Nova couldn’t ask where the three brothers had gone, whether they’d disappeared like Bridget. Maybe they went to the moon, thought Nova, picturing the boys from the picture floating weightlessly above a crater. She imagined James with a stethoscope and Joseph with a hammer but didn’t know what a recreation director might have.

“Every Christmas Joanie wrote Santa asking for a little sister, but we had our hands full then.”

Nova glanced down at Francine’s hands. They weren’t full anymore. They were placed upon the wooden lid of the toy box. Her nails were long and shiny and she wore three rings, two sparkly gold ones on her left hand to show she was married, and one thin silver band on her right pinkie. Her fingers ran over the letters spelling JOANIE ROSE like there was something in the box much more important than toys.

“When the weather gets nicer,” Francine had continued, “we’ll buy some wood stain and paint and have it redone with your name.”

Nova stared at the toy box and imagined her name in place of Joanie’s. NOVA BEA VEZINA. It was a perfect name. Bridget said so, and Bridget never lied.

“Nova?” asked Francine again, poking her head into the bedroom, tugging Nova free from the memory. “Clothes shopping?”

Nova shook her head one-two-three-four times. She did not want to go clothes shopping. She hated trying things on, pants that pushed against her belly and socks that touched her ankles and shirts with itchy tags and dresses—oh, the dresses! Nothing could be worse than something she had to wear tights under. Tights stretched from her waist to her feet and always, always had a seam line across her toes. She hated lines across her toes.

Francine stepped all the way into the room, which made Nova hug NASA Bear tighter. “Mrs. Steele told me how you feel about clothes, but we need to find at least enough to get you through this first week of school, right? You can’t wear jammies forever.”

Mrs. Steele had been Bridget and Nova’s social worker for most of the years they’d been in foster care. She was okay. Except she used the R-word a lot.

Cannot read. Does not speak. Severely mentally retarded.

Bridget hated the R-word.

“Nova?”

Nova let out an involuntary squeak. That happened sometimes. She couldn’t help making noise, even when she was trying her hardest not to.

Francine sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, facing Nova.

“I’m sorry. I know this must be very difficult. But Billy and I are so happy to have you here. So is Joanie.”

Billy was Francine’s husband, Nova’s new foster father. Joanie was their daughter, home from college on winter break.

“Mm,” said Nova, nodding her head ever so slightly. She imagined what Bridget would say: “Suck it up, Super Nova, ’cause you can’t go to school nekkid.”