by Elly Swartz
I think someone should make an app like this for people you love who can’t remember where they live. Like Nana that time she got lost. Really lost. It wasn’t long after Forgot-Me Day. Mom and Dad had to call Officer Daniel Scott to help. Eventually they found her at the G & J Gas Station, eating a cherry slush. I never even knew she liked slushes.
I peek over Ava’s shoulder. I don’t know how to code. To me, it looks like a bunch of random words and letters mixed with a lot of math stuff. Batman yawns and lies down. On top of Mr. Koala.
“Hey, watch out,” Ava says to Batman, sliding Mr. Koala out from under him.
“You should really take better care of him. I mean, his ears are shredded, and he has three holes in his belly.”
“That’s called love,” Ava says, laughing.
I plunk down on Ava’s bed.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask her. “I thought she was coming.”
“She was. But her parents said she had to go to this award thing for her sister.”
“Again?”
Ava nods.
“Hey, Maggie!” one of Ava’s brothers shouts as another one chases him down the hall. I wave, and they disappear, arguing about who’s stronger. Faster. Taller.
Ava shuts her door.
I inch closer to my best friend. “I need to tell you something. But you have to promise not to think I’m a horrible person. Okay?”
“I promise.” We clap our hands three times, knock our fists twice, and lock pinkies. We’ve been doing that since Ava told me in second grade that she sleeps with the lights on because she’s scared of the dark.
The air around me is ready to collect my words, but they’re not coming out.
“Well, are you going to tell me?” Ava asks.
Maybe I shouldn’t.
I look down at Snoring Batman and then back to Ava.
“Spit it out,” she says.
With one big gulp I say, “I kind of hope Izzie doesn’t get adopted.” Then I hold my breath and wait for my best friend not to think I’m the worst person ever.
“Isn’t that the whole point?” Ava asks, scratching behind Batman’s ears.
“I guess. Sort of,” I say.
“I mean, I thought your family was just taking care of her until she gets adopted.”
“But think about it. If she doesn’t get adopted, then maybe we can keep her. You know, forever.”
“Did your parents say that?”
“Not exactly.” Then the truth slips out. “No.”
“Honestly, I don’t get what you think is so great about having a family loaded with siblings,” Ava says as her brothers throw a ball against their shared wall. “Plus, I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Remember what that lady said: Izzie isn’t yours.”
“But that’s just it. I want her to be mine. For always.”
Ava hugs me tight. “Look, you’re not a horrible person. Your heart’s just too big. Remember when you begged your mom to adopt that smelly stray dog that followed us to school? And last summer, you wanted to go to that place where they had the tornado, so you could help find all the lost pets.”
I wasn’t allowed to adopt Cocoa the stray dog, but we did give him a bath, and bones that tasted like chicken, and then drove him to the animal shelter. And while Mom had said it wasn’t safe enough yet to travel where the tornado had hit, Dad and I made a podcast for his show that had tips for finding lost pets after a natural disaster. Lots of people sent emails thanking us and some even sent photos with their found dogs and cats, and a rabbit named Oreo.
“And you just brought home a turtle,” Ava says.
I texted Ava a picture of Bert swimming in the plastic tub last night with the message:
Meet the newest member of the family.
On the walk home, I wonder about too-big hearts and apps that can find lost nanas.
12
Hot Dogs, Mustard, and Diapers
The next day, Gramps and Charlie pick me up from school. Gramps’s car smells like the hike up Ridge Mountain. I think it’s the green cardboard tree dangling from his rearview mirror, which he got to hide the stink from the cigars he’s not supposed to be smoking. I move the bakery box filled with chocolate doughnuts that’s on my seat and hand it to my grandfather.
He and Nana always ate one doughnut a day for breakfast. Every week, Nana would walk into The Baking Room and without saying one word, Ida, the owner, would hand her fourteen chocolate doughnuts, in a box tied with string. Now, Gramps buys his own doughnuts.
He gives us each some chocolatey goodness and winks.
