by Sonya Sones
“I’m gonna cat-sit the heck out of you.”
Sequoia Yawns in Response
Then she hops off
Red’s lap,
strolls across the grass to the empty bowl
next to the bathroom door,
and looks back at us
accusingly.
We snap into action, locate the sack
of cat food in the garage, and fill up her bowl.
As we watch her scarf it down,
I suddenly realize how hungry I am.
“Gosh,” I say. “It’s two thirty already,
and we haven’t even had breakfast.”
“We’re starving!” Red says.
And at first I think she means that we are.
But then she tells me that The Duke
is demanding high tea,
and that Lana says she had
a foreboding premonition of famine.
And I’m starting to worry
that Lana might be right . . .
Because after paying the hotel bill,
all I have left of my Hanukkah gelt is $2.54—
not even enough for a couple of bagels
with cream cheese at the Nosh.
So I Suggest
That we stop by my house
to get some of my babysitting money,
and then go over
to Hot Dog on a Stick.
But Red nixes that idea
with a “No thanks. I better not.”
Then she suggests we search through
the trash bins in the alley for soda cans.
She says they pay a nickel apiece for them,
over at the recycling center.
But I nix that idea—
far too many cooties involved.
Then I offer to loan Red some money.
Just until Cristo gets back and pays her.
But she says she’s decided
not to take any money from Cristo.
She says, “I should be paying him.
I mean, look at this place!”
She leaps up
and dances around the lawn.
Then she flops back down again,
and for a while,
the only sound in the yard
is our stomachs—growling a duet . . .
Somehow This Sound Triggers a Memory
A memory of a Sunday afternoon
a few years ago
when me and Rosa and Jasmine
were at the Promenade
and we were practically
starving to death,
but all of us had used up
our allowances for the week.
So I texted Noah.
He showed up ten minutes later
and taught us how to get plenty of food
without having to spend a dime . . .
“Hey!” I say to Red. “Why don’t we
make this a get-something-for-nothing day?”
“What the heck is that?” she asks.
So I explain:
“It’s when we wander around the city
seeing how much free stuff we can get.”
“I like where you’re going with this,” she says,
flashing me a smile.
Before We Head Off
I talk Red into
posing cheek to cheek
with Sequoia and Pixel and me,
for a big group selfie.
Then I send it to Cristo with this caption:
My friends and I think your backyard is cool.
But it would be way cooler
if you were in it.
A minute later,
Cristo sends back a photo of himself—
posing cheek to cheek with a little stuffed bear
dressed like a New York Yankee,
along with these words:
My bear and I think NYC is cool.
But it would be way cooler
if you were in it.
And Cristo looks so ridiculously cute,
cuter than his bear, even,
that I have to just stand here
and stare at him for a minute . . .
Red Peeks at the Picture Over My Shoulder
Then, before I can stop her,
she grabs my cell
and types:
What kind of weirdo
poses with a dumb little stuffed bear
to try to impress a girl?
I scramble to grab it back from her.
But it’s too late.
She’s already clicked send.
That horrible message
is hurtling through cyberspace
like a nuclear missile.
My fingers fly over the keys.
Ack! No! That wasn’t me. That was Red.
She grabbed my phone.
I stare at my cell.
But I don’t see those three pulsating dots
that would mean he was texting me back.
I’m So Mad
I’m literally seeing red.
The irony of which does not escape me.
“Jeez!” I hiss. “Why’d you do that?”
She shrugs and then starts giggling.
“I’ve got a problem with impulse control,” she says.
“Especially when I’m manic.”
“You sure do,” I growl. “And it sucks.”
Red’s face falls.
She bites her lip.
Then she says,
“The Duke thinks
I owe you a royal apology.”
“Oh yeah?” I snap.
“And what does Lana think?”
“Lana thinks I’m a bitch,” she says.
And even though I’m still mad,
I can’t help laughing at this.
And then Red’s laughing too,
and she’s telling me she’s sorry
and promising she’ll never
do anything like that again.
And I’m accepting her apology
because I know she couldn’t help it.
It was just her mental illness talking.
