“We’re not?”

“We’re here to talk about you.”

“But I thought I was here to help Frank.”

“I’d like to know more about you first.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Maybe not, but why don’t we just explore a few things. For instance, what’s life been like for you since your mother died?”

I bite the inside of my cheeks and fold my arms in front of my chest. I look at the girl in the poster; I count McDonald’s cups. There are seven. I imagine the puppets dancing the cha-cha around the room. I don’t say another word.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

Time drags when two people face each other and don’t say anything. Ed tries. He asks about school. He asks about Auntie and living in Malesso.

Do I know Mrs. Cruz, the fish artist? He tells me he bought a picture from her last year. He points to the painting of the skipjack over the couch.

Ed’s plan doesn’t work. I won’t even move my lips because I know his questions will lead back to one thing—my mother.

No Crayons

No Crayons

“What did you draw?” Olivia asks me on the ride back home.

“I didn’t draw anything.”

“I drew Auntie, Mommy, Tata, Frank, and you. I even drew Ed. But I made him skinny. I didn’t want him to be sad.”

“I hope you didn’t want me to feel sad, too,” says Auntie.

Sticks and Stones

Sticks and Stones

Roman stops by the cabana. “How’s Frank?”

And just that one question is like the last drop in a full bathtub that makes the water run over the rim.

“Why do you want to know? You don’t care about Frank. If you did, you wouldn’t steal my father away from him.”

Roman picks up his fishing pole and walks away. My stomach aches as I watch him head home.

Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

I don’t believe that playground saying.

Mistaken Identity

Mistaken Identity

After supper, Mary Kelly calls me. “How’s your brother?”

“Fine,” I say, though I don’t know. Tata didn’t even ask if we’d seen him when we got home. But he made hamburgers.

“That’s good,” Mary Kelly says. “Guess what?” Her voice changes and she sounds cheerful.

Her sudden happiness irritates me. Still, I ask, “What?”

“My mother had the baby Sunday.”

Maybe that’s why Mrs. Johnson didn’t call. Maybe she was going into labor.

“And your aunt was right. He’s a boy!”

“He is?” Auntie all of a sudden seems like the smartest person in the world.