by Elly Swartz
I raise my shotgun, shoulder it, and press my cheek hard against the wood stock, then yell, “Pull!”
The neon-orange disc hurls by, but my mind is stuck on good-byes. Silence fills the space around me as the disc floats in the air and then hits the ground, untouched.
Next round, I miss again. And again. The sadness tugs at me.
After five missed shots, I move to the second position and wait for the nod from Ava in position one to be sure everyone is ready.
“Pull!” Miss. Can’t concentrate. The clay neon disc sails away from me untouched. Again.
I end up with a 10/25. One of my worst scores. Ever.
No one does well, and Dad calls us in for a pep talk. But everyone still looks miserable. That’s the thing about those talks. They don’t really work.
When Dad and I get to his truck, I hear a gruff rumble of a voice. It’s coming from a linebacker-size man with a bushy beard, wearing a Bruins cap. “My son’s not going to be a part of some mediocre girls’ squad.”
The words swallow the breeze blowing across the parking lot.
“Ray, this is the best group of shooters we have at Fish, Fur, and Fly,” Dad says.
“Didn’t look like the best group of anything,” Mason’s father says, moving next to his son.
My head drops.
“Look, your son was invited to join this squad,” Dad says, “and head with us to the state tournament at the end of the season.”
Mason’s dad steps closer, finger pointing in my dad’s face. “There’s no way—”
“Dad, stop!” Mason says. Then he opens the door to the gray truck parked next to us, sits in the front passenger seat, and crosses his arms.
Welcome to the almost-all-girl trapshooting squad.
16
Ruby Red
On the drive home, I don’t want to talk about how poorly I shot, Mason’s dad, or our no-longer-all-girl squad. My insides are filled with a missing that can’t be fixed with words. When I walk through the bright-blue door, our house is Izzie-empty.
I kick off my muddy shoes and throw my trap vest over the chair, and my Eagle Eyes cap on my bed. Dad got caps for the whole new squad. Pine-green. Yellow writing. Then I follow him to the gun safe to store my shotgun. Batman runs over and licks my face. I hand him a peanut-butter-flavored bone and nestle into his fur, hoping his dog love will swallow my sadness.
I leave Dad and head upstairs. I open my playlist and scroll until I find the song I need. The words of Grace Potter’s “Timekeeper” fill my room as I sink onto the floor next to my newest box. It’s growing. I drop in a button from Bud the Bear. I rub the threads I kept from Izzie’s white blanket between my fingers. They smell like powder. I hurt. All the way through.
I think of Izzie’s deep-blue eyes and tiny nose. I think about her birth parents. I wonder if they miss Izzie in that place where grown-up explanations and talk can’t fix. I wipe my cheeks and close my box.
I do my push-ups, then my pull-ups on the chin-up bar Dad hung on my doorframe and wait for the exercise to make me feel better. It doesn’t. I look around and realize I don’t want to be here anymore. I tell Dad I’m heading to Gramps’s house and grab my bike. His house is only two blocks away.
The door’s open. It’s always open. Through the window, I see my grandfather in the backyard. He’s wearing the plaid flannel shirt we gave him for his seventieth birthday last year. I walk down the hall, through the kitchen, and past the symphonic tick-tock of his clock collection. The bright-orange mixing-bowl clock is my favorite. Gramps spies me and waves me outside.
He stands tall and wipes the sweat with his gardening gloves. I go in for the giant moose hug.
“I miss her already,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “Me too.” Then he points toward the tomato plants. “Want to help?”
I nod.
“Remember, twist and pull,” he says. “Gently,” he adds, as if I haven’t been helping with this garden since I could walk. Although I’m not sure helping has always been the right word for it. Sometimes it was just eating—ripe tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, and really everything. My favorite are the little yellow tomatoes. I love the way their sweetness bursts in my mouth.
