by Caela Carter
Elena laughs. She speaks. “You’re right though, Julian. We shouldn’t have stolen that food. You’re going to need it when the new baby comes and Dad and Emily forget all about you guys.”
“I can’t believe you did this to me, Florey. You. YOU!” Julian is shaking.
Elena keeps talk-laughing. “It’s not like your mom’s going to love you anymore when there’s a new baby. Believe me. I was replaced with you guys. Now we’ll all be replaced.”
There are teeth in the middle of her laugh. All I can see is her teeth.
Those teeth don’t need to be there, I think.
“Maybe you guys should go back to foster care and let us be a normal family.”
Then zoom, I’m punching her. I don’t remember deciding to do it. It doesn’t feel like a choice. The minute her tooth breaks the skin on my knuckles I realize that yes, I’ve punched someone before. Somewhere. Some time.
Now Elena is crying and Julian is on my back like he’s trying to hold my arms still even though I’m not going to punch her again or anything. It feels good. The place on my right hand where my blood is flowing out over my fingers feels like it’s always needed to exhale. “When have I done that before?” I ask Julian.
“Florey,” he says. He’s still crying. But it’s the other kind of crying now. The old crying. Elena is crying much louder.
Suddenly she yells, “MS. K!” and Julian and I look at each other shocked. It was one fight. One punch. I didn’t even succeed in knocking out her tooth. I’m the only one bleeding.
“MS. K!” she yells again.
We’ve never heard a kid call for a grown-up after only one little punch.
Ms. K, who is the teacher on duty at recess, comes running over to us and it’s all Flora, why are you bleeding? and Julian, are you alright? and Elena, what are you doing over here with them? and Flora, why are you bleeding?
I say, “Her. I punched her.”
And then I float away. I don’t know where I go but that used to happen all the time and it might be why I can’t remember anything in the right order and with the right details.
I float away. I’m gone. I’m nowhere.
THEORY #7
We come from blood, my brother and me.
All humans have blood, but most of them are made of their parents. Not my brother and me.
There was a time when we were tubes in a hospital, bubbling side by side, until a clumsy nurse knocked us over and we were puddles of blood on the floor. The nurse turned to find a towel to wipe up the mess, but when she turned back around, we’d already slithered away. We slid down the tiled floors of the hospital hallways, two red patches, close but not touching. We got out the door and out the parking lot and onto a school playground where kids were having recess.
“Gross!” said one.
“They’re disgusting!” said another.
We grew veins to hold the blood. They still said “gross.” We grew bones for the veins to wrap around. We grew muscles for the veins to hide behind. They still said “gross.”
We grew skin and nails and eyes and noses and fingers and faces and feet.
We grew everything until we were trapped somewhere deep inside these new bodies.
Even now, they still say “gross.”
That’s the theory. We come from blood. That’s why it feels so good when we bleed.
Eleven
FAMILIES DIVIDE LOVE INTO FRACTIONS
ELENA, JULIAN, AND I SIT IN a row outside of Mr. Jackson’s office. His assistant told us that he’s in a meeting so we need to sit and wait.
I tell her I don’t know why Julian and Elena have to be here. I’m the one who punched. But she says we should all wait.
We’re quiet while she sits at her desk typing and glancing at the clock every few seconds. But then she steps into the hallway and Elena leans over to whisper to us.
“It’s not going to be the same, guys. I hope you know that.”
We stare straight ahead, ignoring her, so she keeps going.
“Take it from me. I’ve known Dad and Emily longer than you have.”
I still don’t look at her, but in my head I admit that that’s true. Person knew Dad before he was even divorced from Meredith, when Elena was still small. Then later they fell in love and got married. After we were around. And Elena has known Dad all her life because she’s a usual born-baby.
“Babies are expensive, I hope you know,” Elena says. She looks at Julian. “You aren’t going to get as many birthday presents as you did last year. I hope you’re ready for that. And you guys can’t ask for so much stuff. The money has to get to another person now. A cuter, smaller, more expensive person.”
