by Bridget Farr
I have a few days to make a new plan. I hope it’s enough time.
I find Meridee in the playroom, her body the eye in the center of a Lego-Barbie hurricane. I crouch down on the ground beside her, moving aside the scattered Lego blocks and Barbie legs.
“Hi, Meridee. Do you remember me? Pavi?”
She looks up from the Barbie doll head she has been brushing. It doesn’t have a body, and she has one finger poked in the base of its neck, creating a stand for her beauty parlor.
She smiles but doesn’t say anything.
“I like your Barbie.”
I look around the floor to find a matching body, but realize that all the other Barbie bodies are white and Meridee has found the only black head. Who knows where the body is.
“Her name is Mama, and she’s going to the mall,” Meridee says, stroking the fake black locks with a miniature yellow comb.
“The mall sounds fun. Is she going shopping?”
Meridee shakes her head. “She’s getting a pretzel with nacho cheese.”
“That sounds yummy.”
While she brushes, I search the ground for matching body parts so I can put together the Barbies. I find a leg that matches a top with both arms and try to fasten it back in its socket. Meridee and I sit in silence, both concentrating on our projects. I finally manage to put one together, though it’s missing an arm. I hand Meridee the doll.
“Here’s a friend for Mama. She also likes pretzels with nacho cheese.”
“Mama doesn’t need a friend. She has me.”
“She has you,” I repeat, not sure what else to say.
Suddenly, Meridee drops the head she had so carefully groomed. “Are you gonna take me to Frankie’s?”
“I don’t know Frankie.”
“Frankie has two dogs. Hot Dog and Griz.”
I smile, picking up the doll head and handing it back to Meridee.
“Mama likes Frankie. He lets us park our car there, and when I have to potty, he lets me come inside.”
I pull out an astronaut jumpsuit and carefully shove the bent Barbie feet into the skinny silver pants.
“Sometimes I let Hot Dog in the car with me. Mama yells ’cause he gets hair all on everything, but he’s so cute and drooly. I call him Drooly Hot Dog.”
I search the bin and pull out a piece of rainbow-colored yarn that someone must have used for a scarf and twist it around the Barbie’s neck.
“I wanna go to Frankie’s,” she says, her brown eyes staring into mine.
“I think you’re gonna stay here for a while, okay?”
She wrinkles up her nose and I’m afraid she’s preparing to wail. Instead, she sneezes.
“I wanna go to Frankie’s,” she repeats. Over and over. She picks up the comb and grabs the newly dressed Barbie from my hand. I don’t know who Frankie is, but I remember wanting to go back. I remember hating the newness of my life, from the sheets to the strange meals to the other kids. I wanted to go back for a long time, too.
Maybe she will.
Maybe she won’t.
But if she doesn’t, even if she never goes back to Frankie’s, eventually she’ll be happy again. She’ll learn to like her new family.
That is, unless she ends up at the Nickersons’.
SOLVED
It’s 8:00 PM and Hamilton still isn’t back from Piper’s. For hours, I’ve been listening to Marjorie hum along to the radio while she and I scrapbook. I apply a ruler sticker to the corner of last year’s report card and feel every single second while I sit here waiting. Finally, we hear a knock on the door.
“Hambone,” Marjorie says, shaking her head. “He probably forgot his key. Can you let him in?”
I’m already out of my chair and headed toward the door. There’s another knock before I pull the handle.
“I’m com… Oh. My. God. What happened to you?”
Hamilton’s eyes glare at me through their black-lined rims.
“Don’t ask any questions,” he says, and I couldn’t ask anything if I wanted to because I’m speechless. He takes a step inside the house and sets his backpack on the floor. Under the hallway lights, I can finally take in the full picture: Hamilton the gothic centaur, a creature with a band-geek body and the head of a moody vampire. His hair is slicked down to the side, covering his left eye, and there appears to be a smattering of black glitter gleaming in the strands. In addition to the eyeliner, he has uneven black lips and his face looks paler than usual. It’s then that I notice the flecks of white dusting his shoulders.