“Got it.” I twirl the bright-red Big Girl tomatoes and wonder who gets to name these. Big Girl. Big Boy. Green Zebra. Enchantment. Big Beef. Big Mama. “If you could name a tomato, what would you call it?”
Gramps stands straight, his crystal-blue eyes gazing up toward the sun and then right at me. “Hmm. I think I’d name it Ruby Red.” He smiles.
“After Nana?” This was her garden. Ever since I was little, this has been my happy place. Nana said it was magical. Today, I hope she’s right. My heart could use some special magic.
Gramps nods. Nana’s real name was Ruth. She hated that name but loved her fire-engine-red hair, so everyone called her Ruby. Gramps says I look just like her.
Every April in their kitchen with the yellow-and-green-striped wallpaper, Nana would start the seeds. I’d fill a Dixie cup with dirt, she’d hand me a seed, I’d poke a hole in the dirt, slide the seed down, cover it up, give it a drink of water, and she’d write the name of the plant on the outside. Then we’d watch and wait. That was always the hardest part. I’m a terrible waiter. I’d stop by every day to see my plants. Frustration would fill me until I’d see a sprig of green. Then pure happiness.
I think this garden is like my boxes. A place where memories last and specks of happiness live forever.
“Ruby Red sounds like a good one,” I say. “I’d name those little sweet ones Izzies,” I add, a slip of sadness seeping out.
Gramps sits on the wooden box that holds Nana’s gardening tools. I plop down on the ground next to him. “You never even liked tomatoes or gardening,” I say.
“I know. Gardening was your grandmother’s thing.” He pauses to take a drink from his water bottle that says BEST GRANDPA EVER. “Then Doughnut Day happened, and I found myself wanting to be out here.”
I look at his sun-kissed, wrinkled face. He has three long lines etched across his forehead. Doughnut Day was a Sunday, not long after Forgot-Me Day. Mom and I brought the usual order of chocolate doughnuts to Gramps, since Nana couldn’t get to The Baking Room anymore and Gramps wouldn’t leave her alone in the house. Gramps showed her the doughnuts. His smile was bright, like we’d brought the one thing that could fix her, the one thing that could bring her back to all of us. But instead of biting into her favorite dessert, she said, “I don’t like doughnuts.” Gramps tried to do what he always did. Talk to her. Remind her. But she started saying things that didn’t make sense. She called him by her brother’s name. Nana’s brother had died two years earlier. Then a giant sadness draped over all the uneaten doughnuts.
“I feel close to her out here,” Gramps said.
I get that. I lay my head on my grandfather’s knee, thinking about Izzie and Nana. And the giant missing.
17
Dance Party
When Gramps leaves for his weekly game of bridge, I text Dad to let him know I’m stopping at Belle’s. I’m not ready to go back to a house without a sister.
I lean my bike against Belle’s garage. Before I go in, I take out my phone and find my favorite photo of Izzie. The one that Dad took when I was holding her that first night. Her tiny body fit so perfectly in my arms. I wonder how it’s possible to love someone so completely in just eight days.
I inhale big, put my phone away, and ring the doorbell. Belle’s mom opens the door with a gigantic hug and a very enthusiastic hello.
“I’m sorry my dad moved Belle from our squad,” I say.
“Oh, dear. Don’t you worry about that. Belle may have switched squads, but so long as she’s still shooting trap for Fish, Fur, and Fly, she’s just fine. Honest. And if she’s good, I’m good,” she says, followed by a smile filled with lots of superwhite teeth.
I wonder if Belle really is fine. Then I hear music blaring from her room, and when I open the
door, she’s dancing on top of her bed, holding her hamster, Linus.
“Dance party,” she says, motioning for me to join her.
But I don’t want to. Not now. “I wish you were still on our squad. It’s not the same without you.”
She pops Linus in his plastic exercise ball, turns up the music, and continues dancing.
“How’s the new squad?”
“Good,” she says. “Coach Aiden is helping me with my shot.”