I file that away. Elena is talking like she’s at our house on the weekend: real talk, friendly talk.
“And it’s not just money. I was there already. So I know.”
Now I can’t help it. I say, “Huh?”
“Before you guys came along, Dad loved me more than he does now. I got one hundred percent. Then he had to split it up with you guys so now we each get only a third of his love.”
“Thirty-three and a third percent,” I say.
“Huh?” Elena says. “Flora, I try with you, but you’re so weird sometimes.”
We don’t say anything for a while.
“So what do you think is going to happen?” she says finally. “There’s going to be a new baby and we’ll be down to only twenty-five percent each. Probably less because the baby will be new and cute and too little to even make any mistakes so he’ll take up more than his fair share of Dad’s love. We aren’t going to be important anymore.”
Elena is talking so quietly I can barely hear her even though her face is right near mine.
Julian breaks his statue pose to glance at me. I know what he’s thinking.
Twenty-five percent of Dad’s love isn’t that much less than 33.33333 . . . That’s OK.
But Person? We need all her love.
We sit in silence, letting Elena scare us for a few minutes. Then Mr. Jackson calls us into his office.
We stand in a row lined up in front of his desk.
I tell him the same thing I told Ms. K. “I punched her.”
“I’m surprised you’re back so soon, Ms. Baker,” Mr. Jackson says. “Elena and Julian, why are you here?”
“Oh my God, you were here already today?” Elena says.
Her voice is so much meaner than it was a minute ago. I wonder which one of her is pretending.
She’s still talking. “What’s wrong with you?”
I don’t know anymore. It used to be foster care was what was wrong with me. But foster care ended almost two years ago and I’m still wrong and broken. I feel wrong-er and broken-er than I did last week, even.
“That’s enough, Elena,” Mr. Jackson says, and she shuts her mouth. “I can see you’re having no problem speaking so I assume your sister didn’t do any permanent damage.”
I’m not her sister.
Elena shakes her head.
“Good,” Mr. Jackson says. “So, Flora, can Elena and Julian go back to class?”
Why is he asking me that? I shrug and then they’re gone.
I sit in his office for hours and hours and hours with no math, with nothing to keep all of the bad stuff from haunting my brain.
I’m in the living room on the couch with a blanket and a pillow and Person at my feet. “I just can’t figure out . . . I don’t . . . punching isn’t . . . Well, jeez, Flora, you already know it’s wrong so what am I supposed to say to you now?”
Then she gets up and she’s in her room and I think she’s crying again and I made everything worse instead of better and it’s another day closer to the baby showing up.
Elena is right. Why would Person still want some punching, food-stealing, broken kids when she’s going to have a real baby?
I lie and stare at the ceiling. I’m numb, mostly. My hand hurts, but the pain is good. My heart doesn’t hurt the way it did when Julian was crying, an
d the not-pain is also good.
I’m supposed to be sad or something about a time-out on the couch but it’s not that bad.
“Are you asleep, Florey?” Julian asks, walking out of the bathroom. He has finally stopped crying.
I prop up my head. Words are too tired. Even No, I’m awake won’t come out of my mouth.
“I think that was our first fight. Was that our first fight?”
I nod.
He stands to go, then turns back to look at me. “Is the fight over?” he asks.
I don’t have the words to say it. I shrug.
“Yeah. I can’t tell yet either,” he says.
Then he’s gone and my head falls back on the pillow.
I’m not sure how long I lie there, numb, before Person walks back into the room. She looks more awake and more mom-ish than she did before my time-out.
She sits on the couch and hands me the phone. “You need to call Elena and apologize for punching her. We do not punch or hit or hurt in this family.”