“Thanks for the nun fart,” Charlie says, cracking up.
Gramps nods and laughs. “I’m not sure how Charlie found this out,” Gramps says, “but in France, doughnuts are called ‘pets de nonne,’ which translates to ‘nun farts.’”
The laughter bounces off the walls of my grandfather’s tan Chevy.
We’re on a run to the store for more diapers. Dad was going to come with us, but he had to interview a guy named Tyrone Jefferson for his podcast. Jefferson’s some big-deal scientist who’s researching a genetically engineered crop that he says could end world hunger. Sadly, I don’t think Gramps’s chocolate doughnuts are part of Jefferson’s master farming plan.
When we get to Box Mart, we head to aisle four and find diapers for the tiniest ones. After that, I’m ready to leave, but Charlie spies the aisle with trucks, and Gramps wants to check out what’s on sale.
We stroll all over the store with our diapers and our cart and a yellow truck that Charlie somehow got Gramps to agree to buy for him. Gramps pokes in the sale bins, humming to the Marvin Gaye hits playing over the loudspeakers. He finds black and gray and blue argyle socks at 50 percent off, towels at 10 percent off, and large tubs of mayonnaise—buy one, get one free. I successfully convince him that he doesn’t eat enough tuna salad to get through even one tub before it expires, but can’t convince him that he doesn’t need the socks or the towels.
Gramps turns to me as we pass aisle seven—pet supplies. “Does Bert need anything? There’s lots of pet stuff on sale.”
“Actually, some turtle food would be great. I think Mom and Dad might start noticing that I’ve been stealing the romaine lettuce and squash. And even some of the leftover hamburger.”
We stock up on all things turtle, pay, and head over to the hot-dog counter. This is the best part of Box Mart. They sell giant hot dogs in big doughy buns. I load mine with relish and onions, and Charlie fills his with yellow mustard and bacon bits. Then we all slide into the plastic chairs at one of the sticky red tables.
After one giant bite, Charlie has mustard dripping down his chin. I hand him a napkin. “I think Mom and Dad should keep Izzie,” I say.
“Hmm,” Gramps says.
“Did you know astronauts ate bacon on the moon?” Charlie says.
My grandfather gives him a thumbs-up.
I look at my brother and then at Gramps. “I think you should tell our parents that we should keep her. I mean, they’ll listen to you.”
He laughs. “What makes you believe that I think you should keep Izzie?”
“I heard you singing Nana’s favorite song to her the night we brought her home,” I say, finishing the last bite of my hot dog and tucking my napkin into my pocket.
When we get back home, Gramps and Charlie unpack the stuff, and Mom’s waiting for me in the family room. Something feels off. And it’s not just the ugly painting she bought and hung because it matched the honey-colored wallpaper.
“I got a call from Rita,” Mom says. “The birth parents have selected an adoptive couple, and I need to bring Isabelle back to Rita’s office so she can give her to her forever family.”
“When?”
“Saturday.”
So now I know.
Forever ends tomorrow.
13
Love You, Little Bean
The panic rises from the place that holds my forever good-byes.
To Nana.
And now, Izzie.
I hug this little human who smells like powder, and a tear slips out. I don’t want to let her go. Don’t want to be forgotten. I want to teach her how to ride a two-wheeler, hold her hand when she crosses the street, and be annoyed when she borrows my favorite sunflower T-shirt. I want to be her sister for keeps.
“I want her to stay.”
“She can’t, Maggie,” Mom says. Then she tells me about the adoptive couple, Asher and Maya. They’re from Louisiana. They have happy smiles and big hearts and want a family. More than anything.
Mom reminds me what an important thing we’re doing.
But it’s not working.
I don’t want to be reminded.
I want Izzie.
“We should keep her,” I say. “I’ll babysit. And change diapers.”
Mom takes my hands and, in a voice wrapped in love, says, “First, we’re not approved for adoption. Only foster care. Second, even if we got approval, Dad and I can’t work and care for a newborn, along with Charlie, Dillon, and you.”
