire roast Mom had prepared for dinner when Dad’s cousins visited from California.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t take your button. And I’ve never lied to you or broken a promise.” Then, “What you did, Maggie, was irresponsible and dangerous. And it scared me. The truth is, it scared a lot of people. Me. Dad. Rita.”

  “You told Rita?”

  Mom looks at her watch. “That was the appointment I had to go to. I was supposed to bring Izzie to Rita’s.”

  “She’s leaving today?” A heap of sadness replaces my anger.

  Mom nods. “Just before you came downstairs, Rita called. I was going to tell you, but you were so upset about Bud and the button, I decided to wait until you came back from your walk. Which was supposed to be no more than thirty minutes.”

  Sorry.

  “When you didn’t come back, I had to call Rita and explain what was going on. I wasn’t leaving this house until you came home. Dad was in a meeting and Dillon had practice. Maggie, I was worried. We were all worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, staring at my muddy sneakers and the carpet. I follow the lines on the carpet’s pattern until they make me dizzy. I wonder if they lead to a place where I have a baby sister.

  I peel the remaining mint-green polish off my nail. “Now what happens?” I ask.