And then—Cristo calls!
I Dash Across the Lawn
So we can talk in private,
glancing back over my shoulder at Red.
She lifts her chin at me
to let me know she understands.
As soon as I pick up, Cristo says,
“That’s okay. Red’s right. I am a weirdo.”
“No you’re not.
You’re funny and generous, and—”
“And I’m a weirdo,” he interrupts.
“But that’s what you like about me, right?”
“I like everything about you,” I say.
And then I instantly wish I could unsay it.
Because it made me sound
like one of those gushy girly-girls.
Which I totally am not.
Or at least I haven’t been . . . until now.
A mortifying silence follows.
But I guess if God hadn’t
wanted silences to be mortifying,
he would have made them . . . unmortifying?
Then,
finally,
Cristo says,
“I like everything about you, too, Molly.”
And when he says that,
I have to flop down onto the grass
and just lie here on my back for a while,
trying to catch my breath.
Then He FaceTimes Me
And when Cristo’s eyes
pop onto my screen
I feel like I just drank
a ton of caffeine,
and my heart turns into
a jumping bean,
like it thinks that my chest
is a trampoline . . .
Oh man . . . That face
that’s on my screen—
it’s the handsomest thing
I’ve ever seen!
And We Just Sort of Gaze at Each Other
Grinning
these goofy grins,
till someone calls
Cristo’s name.
Then he sighs and says he has to go,
because his parents are taking him
skating at Rockefeller Center
and they’ve got to hail a cab.
I say I have to go too,
because I’m taking Red
on a get-something-for-nothing day
and we’ve got to catch a bus.
He doesn’t
even ask me what
a get-something-for-nothing day is.
He just says,
“Well, the first thing
you can get for nothing is the use
of the two bikes in my garage—rent free!
Forget about taking the bus!”
Honestly. I don’t think I could
like this guy any more if I tried.
Having him in my life
is kind of like dating Santa Claus.
I mean,
if Santa Claus
were young and cute and single,
instead of old and fat and married.
Though I’m not sure that one date,
forty-seven text messages,
two FaceTimes, and three phone calls
exactly qualifies as “dating.”
Not that I’m counting or anything . . .
The Bicycles Are Perfect
All tricked out with headlights for night riding.
One of them even has a big basket
mounted on the front
that’s just the right size for Pixel.
We head to Trader Joe’s first.
But Red seems a little worried about going in.
So I tell her, “If you act like you belong
somewhere, they’ll never kick you out.”
Then I lead her through the door
and right over to a plate of free samples.
Now that Red’s all cleaned up,
no one even looks twice at us.
We come back for seconds
(and thirds . . . and fourths!)
of those scrumptious little
pig-in-a-blanket thingies.
Then we ride over to Bloomingdale’s
for free Bobbi Brown makeovers.
And after that, we hit the food court,
for a fast-food-sample rampage.
And I guess the makeup
makes me look as old as Red,
because two cute guys in their twenties
offer to buy us tacos at Pinches.
But Red says, “No thanks. We better not.”
And as she steers us away from them,
she whispers, “Never accept tacos—
or candy—from strangers.”
On the Way Back to Cristo’s Backyard
We spot one of those
Little Free Libraries
in someone’s front yard.
“Whoa . . . ,” Red says.
“Until today, I never noticed how much
free stuff there was in this world.”
She chooses I’ll Give You the Sun.
And I reach for a beat-up old copy
of Fifty Shades of Grey.
Pixel gives me a look like,
“Do you really want to read that smut?”
And I give him a look back, like, “Yes. I do!”
But the second I crack it open,
my phone rings.
And it’s my mom.
I slam the book closed
and shove it back inside
the wooden box.
Maybe
she really does have eyes
in the back of her head.
She Always Used to Say She Did, Anyway
Though, if she does,
she hasn’t exactly
been using them much lately.
At least not since Noah disappeared.
Ever since then
she’s been pretty much checked out—
with the aid of all the medical marijuana
her doctor prescribes for her migraines.
I personally
don’t even think she has headaches.
But she sure gives me headaches.