“What’s that white…?”
“Flour,” he answers, his shoulders hunched in misery. “Can we talk about something else?”
Just then we hear the radio click off, and Marjorie shuffles into the hallway. Hamilton turns toward the door, but there’s no way he’s hiding this.
“Hey, Hambo… oh!” Marjorie stops, apparently speechless at the sight, too. She takes a step toward him, smiling before breaking into her giant laughter, her whole body shaking as she grabs the stair railing to keep her balance. I can’t help laughing, too, and even Hamilton grins, the black lipstick staining the creases at the corners of his lips.
“Okay, okay, sorry, sweetie,” Marjorie says, finally calming herself. “That was rude of me. Is this your new look? Because I kind of like it.”
“You do not,” Hamilton says, dusting the flour off one of his shoulders. “I look ridiculous.”
“Did you do this to yourself?” I ask, and Hamilton sighs.
“Obviously not. Piper is working on a series of makeup tutorials based on characters from books or movies, and she doesn’t want to be the only model or people will think her channel is just for girls.”
“I’m not sure she’s at the level to be tutoring anyone,” I say as I take a seat on the step.
“You were very kind to help her practice,” Marjorie says as she reaches over to rub her thumb across his cheek. “Is this…?”
“Flour,” Hamilton repeats as he turns to pick up his backpack.
“Wait,” I say, jumping to my feet. “A makeup tutorial? You mean for her YouTube channel? You’re on YouTube? Like this?”
Marjorie’s eyes grow, and Hamilton hangs his head. “Sweetie, are you on YouTube? You know my policy about social media.”
Hamilton shakes his head. “I know. Parental approval before any photo or video uploads. She hasn’t posted it yet. She has to edit it first.”
“You’re going to let her put it up?” I’m shocked that he agreed to this in the first place, let alone to have it all over the internet.
“I’ll talk to her dad tomorrow at school,” Marjorie offers, and Hamilton shakes his head.
“It’s not a big deal, Mom. No one watches her channel anyway.” He grabs his backpack from the floor. “Can I go shower now or do you two need some more time to laugh at me?”
“Of course, sweetie,” Marjorie says, giving him a pat on the back. “I’ll bring up some of my makeup remover. You’ll need it.”
Thirty minutes later, I knock on Hamilton’s door, Marjorie having extended our Quiet Time to accommodate for Hamilton’s transformation.
“It’s open,” he yells, and I poke my head in to see if he’s in a mood to talk. He’s sitting on his bed, his damp hair still slumped to the side, his lips now a shade of blue. He’s fiddling with a Rubik’s Cube, his hands moving with the mastery of a pianist.
“It’s alive!” I say, and he gives me a look, his fingers still flying. Apparently, he isn’t ready for jokes. Since he doesn’t ask me to leave, I decide to tell him. Maybe the news, even bad news, will take his mind off the black glitter still clinging to his scalp.
“Did you get any news at Crossroads?” Hamilton asks, beating me to it.
“Not good news.”
“What happened?” He scoots over on the edge of his bed, making room for me. I take a seat on the floor instead.
“She’s still going to the Nickersons’. Everything’s set for her to move in Thursday.”
<
br /> “Geez, this Thursday?” Hamilton asks, and I nod. He wipes a drip off his cheek. A sparkle lingers next to a freckle. “Also, it seems like a broken system if foster parent drug abuse isn’t a big enough problem. We should call the news or something. They could go undercover, a special edition report: Inside Foster Homes—Joy or… I don’t know any drug names that start with j.”
“I don’t know what happened. Maybe they have problems with their computers.…”
“Happiness or Hallucinogens.”
“That’s not really our biggest…”
“Love or LSD.”
I whack Hamilton on the knee. “Enough with the weird drug mottoes. We made up the whole drug thing anyway, remember?”