“You okay?” I ask, sitting on the floor with Linus.
She nods to the beat.
“I promise to keep asking my dad if you can come back. I mean, that’s how it should be. All of us together.”
Belle turns the music down and hops off her once dance floor, now messy bed. “Don’t keep asking him.” She walks over to me. “I like where I am. There’s less pressure. And I’m still part of Eagle Eyes, just a different squad. I’m good. I promise.”
She pushes her bedroom door closed so Linus doesn’t roll down the hallway. “What about you? Are you all right? You look really sad.”
I tell her that Izzie is gone. She slides next to me on the floor and takes my hands. I wonder if she can feel my sadness through my fingers. We watch Linus rolling in circles and listen to music until I need to leave.
On my ride home, I think about Nana and Izzie and Belle.
And wonder if there will ever be a time when good-byes don’t leave a gaping hole in my heart.
18
Change of Plans
Charlie’s in my room with Bert and Batman when I get home from Belle’s. I rub behind my dog’s ears while Bert nibbles a worm Charlie found for him outside.
“Did you know starfish can turn their stomachs inside out?” Charlie asks.
Sometimes random facts help me forget the missing.
But then I hear the front door creak open, and I remember.
I dart downstairs. Two steps at a time. I want to know everything about Izzie’s forever family. Are they kind and loving? And happy? Do they know Izzie likes to be held high on the shoulder and rocked when she’s crying? Did they like the photos I took for her Life Book?
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, Mom’s standing in the hallway on the plum-colored carpet.
Holding Izzie.
I stop.
Run over and hug my mom and baby sister.
“I thought I’d never see her again,” I say.
“There’s been a change of plans.”
“Why didn’t you call Dad or me?”
“Couldn’t reach you guys at trap. There’s no reception there. Then my phone died.” She holds up her silver case to show the black screen. “I thought I’d just finish my errands and come tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?”
“Izzie needs to stay with us a little longer.”
Happiness wraps around me like Nana’s afghan.
I hold our tiny human in my arms and kiss her soft head. “Wait. Why?”
“There was a hurricane in Louisiana where the adoptive couple is from. The airports are closed, and the roads are flooded. They can’t get out.”
My breath catches in the back of my throat.
Did I put this in the universe when I wished for her to stay? Did I do this?
Guilt crashes down on me.
19
Just In Case
I try to reach Ava, but I remember she’s with her mom at some coding camp for the rest of the weekend. I need to talk to her. I need to know I didn’t cause the storm with all my wishing and hoping and universe sharing. Is this my fault?
I spend all of the next day at home. Charlie and I build an animal parade that stretches across two rooms and read four books together. Over and over again. The house is quiet. Dad’s with Dillon at his travel basketball tournament, and Mom’s working with a student who’s applying early to college.
After takeout fried chicken, I finish my geometry homework and move into Izzie’s room. She falls asleep with Bud the Bear watching over her. I listen to her breathing and snuggle under the afghan, hoping it’ll make me feel less responsible for the bad thing. I close my eyes and drift to sleep. In my dreams, I’m lost. Can’t find my way home to the bright-blue door no matter how many times I start over.
When I wake, it’s still nighttime. I head to my room and my newest box. I use my flashlight to peek inside. Everything’s there. My body relaxes, and I fall back to sleep.
Batman licks my face to wake me for school the next morning. I get dressed and, on my way downstairs, stop in to visit Izzie. But she’s not in her bassinet.
When I get to the kitchen, Mom’s yawning, with a very large mug of coffee in her hand. “This little one has been awake for hours.” Mom’s eyes are puffy and red. I give her and Izzie a kiss good-bye, grab a package of peanut-butter crackers, and text Ava to meet me by the weeping willow tree in the front of the school.
I’m halfway there when I realize I left my geometry homework on my bed. I text Ava that I’ll be late, sprint back to the house, and race up to my room.
I’m panting when I open my bedroom door.