Like the one she’s giving me right now—
bugging me, out of the blue,
with all these questions:
like where am I and who am I with
and when am I coming home?
I tell her I’m with a friend
and that it’s the same friend
whose house I slept over at last night
and that she’s invited me to sleep over again.
But Mom says it’s the third night of Hanukkah
and she needs me to come home
to help her light the candles on the menorah.
I say, “Can’t Dad help you?”
She’s quiet for a minute, then she says,
“Dad’s out with a client.”
“That figures,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “It does.”
And her voice sounds so shaky,
so small and lonely and sad,
that I don’t even try to convince her
to change her mind.
Though I Sort of Wish I Had
Because now that Red and I
are pedaling down the alley,
getting closer and closer
to Cristo’s backyard,
closer and closer
to the moment
when I’ll have to say good-bye
and leave Red there all by herself,
I can feel my throat
closing up,
my fingers
starting to tingle,
the samples in my stomach
swirling around
like soggy clothes
in a broken dryer.
I Know I Should Just Say Good Night
And head home to be with my mom,
but I find myself following Red
into the yard and asking her
if she thinks she’ll be warm enough.
And even though
she says she’ll be fine,
I search every cabinet in the garage
until I find some blankets and a pillow for her.
Then I lug them over to the lounge chair
and start plumping up the pillow and tucking
in the blankets and basically doing anything
else I can think of to delay saying good-bye.
“Look,” Red says. “I know you’re afraid
that when you come back in the morning
I won’t be here. But I promise you—
I will be.”
Even so, I make her pinky swear on that.
Then I give her a bone-crushing squeeze,
put Pixel into the bike basket,
and head toward the gate.
But before I push it open,
I turn to take one more look at her.
Because I’m still scared to death
that this might be the last time I ever see her.
When Pixel and I Get Home
The house doesn’t smell like latkes.
It smells like pot.
Mom’s sitting on the couch as usual,
staring at the TV.
Only tonight
it’s not on.
Which sends
a shiver up my spine.
I give her an awkward hug.
She gives me one back.
We say the blessing, light three candles,
and sing the song:
“I’m spending Hanukkah in Santa Monica,
wearing sandals, lighting candles by the sea . . .”
It used to seem
like such a jolly little tune.
Tonight
it just seems tragic.
Maybe it’s because Dad isn’t here.
Or because Noah isn’t here.
Or because
neither of them are.
&nb
sp; And it’s all my fault.
God I Miss My Brother Tonight
When I was a little girl,
I practically thought
he walked on water.
If I could have sewn myself onto him,
like that shadow in Peter Pan,
I would have.
Noah was the kind of guy who loved little kids.
Even when he was still
just a kid himself.
Whenever we saw a lemonade stand,
he always made a point
of stopping.
And he wouldn’t just buy one cup either.
He’d buy three—one for me
and two for him.
Then he’d guzzle down both of his
and tell the kids it was the best lemonade
he’d ever had in his life.
And before we left,
he’d always ask them
for their recipe.
That’s
the kind of guy
Noah was . . .
And That’s the Kind of Guy Dad Was, Too
Maybe it’s hereditary.
Maybe Noah got all that
nice-to-kids-ness from him.
Before Noah disappeared,
before Dad turned into
a workaholic,
he was the father
that all the other kids used to wish
was their father.
In the summertime,
he’d leave work early once a week,
just so he could chase
Noah and me and our friends
all around the yard with the hose,
pretending to be Robot Sprinkler Man.
And in the wintertime,
if Dad heard about snow falling
anywhere within 150 miles of home,
he’d skip work, load the family
into the car, and just keep driving
northeast till we found it.
It was so magical—
like suddenly being
inside of a snow globe . . .
But those days are long gone.
Noah’s disappearance
shattered that globe,
and everything else.
I Toss and Turn for Hours
And when I finally manage to drift off,
I have another coffin nightmare.
Only this time, it’s Noah and me
who are trapped inside that dank, airless box,
both of us pounding
on the lid with all our might,
pounding and pounding,
our knuckles bruised and bloodied,
making
no noise at all . . .