“Yes, you can. I’ll help,” I say.
“It’s not possible. And it’s not our job. Our job as a short-term foster family has always only been to love and care for these babies who need us. And then to give them to their forever families. Remember?”
I do, but I don’t care. Another tear sneaks out, and Mom tucks me in her arms.
I take my baby sister to her room. Door open. A Rita Rule. I look into Izzie’s ocean-blue eyes. We sit in the wooden rocker, and I read I Love You More. Then I read it again so she can remember my voice. Maybe when I’m twenty and she’s eight and hears me ordering a chocolate doughnut at The Baking Room, she’ll recognize the beat and sound of my voice. And then, just maybe, she’ll remember me.
I pull her close. I feel her breath on my cheek. I hum and look out the window. The moon is bright and round and low in the dark sky. If I stretch out my arm, it looks like I can touch it. “This is our moon,” I tell Izzie. “Ours to share. If we see the same moon night after night in the sky, then we can stay connected. Be connected.” I kiss her sweet head. “Love you, Little Bean.”
Then I stuff the binkie with the green frog into my pocket.
For keeps.
14
Blue Glitter and the Moon
I put Izzie in the bassinet and head to my room. I open one of the cardboard boxes from under my bed and survey my stuff. The gecko necklace from Nana. The Bert rock. Some baby-blanket threads. The tassel from Nana’s favorite pomegranate scarf. Sticks from a hike up Ridge Mountain, a walk with Charlie, and Wade’s Pond. Gum wrappers. Three bendy straws. One yellow sock. And photos of Izzie. (Dad let me print them on his special color printer, and I made two copies of each. One for Izzie’s Life Book and one for me.)
I drop in my sister’s frog binkie. It lies on top like a cherry on a sundae. I wonder what I’ll do when I run out of space in this box. Don’t think any more boxes can fit under my bed or in my closet. The last things I stuffed in the closet boxes were the green bath mat, my favorite hairbrush with the missing bristles that Mom said was garbage, an empty cardboard box with the string from The Bakery Room, and a bottle of Nana’s perfume.
After Nana died, we sat shiva. It’s a thing Jewish people do after someone passes away. Dad says it’s so the family feels the love all around them. I’m not totally convinced. During Nana’s shiva, lots of people came to our house with cookies and casseroles, and told me they loved Nana huge, but then hugged me too tight and said confusing things like, “It’s for the best,” and “She’s better off.”
While I was trying to understand what they meant I snuck into Gramps and Nana’s room and slipped a bottle of her perfume into my pocket. That night I put it in the box. It was a little piece of her. When I close my eyes and hold the bottle, I can still smell her.
Roses. With a hint of cherry.
* * *
I grab my Idea Book. Dad gave one to each of us—me, Charlie, and Dillon. It’s black with yellow stripes, and on the cover it says GO ON, CHANGE THE WORLD! He got the notebooks to promote his new podcast. Dad says we can all make the world brighter. One little thing at a time. Mom says brightness comes from a light bulb. And a business plan. I’m not sure, but either way, I love my notebook. It reminds me of a bumblebee. Minus the stinger and the buzz. I grab my favorite purple pen, the one I got at the arcade with my Skee-Ball tickets, and start writing.
Today’s Ideas to Change the World
1. Convince Mom and Dad to keep Izzie.
2. Give Bert lots of lettuce and worms.
3. Eat chocolate.
4. Keep everyone out of my stuff.
Under my list, I draw a picture of Izzie. After a while, I spy Charlie standing in my doorway, watching me sketch.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
Then he points to my notebook.
“Oh, drawing a picture of Izzie in that book Dad gave me.”
Charlie darts down the hall. When he comes back, he hands me his notebook. Most pages have a misspelled word and a picture.
Knd.
Brocli
Lov
Baf
Smle
Bike
“These are great, Bear.”
