When You Know What I Know

by Sonja K. Solter

  Ms. Radkte walks over and smiles at me.

  Have you been singing again?

  I’m so startled by what she asks

  that the noise coming from my throat stops.

  Which is when I realize

  I’ve been humming to myself

  this whole time.

  Um, I say.

  I don’t tell her about Bathtime Bomp.

  Luckily she doesn’t seem to need a real answer.

  Well, you’re welcome to join in for

  the spring concert if you want.

  Ms. Radkte sounds a little more

  like her matter-of-fact teacher self now.

  We’re doing two songs from last year.

  I manage a little nod. Maybe.

  I could even send a new song or two

  home with you to practice.

  Maybe. I nod a little harder.

  She gives me another non–Ms. Radkte smile,

  then loses it fast as she catches sight

  of some poor first grader running

  wild rings around the HUG AND GO sign

  and heads over to tell him off.

  I turn back to my bike

  and blow on its layer of dust.

  When that doesn’t work,

  I swipe at it with my sweatshirt.

  I hum all the way home.

  LOST AND FOUND

  We are in the lunchroom kitchen,

  sliding our trays onto a cart,

  when I see something in the corner.

  What’s that? What’s that

  brown spot over there?

  Oh, Tori, says Rhea.

  THE SPOT

  Two steps,

  four,

  too many

  more—

  And there’s the little brown

  spot that isn’t a spot

  at all.

  Rhea reaches out a hand—

  Rhea who’s so squeamish

  she shrieks at worms on the

  sidewalk after the rain—

  Rhea touches Furball,

  gently picks her up.

  And I look—

  I REALLY look—

  at the tiny still body,

  at the small helpless creature.

  I look because I understand

  that someone broke her, even though

  she never did anything wrong.

  I look because

  I know I can’t change

  what’s happened.

  I look because

  all I can do now

  is caress her damp fur

  with my tears.

  NO GOING BACK

  I don’t want another hamster,

  I declare at dinner that night,

  heading off Mom’s likely

  solution to my sad news.

  What would I even name it?

  Furball’s the only good hamster

  name, and it’s already taken.

  I know this isn’t reasonable,

  but I can’t help it.

  There can’t be two Furballs.

  There just can’t.

  Maybe we can get a dog,

  I shouldn’t promise, but…

  Mom’s voice is panicky and her eyes

  dart around the room like she’s trying

  to figure out where she’d fit a dog in our

  overstuffed kitchen with its in-the-way table

  and counter crammed with cereal boxes.

  Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes, Taylor chants.

  No, I say, shaking my head. It’s okay, Mom.

  It wouldn’t be the same.

  I don’t want to replace her.

  Taylor glares at me like I’ve just given back

  a trip to Disneyland, like why, why, WHY

  would I EVER say that?

  I shrug at her.

  What CAN I say?

  There’s no going back.

  LAILA (FINALLY) CONVINCES ME TO TALK TO MOM

  Tori wants to share something

  with you. Something that was

  very hard for her when she

  first told you about being

  molested.

  Laila pauses and looks at me,

  totally relaxed and patient,

  like she could wait

  in that moment

  forever.

  Mom coughs and looks at me,

  her face all worried and tense,

  like I’m about

  to shoot her.

  Okay, fine. I guess I’ll put

  her out of her misery.

  I catch Laila’s eye,

  and she nods.

  I take a deep breath,

  and begin.

  BELIEVE ME,

  TAKE TWO

          (WITH A LITTLE

  HELP FROM LAILA)

  She didn’t—

                  (Tell her, not me.)

  You—you didn’t—

           (Try to look at your mom.)

  When I first

  told you

  about Uncle Andy,

            (It’s okay, keep going.)

  you didn’t—

  You said maybe I

  Misunderstood—

  Oh! But Tori, I—

                (Let her finish.)

  You said he wouldn’t—

  wouldn’t ever

  do that.

  Oh, Tori!

       (Shh… hang on… you’ll get your chance.)

  You didn’t believe me,

  not at first.

  And then Mom’s crying.

  Oh, honey, and her tears

  soak into my hair,

  but I don’t care.

  I just didn’t want it to

  be true.

  I didn’t want it to

  be true—

  for you.

