Momma says.

And then we are gone.

Momma pulling me

along

holding on to me

like Liz held that

belt.

101.

Worse than Momma’s screaming

at Dr. Marino

is her silence as

we drive home.

She’s

planning

something.

102.

Momma has sent me away.

She’s visiting with someone

at the house. Earning

extra money.

I think I’ll go to Mari’s,

I say,

when she tells me

she has a friend coming over.

But I know as I say

the words I’m lying.

Don’t come back

until his car is gone,

Momma says

and she looks up the driveway,

watching.

She is so nervous.

My heart thumps shallow beats

as I wander, casual-like,

to my room.

I remember the belt Liz carved

my initials on, HKC, in three places.

I glance

around and make a leap

toward Lizzie’s bed,

and all in one move,

grab the diary and tuck it away

in the waistband

of my shorts,

pull my shirt over,

and it’s

hidden.

I run past Momma

standing in the

living room, staring at

herself in the

mirror,

then I am out of the door,

hollering,

See you,

to my mother who doesn’t even answer.

Up the driveway I go,

out onto the road,

barefoot.

I leave prints behind in the sand.

I think,

Where now?

Where is safe

now?

103.

Mari’s is a

no.

The library is so far from here.

And school is too.

But the river.

The river is nearby.

It won’t take me long to get there.

So that’s where I go,

jogging as much of the way

as I can.

Fear moves me

and the diary moves

trying to work free

of my waistband

and I wonder why I should be

afraid.

But I am.

I saw Momma.

Lizzie.

Dr. Marino.

And I am scared.

The sun’s hot and the air,

heavy.

If I am lucky it’ll rain today,

maybe even while I’m out,

thin the air some,

wash this fear

away from

me.

I get to the river and

scramble down the bank.

I smell the spiciness of the weeds

and the sandiness of the shore. I

can even smell the sun.

I find a place to sit,

a place that’s far from the road

but still in a clearing. No

need in surprising a nest of snakes.

No need in getting surprised myself.

For the longest time I sit still,

the book resting on my lap.

I sit there

hoping

that whatever is bothering

my sister so bad

has been written in these pages.

And hoping,

just as hard,

that it has not.

104.

Shhh, don’t cry.

Momma.

Low voices.

So low, I dream them.

Shhh, don’t cry.

Not a sound now.

Mama she say, Shh.

She say, Shhh.

She say, Quiet, baby.

No, no, no.

Not a sound now.

My dream cries on.

Cries me to deeper sleep.

105.

At first there is nothing

in the diary.

Just jibber-jabber.

Stuff about school.

About Amanda and Cheri.

Talk about guys they

think are cute.