I rub my knuckle under the blanket. The pain sings back to me. It’s not bleeding anymore but it still feels bad and good, both at once. The harder I press on my knuckle, the more I think about a stupid cut. The more I think about a stupid cut on my knuckle, the less I think about change and Person forgetting to love us and Julian messing everything up and all the things that cut a thousand times deeper than Elena’s tooth.
Person holds the phone out to me. I shake my head.
“You’re not going to call her?”
I shake my head again.
“Flora, did you punch Elena?”
I nod.
“Why?” Person asks.
But I still don’t know. And even if I did know, I’ve lost my words. They’re buried so far inside me now. My tongue is tired and heavy.
It’s been a long time since I lost all of my words. Person likes when I speak. Dr. Fredrick says I need to speak even when it’s hard; that’s trust. I always try. But right now I can’t try at all.
“Why?” Person asks again.
Really, I should have punched Person. She’s the one changing everything on us. She’s the one breaking all her promises. Elena doesn’t even matter. She’s only here once a week.
I can’t answer, so I shrug.
“Do you want to apologize to your sister?” Person asks.
I nod, but then I get up and leave. I can’t.
That night I sneak into Julian’s room with a Pop-Tart. I watch him roll over in his bed. His eyes are on me as I walk over to his closet and open the door.
Say something. Say something. I’m begging him. But only in my brain because my voice won’t work.
I slip the Pop-Tart between two T-shirts on the bottom shelf. I turn. He’s looking right at me.
Talk. Talk. Talk!
I’m not even sure which one of us my brain is urging.
We stare and stare until I’m sure the sun is coming up.
Then Julian rolls over so he’s facing the wall and my already-broken heart breaks all over again.
Person wants me to apologize to Elena. But Julian is the one I really need back.
I can’t apologize. I can’t answer Julian. I can’t reply to Person when she asks if I want more milk with dinner. For two days, I can’t speak.
Twelve
FAMILIES DO NOT INCLUDE FOURTH-GRADE TEACHERS
MY VOICE COMES BACK IN THE middle of math class on the second-to-last Thursday of the school year. I think Ms. K is happy when I yell out the first answer, because she smiles. But when I can’t keep quiet after two more answers, she sighs and gives me several corrections in the Warning Voice.
At the end of the day, I’m still packing my backpack after the rest of the kids have left the room.
“Flora,” Ms. K says. “Sit down for a minute.”
“I—” I say. I don’t know what to say. My words are mostly back, but the word “Sorry” is huge and clumsy and I can’t get it through my throat. Even for Ms. K.
“Come here,” Ms. K says.
I can tell that she wants to have a conversation the way that Person does: with her eyes right on me and her voice super serious. I don’t think I can handle that.
“Can I hold Castillo while we talk?” I ask.
The mice are getting bigger now. We can hold them away from Pringles for a few minutes.
Ms. K looks at me seriously before she says. “Sure, OK.”
I go over to the mice tank. I use the lotion next to it to disinfect my hands so that Castillo will be safe while he’s with me. Castillo always walks right over to me when I put my hand in there. Then I carry the little warm bundle of him over to Ms. K.
I sit in the chair next to her. She smiles at me. I watch the white mouse wiggle through my right hand, then I put my left hand in front so he has somewhere to walk next.
I don’t want to be mad at Ms. K. I’m so tired from being so angry. I want to crawl into her lap and take a nap. But you don’t do that with teachers; you do that with mothers. And my person is going to be more somebody else’s mother than she is my mother. It’s going to hurt like when Ms. K winks at David. Worse.
“You’ve been having a rough week, huh?” Ms. K asks.
I shrug. But she looks at me until I nod.
She knows me. She knows I always tell the truth even though it sometimes makes no sense to her. She knows if she waits and rearranges my words she can learn everything. But I don’t want her to know everything. I don’t trust her as much anymore.
She’s been trying all year to not be my teacher anymore. She treated me as well as Person did, but without any of the promises.
Too confusing.
I put Castillo in my lap and watch him run over the folds of my skirt.