“Dad says I should use my book to think of ways to make the world happier,” Charlie says.
I look through his pages and stop at the picture he drew of himself in the tub surrounded by all his dinosaurs. “How does taking a bath make the world better?”
“If you don’t smell stinky, that’s good. Right?” he asks, smelling his armpits.
I nod and hug my clean little brother.
Then he hands me a card.
“Is this part of your change-the-world plan?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, this is for Izzie.”
The card’s shaped like a moon and covered in a thick coat of blue sparkles.
My heart squeezes tight as I take his hand and walk him into Izzie’s room to give our baby sister her card.
That night, I tell Charlie the story of the moon. How it connects us all.
He draws a moon on one of the pages in his book and tells me the moon isn’t round, it’s shaped like an egg. Then he tells me that he thinks there are certain times of year when the moon’s covered in blue glitter.
That’s when I realize that no matter how many random facts my little brother knows, he’s still just six.
15
Good-Bye Day
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since Mom shared the news.
Twenty-four hours since I learned how long forever is.
Today is Good-Bye Day.
I hand Mom all the photos I’ve taken for the Life Book. And she hands me Izzie. Eight days of being Little Bean’s big sister and now it’s over. Just like that, the smell of love that’s flooded every cell in my body will disappear like a mountain in the fog. I hold her close and sing “Lullaby Blue.” I soak in every detail. I want to remember her tuft of acorn-brown hair, her soft skin, and her big blue eyes. I want to remember what love this big feels like.
“It’s time, Maggie,” Dad says from the doorway. We need to leave for trap.
I hand my baby sister to my mom.
I hate forever good-byes.
Last night before bed, I campaigned again to keep Izzie. “It’s not fair,” I said. “Charlie wants to be a big brother. I want a little sister.” My hands flew all over the place. “Look, even Dillon likes her! When he thinks no one’s around, he talks to her. I heard him.”
The room went silent. My parents exchanged a look. Not the good kind.
But I wasn’t giving up. “You said our job was to love her, and we did. And we do. How can we just give her back? Like none of this happened. Like she’s not my baby sister.”
“Maggie, our job was always only short-term foster care. We were never going to be Izzie’s forever family,” Dad said.
“But I
don’t love in tiny doses,” I said, my cheeks wet.
* * *
The mist settles on the treetops. I don’t want to get out of the truck. I hate today.
Izzie is leaving, and so is one of the Original Five.
I see Mason standing by the red building. Ava, Sam, and Gracie are huddled together nearby. Sam’s got her hair wrapped around her finger, and I overhear Ava say that Max the beagle tried to chase two squirrels up a tree on their walk this morning.
Dad calls us together and officially welcomes Mason to our squad. Everyone knows him. Before today, he was part of Eagle Eyes but shooting with the intermediate squad. Apparently, he’s been practicing. Because now he’s an intermediate advanced, and the fifth member of our almost-all-girl squad.
“Will Belle be able to rejoin our squad?” Gracie asks.
Belle texted all of us last night. She’s now shooting with Mason’s old squad. I miss her already. Especially since we don’t go to the same school anymore. In fifth grade, she transferred to an all-girls school. Trap was our time. Together.
“The only thing we’re focusing on are the five members of the squad who are here today. And making everyone feel welcome,” Dad says.
It doesn’t work. The air’s still thick and filled with uncomfortable things not said. I rub my arms to erase the goose bumps that have cropped up. Then Dad reminds us of the three safety rules before we get into position: Action open. Finger off the trigger. Gun pointed in a safe direction.
As squad leader, I head to position one. Followed by Mason, Ava, Sam, and Gracie. I see Gracie’s purple socks peeking out from under her pants.
I think about Izzie, and a sinking feeling of sadness burrows in.
I shout the last safety rule, “Eyes and ears!” and look around to be sure everyone’s got their safety goggles on and ear protection in. Ava’s earplugs match her green socks. Mine don’t match anything. They were a gift from Dad, a special moldable yellow-and-green pair.