“Right. What is the problem with the Bad Family?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. Obviously. Drugs weren’t enough to push CPS into action. Was it worse than drugs? Was there… murder? You can tell me!”
“I’ll tell you when you need to know, and right now, you don’t need to know.”
“Can you just confirm it’s not murder? I don’t feel mature enough to handle murder.”
“No murder.”
“Whew.”
I grab the Rubik’s Cube out of his hand and begin finishing the other half. Hamilton pulls his tiny reporter’s notebook out of his back pocket. He flips through a couple of pages before stopping on one.
“Make call to Child Protective Services using a teen with an adult voice to impersonate neighbor. Fail.” He crosses out the line. “Plan Number Two… So what’s Plan Number Two? Or Operation Number Two? ‘Operation’ sounds more official, but a little too soldiery for what we’re doing.”
I fiddle with the drawstring of the tie-dyed pajama pants Marjorie bought me for my birthday last year. I can’t meet his eyes because our biggest problem is that I don’t have a Plan Number Two.
Hamilton flips back in his notebook. “Plan Number One’s objective was to keep Meridee away from the Bad Family by ensuring the Bad Family is seen as bad so they can’t take her in.”
I keep listening.
“If our ultimate goal is to keep Meridee away from the Bad Family, then…” He reaches over and plucks the Rubik’s Cube from my lap. He mumbles that same line about our ultimate goal over and over to himself as his fingers pick up speed. The colored blocks move and twist and turn until finally a full side is yellow and he stops. “We need to get her a better family! If our ultimate goal is to keep Meridee away from the Bad Family, then we just need to find her a better family. Then she won’t have to go there, because this better family can take her!”
He fist-pumps, lunging into the air slightly before falling back on his bed, the pillows bouncing beside him.
“Shh!” I warn. “Or your mom is going to remember it’s past our Quiet Time and send us to our rooms.”
“This is brilliant! I’m brilliant!” he whispers, making a snow angel on the comforter.
“Hold on, Einstein,” I say, pulling his hand so he’s sitting upright. “A better family would be great, but that’s not how it works. They don’t rate families. How would that be fair? You’re a precious angel, so you get a ten family. You’re a delinquent with acne and bad test scores, you get a four!”
Hamilton frowns. “I didn’t think about that.”
“You don’t know how it works.”
“It could still be an idea. You said that these people don’t even like kids, right? So maybe we get someone who wants her more. And then it’s not like she’s going to a better family, it’s that she’s going to someone who really wants her.”
“I guess…”
Emboldened by the fact that I didn’t immediately say no, Hamilton continues. “We just need to get someone to meet her. Do they have, like, a time when parents can come to Crossroads and meet kids?”
“They do, but those things don’t happen often and she wouldn’t get to go since she already has a placement. It’s still possible she’ll end up back with her mom in the long run, so we just need a family for right now.”
Hamilton flops back on the bed. “This is giving me a headache!” He massages his temples with his fingers. “Maybe I’m actually sick, which would be great because I wouldn’t have to do my performance test tomorrow in band. And if I was sick, I could stay home and think of a plan. I really wish I had a hint of the flu or something so I wouldn’t have to go.”
Suddenly, it hits me.
“If you were sick, you wouldn’t have to go!”
“I’d have to be really sick, though, with a measurable temperature, or Mom will just send me with throat lozenges.” Hamilton puts a hand to his head. “Maybe I do feel warm, but it could just be the shower.”
“You’re not sick,” I say as Marjorie nears the door. “But you did just give me an idea for a new plan!”
“Seriously? What is it?”
“Shhh,” I say as I hear Marjorie’s feet on the stairs. “Quiet Time is over.”
Hamilton lunges across the bed for his notebook. “But what do I write down for the plan?”
“You can call it Operation Home Sick. I’ll give you the details tomorrow.”
As I open the door to Hamilton’s room, I feel my stomach settle. His fake illness may have cured mine. It may even save Meridee.