To my mom.
Cleaning my room.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my words colored with anger.
“Putting the stuff away that you said you’d clean up and didn’t.” Her pajamas have spit-up on the left shoulder.
“Well, stop! This isn’t your room! It’s mine!” I feel the heat rise from the soles of my feet.
“You need to settle down. We have rules in this house, Maggie. Respect is one of them. The other is keeping your room clean.”
My anger twists and tightens.
“It is. Mostly. Clean.” I’d put a bunch of my stuff away. The other day. Just like I promised. The truth is, I don’t get why a clean room is such a big deal. But I need this conversation to end. I swallow the voice that wants to scream, and instead say, “Fine, I’ll put all my things away, if you agree to leave them alone.” I grab my homework and shove it in my bag. “But right now, I need to go back to school so I’m not late,” I say, hoping tardiness outweighs cleanliness in order of importance to my mom.
“I want this room cleaned when you get back from school. Today.” She stares at me.
I nod. I’ll agree to almost anything to get her out of my bedroom. Away from my stuff.
I run to school, the angry burning in my chest. I text Ava that I’m on the way, and when I get there, she’s waiting for me at our tree. I look at my watch. We still have time before the first bell. I slip next to her, and she hands me a bag of barbecue potato chips.
“Breakfast of champions,” I say.
She smiles. “It was this or the oatmeal stuck to the bottom of the pot.”
I give her half of my peanut-butter crackers.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
I don’t want to talk about the weird mad that took over my brain when I saw my mom cleaning my room. Instead, I focus on the reason I was up in the middle of the night. “Do you think wishing for one thing to happen can make something else happen? Something bad?”
“Um, what are you talking about?” She nods toward my water, and I hand her the bottle.
“Izzie.”
“What about her?”
“She’s still here.” Kids and teachers start to fill in around us. I spy Ms. López, my English teacher, wheeling her ginormous flowered bag. It’s like a traveling bookstore.
“Congrats! That’s what you wanted,” Ava says. “So why do you look so freaked-out? You’re doing that weird thing with your lip.”
In a small voice I say, “The reason Izzie is still with my family is because there was a big hurricane in Louisiana.”
“I saw that on the news,” Ava says. “People were using canoes to get around the streets. You should tell your dad to run that story again about finding lost pets on his podcast. I bet there are lots of dogs and cats that can’t find their owners.”
“I’m worried it was my fault.”
M
y best friend stares at me. “The hurricane is obviously a really bad thing, but I’m not getting how it could be your fault. You don’t even live in Louisiana.”
“Remember when I told you that I didn’t want Izzie to get adopted because I wanted her to stay with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I put that wish into the universe, and now I’m worried that I made this terrible thing happen.”
“Are you serious?” Ava takes the last bite of her peanut-butter cracker and a big gulp of my water.
I don’t answer, because my words weave with blame and a heavy dose of I’m-a-terrible-person.
“Unless you’re from another planet where you can harness the magic of the sun or stars or unicorns, you don’t have the power to make stuff happen. Or not happen.” She laughs.
“What about putting things out there in the universe? I mean, I did that. I asked the universe for her to stay.”
“I don’t believe in that stuff. You can’t just wish for something to happen, and then it magically does. I mean, if that were true, why isn’t there world peace?”
“I never thought of it that way.”
The bell rings.
On the walk into the middle school, there’s a part of me that still believes in wishing. And the universe. So I squeeze my eyes shut and silently hope for everyone in Louisiana to be okay. I might not have any real power, but just in case.
20
Frog or Lizard
Ava and I follow the trail of kids into school. She heads down the hall to her locker, and I go to mine. I grab my English notebook from my backpack, then look around to make sure no one’s paying attention. I quickly open my locker, slide in my bag, and slam the door closed. But it snags on something and springs open.
“What do you have in there?” It’s Sam, who’s now standing next to me. “It’s totally overflowing,” she says.