“Shit, Piper! What are you doing?!”
She stands there for several beats in silence. Just staring motionless. I take a step toward her and a large shadow behind her seems to shift. My body stiffens.
“Piper?”
A long, impossible noise echoes out of her mouth, like crumbling metal. Ear-piercing and terrifying. Then she leaps, floating through the air, landing in a perch on my chest, slamming me into the front door. My head bangs against the wood and I briefly see stars before we slide down to the floor, Piper on top of me. Her eyes are black holes, bloody veins hanging out of their sockets like ripped roots. Black blood oozes from her mouth. I try to scream, to move, but I’m frozen.
Her little hands tighten around my throat, thumbs pressing against my voice box. She’s strong, her fingers icy. I strain, unable to feel my legs, my arms, or anything. The room grows darker as my lips flap like a fish gasping for air.
And then I’m up, slapping air, gasping and sweating. Buddy looks up from his ball on the end of the bed, annoyed I disturbed him.
Dream. It was just a dream.
Heart pounding, I leap out of bed and lock the door, checking the hidden pocket in my book bag. The place I used to keep my stash.
Empty. I knew it would be but was hoping for a miracle.
God, I need some weed.
My bouncing knee rattles the metal kitchen stool as I stare at the basement door. It’s locked. Just like it was last night. Usually, bedbugs are the star of my nightmares. So what if that wasn’t a dream?
Stop it. You sound crazy!
“Well. What’s her ‘friend’s’ name?” Mom asks.
“Ms. Suga,” Alec says, popping a handful of raspberries into his mouth. “It’s cute. Says she’s an old Black woman who likes to bake apple pies.”
I need to smoke I need to smoke I need to smoke.
Mom cuts up bananas for our morning smoothies, a wrinkle of worry above her brow.
“Alec, she’s ten,” Mom says. “Isn’t she a little . . . old to have imaginary friends?”
A blunt, a gummy, a bong, a hit. Anything. Everything. I need weed weed weed.
Alec straightens, quick to come to Piper’s defense.
“With all the recent changes . . . marriage, the move, new school . . . I expected it to come out somehow. She had imaginary friends like this before, when my mother died.”
“Yes, but . . . maybe we should have her talk to someone. I agree there’s been a lot of changes, but given her close relationship with her late grandmother . . .”
weed weed weed weed
Alec places his coffee mug down, hard, before walking off.
“Sure,” he mumbles. “We can send her to the same place Marigold goes.”
The struggle not to react is real as I push away from the kitchen isle. I’m losing control. And if I lose control, they’ll see it, they’ll know . . . and they can’t or I’ll be back on lockdown. My terrarium sits on the windowsill facing the backyard, where the light is less harsh. I used to have dozens of these, taking up all spare surfaces in our home. Every window, desk, and bathroom countertop had a piece of paradise I created. Now, this is the only one I have left that survived . . . well, me, and I’m clinging to it like a lifeline.
“You can build again,” my guru suggested after I’d swept up the glass and soil.
Maybe I can. Maybe I can build a whole new type of garden.
At the edge of the backyard, I stab a trowel into the ground and scoop up a piece of earth, rubbing the soil between my fingers. It’s moist, slightly clayish and stony. Even if Tamara mailed me the seeds tomorrow, the weather here is different than in Cali. I would need at least eight weeks before I could harvest, but an early cold front could kill all the seedlings in one morning.
I’ll also need topsoil, fertilizer, a watering hose, containers, and an 8-x-4-foot raised garden bed to put this plan in action. Could probably find scraps of wood and nails from the nearby houses, but that’d only get me so far. If I had known I’d be back to gardening so soon, I would’ve never given all my stuff to Tamara’s mom. I’ll need tools, but I can’t spend my own money with Mom clocking my every penny. I also need time away from Sammy and nosy Piper.
. . . every last Sunday of the month.
I grab my tote bag, rush for the door before anyone has a chance to join me.
“Going to the library!”
The Maplewood Library sits across the street from the elementary school, a few blocks from our house. It’s an old redbrick building, the metal letters of the sign crying rust and there’s cracks in the foggy glass door. By the entrance is a bulletin board with flyers of various business, outdated calls to meetings, and scheduled protests. A ‘Brown Town Mowing Company’ business card sits pinned on the top right corner. Below it, a flyer for the garden club Irma mentioned.
“Hello! Are you here for garden club?”
A woman in a bright blue T-shirt that matches her eyes and well-worn jeans smiles at me.
“Um . . . yes.”
“Great, welcome! We’re just about to start.”
The meeting is being held in a conference room by the history section. Attendance is sparse. A few old women, four college students, and three old Black men. At the front of the room, setting up, is Yusef.
We catch eyes, and he gives me a hesitant nod. He’s been keeping his distance, while I’ve been awkwardly avoiding eye contact just to keep girls from trashing me. I even dress down and try my best to blend into the background to avoid beef. This is supposed to be a fresh start.
Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.
I sit in an empty middle row, near one of the grandmas. Okay, yeah, I know, the totally easier option would be to just ask Erika for a hookup, but like I said, I don’t know Erika. Can’t risk it. One more strike and I’ll be shipped off to rehab like I have a real problem or something, which I totally don’t. So desperate times call for desperate measures.
The woman who greeted me takes center stage.
“Hello, everyone, welcome! We have a new member today, so hi! My name is Laura Fern. Yes, that’s my real last name, and yes, I love a good fern. Welcome to our urban garden club.”
Laura gives updates regarding new developments in upcoming projects, trends in planting, and planned trips to a farm out in the suburbs.
“I’m also pleased to report that we are this close to approval for a house on Maple Street, which will host our nonprofit city beautification initiative, with a generous donation by the Sterling Foundation. Renovations will start as early as November.”
Damn, the Sterling Foundation has their hands in every jar.
“And I think that’s about everything. As usual, tools are in the shed.”
A toolshed . . . perfect.
“We leave in fifteen minutes. Carpool assignments are on the board. See ya there!”
Class is dismissed and people congregate at the board. I turn to a neighbor, an old Black woman wearing a beautiful auburn wig and a bright smile.
“Um, excuse me. Where’s the toolshed?”
“Out by the parking lot.”
Slowly, I shuffle backward out of the room, trying not to draw attention to myself. Once outside, I speed walk around the building to a shed sitting in the grassy knolls at the edge of a crumbling parking lot. The padlock hanging off the side, I swing the door open and stand in awe. The tools are gorgeous. Brand-new rakes, hoes, garden shears, shovels in every size. Even a mower.