  But I’m so glad you told me.

  My baby…

  And I let her hold me,

  her baby.

  I’VE GOTTA ADMIT…

  Laila’s right sometimes.

  LOTS MORE MAYBES

  Summer is all anyone

  can talk about,

  its sun shining on everyone

  from

     5,

        4,

           3

              weeks away,

  dazzling them with dreams of

  lazy mornings,

  days stretched out so long,

  late-night ice cream.

  Do you want to come

  to Camp Aqua with me this year?

  Rhea asks.

  Maybe, I say.

  Camp is expensive.

  How about joining

  Summer City Choir?

  Ms. Radkte proposes.

  Maybe, I say.

  Probably yes.

  I’d like you to consider

  our summer mathletes program,

  Mr. Jenkins says.

  Um… okay, I say.

  Seriously?

  But this summer bug hasn’t

  really infected me

  until one day in May

  Dad calls out of the blue

  and says Tay and me

  are invited to California for

  the whole month of July.

  Wait. Can I talk to him?

  Mom snatches her phone back.

  This is the first I’ve heard.

  Mom turns red, then pale,

  looks worried, then unhappy.

  Tay and I shoot each other knowing glances

  about how this is going to go.

  But then—

  The summer sun

  shines its rays

  all the way from July

  across Mom’s face

  and she SMILES.

  No, wait. Is she laughing?

  Tay and I go googly-eyed.

&nb
sp; A break would be nice, she says,

  thank Melanie for the idea,

  then hands the phone back to me.

  Now our mouths drop open,

  cartoon-style.

  So what do you think?

  Dad’s voice is waiting on

  my response,

  My Choice.

  Maybe, I say.

  He still needs to

  apologize to Tay—

  and to me.

  But the happiness

  in my voice is clear.

  Good, he replies.

  We’ll keep talking

  about it.

  The summer

  waves hello

  to me,

  hopeful

  that I’ll join it

  with all of its Maybes.

  WHY THAT OLD WIRE CAGE IS SITTING NEXT TO MY DESK AGAIN

  It might seem weird,

  digging it out of my closet now,

  after it’s too late.

  I’m still sad when I look

  at the empty cage, where sometimes

  a shadow seems to move around,

  nosing the purple food dish,

  burrowing in a wood chip nest.

  A dull ache in my chest throbs

  along with this ghost-memory.

  But I want to remember;

  it doesn’t haunt me.

  It was trying to forget that did.

  MY UNCLE

  My uncle,

  I remember,

  once picked me up.

  I’d fallen down

  roller-skating,

  and he swooped in

  and saved me

  before I got

  steamrolled

  by all the other kids.

  My uncle I remember.

  My uncle,

  I remember,

  once picked me up.

  I’d been alone

  after school

  and he drove up

  and got me

  because I got

  forgotten

  when my sister broke her arm.

  My uncle I remember.

  My uncle,

  I remember,

  spending time with him

  was so easy.

  I’d loved him all my life,

  and then he did that

  and changed things, and

  made everything confusing.

  Because I miss him on the days

  when I remember my old uncle,

  my uncle I can’t forget.

  THE GIFT

  A small, bright red present

  from Rhea,

  looking nervous,

  as if she’s going to vomit

  like she used to back in preschool

  when she got excited or

  scared or mad or whatever.

  We’re gathered in the backyard,

  my family and hers sitting

  at the dingy old white plastic

  picnic table.

  (Rhea’s wild-child brother,

  Roan, is under the table,

  animal-style.)

  I peel off the paper,

  pull off the lid.

  Oh! Rhea,

  she got me a…

  But this hamster’s

  so different and

  mousy looking,

  its long snout sniffing.

  It rocks back

  on its hind legs

  to stare at me.

  Furball never did that.

  DIFFERENT

  But the only good name

  for a hamster

  is already gone.…

  Taylor says in a hushed voice.

  Then Roan pops out

  from under the table,

  for some reason only wearing

  Superman underwear.

  That’s a gwerbil!

  I think he’s right, Mom says,

  peering at the small gray

  creature in my palm.

  Hamsters have shorter snouts.

  And look at that tail!

  Oh, Rhea says, voice

  trembly as the gerbil.

  I got it from a family.

  I thought they knew.