APPENDICITIS
The next day, I skip out of fourth period and head to the lunchroom, determined to find Santos and tell him the new plan. We don’t need him to help this time, but I want him to know that I appreciate what he did. And to remind him that he doesn’t owe me supplies.
The A lunch period is packed with a lot of eighth graders, and I follow a group of students through the main door, keeping my head down as I pass Ms. Taylor, the only person likely to notice me. Once the other students begin splitting into the different lunch lines, I search for Santos. I scan the recycling, garbage, and compost bins where another group of detention-serving students stand in aprons and latex gloves, waiting to help students sort the slop on their trays into the appropriate bin.
Since Santos is not working the refuse station, he must be serving, and I look at the growing lines of students flowing out three separate doors. I decide to join Line Two. Thankfully, the line is moving faster than expected, and it’s not long before I’m enveloped in the smell of hot grease. I stand up on my tiptoes to peer into the food station, but the only person I can see is Mike, the adult cafeteria assistant. Without a word, a short kid passes me an empty tray, almost hitting me in the stomach. I forgot about this part. That I’d actually have to get a lunch. I spot Santos at the end of the line, a hairnet pulled over his hood. I detect a single earbud and smile at his guts. Here he is serving detention and still, he’s out of dress code.
I say yes to each item I’m offered by the depressed student servers even though I can’t eat any of it now. It does bother me a little, to waste food. Maybe I can hand it off to some hungry kid in the cafeteria, since the school doesn’t offer seconds. I try to make eye contact with Santos as I move closer to him, but he stubbornly keeps his head down as he slides paper cups of ketchup or mustard across the counter. Finally, he looks up and spots me. He doesn’t smile, I was expecting that, but his mouth twitches in a way I know he sees me. He slides a ketchup cup to a girl in a pink jacket.
“It didn’t work,” I mouth as I sidestep closer to him. He nods, passes another ketchup cup, and now I’m only three students away.
“But I have a new plan,” I whisper when our eyes meet again, and he raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
“What?” he mouths back, and I give him a look that says, “Give me a sec.” Unless he’s a master lip reader, there’s no way I can communicate my brilliance in the lunch line. Santos looks over at Ilene, the cafeteria supervisor, who is methodically plopping hamburgers or hot dogs into the waiting buns. Her tight ringlets are growing in the steam, escaping through the holes of her hairnet.
Santos grabs the edges of the ketchup and mustard tray before giving me a nod
and turning to a little closet behind him. Grabbing my tray, I follow him to the closet, where he is lining up white cups on a fresh tray.
“So?” he asks, pumping the handle of a large ketchup tub, never spilling a drop of the red goo.
“It didn’t work. Lenny said she’s moving in tomorrow, so either they didn’t investigate or they didn’t find anything.”
“Guess we shouldn’t have said drugs.”
“Drugs could have worked.”
“They didn’t.”
“I’m aware of that fact,” I say, now wondering why I even bothered to tell him if he was going to be such a jerk.
“What’s the new plan?” He’s moved on to the mustard.
I smile, because while my first plan didn’t work, this one is brilliant.
“Appendicitis.”
“What?”
“She’s going to fake an appendicitis attack on Thursday night when she gets there. They’ll have to take her to the hospital to check it out. It’s not a long-term solution, obviously, but it buys me a couple of days to think of something else.”
Santos is silent while he pumps mustard into the next row of cups. Suddenly, a small smile creeps across his face. “I shoulda done that.”
“I know, right? I was sick when I showed up to my first house, but it wasn’t bad enough. I researched and found appendicitis. It has to be something she could go to the hospital for.”
“She’s just gonna fake it?”
“I’ll have to teach her what to do, the symptoms and everything, but if she gets it right, she could pull it off.”
“She should go to Saint David’s,” Santos says as he lays out a few more white paper cups. “The caseworker, Ms. Casey, is cool. She gets in your business, makes you write about your feelings and stuff like that, but—”