“I see,” Ms. K says. “Sometimes when we’re having a rough time, it can be even harder to do the right thing in school.”
That isn’t a question.
“Math?” I say. Shouldn’t we be talking about what happened in math class?
Ms. K doesn’t know what I mean or else she ignores me.
“Did your mom talk with you about your birth?” Ms. K asks.
“No,” I say.
Ms. K seems shocked. “She didn’t? Why? What happened?”
Ms. K sees that there are tears in my eyes.
“You can tell me, Flora. I know something is wrong. You have to tell someone. What happened this week?”
I want to now. I want to try.
“Trouble,” I say.
“You got in trouble?” Ms. K asks. “For what you told me about not being born?”
“No,” I say.
“For what, then?” Ms. K asks.
“I . . . Julian . . . Elena . . . fighting . . .” There are too many words. All the words from the weekend fill me up from the inside. They get jammed in my filters.
“Fighting?” Ms. K asks. “Like a fist fight? Again?”
“No!” I say. “Just one. Just me.”
I pick Castillo up. Maybe I can tell him the story. Maybe I can pretend Ms. K isn’t here and I’ll be able to find the words.
“Just one what? I thought you said Julian and Elena were involved.”
“No.” I want to answer her. But I stutter. No is the only word I can get out. “Food . . . ,” I say finally. “Food . . . my brother . . .”
I’m holding Castillo too tight, I think. He wiggles in my palm.
“You got into a food fight?” Ms. K looks utterly confused. I don’t want to make her confused. I don’t want to be jammed.
“OK, let’s reset like your mom showed us, right?”
I nod and I let Ms. K take the mouse out of my hands and we take our deep breaths. Ms. K says, “Flora, I know you’re a bit confused about your family and where you come from, and I have to imagine you would be. But I want you to know that I see a lot of mothers and fathers in this job, and yours love you. They love you and Julian as much as any other mothers and fathers I’ve met.”
I will not cry. I will not
cry.
“Now tell me what’s going on. Tell me what made it hard for you to be your best-Flora-self today?”
“It’s Thursday,” I say.
Ms. K nods.
I speak slowly. “Almost the end of the school year,” I say.
“You’re upset about the end of the school year?” she asks.
Relief floods me. Yes. I’m upset about the end of the school year. The baby is coming. I have to go to fifth grade. Normal life is almost over. Someone finally understands me.
“Are you worried that you will have to repeat the fourth grade?” Ms. K asks.
I shake my head.
Ms. K is thinking. “Are you worried about having a new teacher when you get to the fifth grade?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Are you trying to make it so that you have to stay in the fourth grade?”
“I got the right answers!” I say.
But I have been calling out more. I wonder if part of me sort of wants to make Ms. K mad because part of me is so mad at Ms. K.
Mad that she loved me and the love is going to be over.
“School is fine,” is all I can put together.
“So it’s home then?” Ms. K asks.
I nod. I can feel the words freeze in my gut. They poke into my stomach lining. They’re cold and uncomfortable like I swallowed a whole bag of ice cubes.
“What’s going on at home, Flora?” Ms. K asks.
“I . . . a fight . . . food . . . end of the . . . I . . . you . . . a . . . see . . .”
The words I do have dissolve into solo letters and I can’t get anything out even if I wanted to. Maybe if she didn’t want to send me away to fifth grade I could tell her. Maybe if Ms. K loved me enough to be my mother, to promise Forever, I could tell her. But now all I have are letters.
There are more letters and more words. They’re building up inside me but they refuse to leave my body. They jam on top of each other like a million-car pileup on the freeway until my face is hot and my throat is sore and I know that when I finally do cry it won’t be tears falling out of my eyes but letters.
If I was like Julian, I would lie. I would paste on a fake smile and tell her I’m fine. But I don’t want to lie. I want to be the kind of person who tells the truth, and who has the words to do it.