  My fingers stroke the poor thing,

  its heart beating life into my fingertips.

  No, no, I say, trying to smile

  at my sweet best friend.

  Gerbil can be her own hamster.

  That’s her name, Tay screeches,

  and she falls over in a giggling fit.

  Her name is Hamster!

  My lips curl in a smile.

  And I feel ready,

  ready to make new,

  different memories

  with Hamster the gerbil.

  A DAY LIKE TODAY

  Do you think it’s possible

  to forget the most horrible,

  terrible thing for hours at a time?

  I laugh today, swinging up, up,

  into the sky, Rhea in sync with me.

  Do you think it’s possible

  to be happy in the middle of it all,

  to feel your cheeks ache again with joy?

  I run through the grass, which tickles

  my feet and makes me laugh harder.

  Do you think it’s possible

  to take a break from stale, recycled tears,

  to gulp air fresher than a brand-new day?

  I reach the front door, out of

  breath,

  from all that

  running, from so much

  laughing.

  Do you think it’s possible

  to tie the dragging sadness to a tree

  at the park, and leave it behind?

  I shut the door behind me and there’s the spot

  on the carpet where he spilled coffee last summer.

  And I remember, and

  it comes back and

  sinks its teeth into

  my belly and won’t let go.

  But still.

  A day like today…

  It’s possible.

  I know that now.

  THE LAST WORD

  It’s too late now

  not to know

  what I know.

  And what I think—

  what I know—

  is that sometimes

  you’ll wish

  you’d never heard

  the words that,

  put together,

  make that horrible,

  terrible poem

  about what happened.

  But you’ll also know

  that even though

  the poem tells the truth,

  it still didn’t

  have the last word.

  You’ll wake up one morning, and

  you’ll say YES to the day again.

  And even if the sweetest

  little rodent in the world

  sometimes reminds you

  of a darkness

  you can’t NOT see,

  even then you will blink

  your eyes clear.

  You will wake and say

  YES again—

  if not that minute,

  if not that day,

  then the next—

  And then

  YOU

  will have

  The Last Word.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Five years ago, I was sitting out in the woods with a notebook when my main character Tori’s voice came to tell me her story, starting with the poem “Believe Me.” Since then, I have felt devoted to Tori’s emerging voice and committed to shepherding this novel into the wider world.

  Sexual abuse is—sadly, appallingly, unacceptably—a part of our world, and yet it can feel off-limits to speak about it. If you have been sexually abused and are unable to talk about it, then this silence about your own experience might cause you to feel ashamed or alone. Please know that you are not alone and that there are people who care about you and what happened to you. Following this author’s note, th
ere is a resources section with a list of organizations that can offer you help.

  Even if you haven’t been abused yourself, almost everyone (whether they are aware of it or not) knows someone who has experienced sexual abuse. Sometimes we assume, like Tori’s friend Rhea in this novel, that someone’s behavior has to do with a changing relationship, not realizing what they are going through. Even if we know what happened, it may be hard to understand what they are experiencing, and why they are reacting in certain ways. It can be difficult to imagine how much sexual abuse can affect many areas of a person’s life. One of the best ways we can help someone is by listening to their story and believing them.

  My hope for this book is that readers will be encouraged to tell their own truths, and—if someone doesn’t believe them at first—to keep on telling until they get the help they need. Healing takes time. However, I personally know—along with countless other people around the world—that healing is not only possible, it IS where all of our stories are going.

  RESOURCES

  For more information about sexual abuse, or to get help for yourself or someone else, please contact:

  StopItNow.org

  1.888.PREVENT

  (1.888.773.8368)

  or

  RAINN.org

  1.800.656.HOPE

  (1.800.656.4673)

  For a state by state listing of other helpful organizations, you can visit www.nsvrc.org.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My journey with this novel has been blessed with plentiful support along the way.

  I want to start by thanking Phyllis Root and Gary Schmidt, who each provided invaluable encouragement and guidance in the earliest stages of the manuscript. Much gratitude goes out as well to the entire Hamline faculty and community for teaching me the skills essential to the writing life both on and off the page. Thank you to my class, the Max Fabs, for your friendship. It’s a precious thing to connect deeply with others in as much joy and anguish over story as I am.