Rodrick stands, his fingers running through his hair, and then flopping to his side. “Smitty couldn’t take care of you. He’s old and—”
He doesn’t even realize what he’s taken me away from. He only assumes he’s helped me. Anger boils in my gut.
“What makes you think I need to be taken care of? I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I’ve never needed you to step in before.”
Tears brim in Summer’s eyes and Rodrick’s face goes red, but he seems at a loss for words.
My jaw is tight, but I force myself to speak again, trying to keep my tone steady. “I’m going to bed.”
I change my clothes without bothering to brush my teeth or wash my face. I just want to go to bed. I just want dreamless, dark sleep. I just want to think about nothing and no one. And for some stupid reason I think I’ll get it.
I’m wrong.
I can feel the grass on my neck and between my fingers. The sky is alight with stars—stars that stretch as far as I can see. The dark sky is like a canvas and the stars belong to Van Gogh. I stare at it a long while—feeling peaceful and rebellious all at once, though I’m not exactly sure how.
I don’t see anyone else, but I feel him. Someone lays on their back right next to me—I can feel it. I look to the right, but I don’t see a person, I see walls made of wood, probably two dozen free standing walls, though we aren’t indoors. I sit up and peer around me—around and around. A sense of dizziness washes over me in the circle of walls. There are spaces between each where I can see the dark night and land. It’s strange and confusing, but I’m not afraid. I feel as if I’ve been put into a piece of art, rather than a jail cell. The model is on display, and I sit in the middle of it all.
It’s quiet, only crickets and my own breaths to fill the silence—no, his breath too. Crickets, my breath, his breath… I swivel my head to see who lays next to me, but…
My eyes open, my lungs burn with the air I’m sucking down. I sit up and sweat drips from my forehead. Groaning, I flop back against my pillow. “Here we go again.”
13
I don’t see Finn, Marley, or Danny for an entire day—the first time that’s happened since I moved to Jackson. I stay at home all day. I sleep late. It’s easy after being up in the night for an hour. When I wake, I pull out my sketch book and draw until Harmony comes pounding on my door.
We play Little People and we paint. At some point, she pulls out her two pink leaves I left on the counter out—like she’s a magician. “For Essie,” she tells me. A lump forms in my throat with the gift—maybe because of her drawing or maybe because of the way I grumped at her that day. Still, it isn’t until she goes down for a nap that I get to return to my room and my sketch.
I need the solitude, but it doesn’t last long. Summer knocks next. I close the book, not wanting her to see the picture I sketch of Finn.
“Is everything okay?” she asks when I open the door.
I stand in the doorway and I don’t invite her in. “Yeah.” I shake my head—not following her question.
“I mean with us—with you and Rod. Esther, we never meant to make you do something you didn’t want to do.”
I sigh. I don’t know what to say to her. I didn’t ask to come here. How can I appease her conscience when they’re wrong.
“Is it really that bad?”
I shut my eyes, unable to be unkind to her either. “No. It’s not bad. It’s just different. I miss my home. I miss Cytha. I’m a senior next year—did you guys even think about that?”
Her forehead is set in one perpetual wrinkle. “We did. We just thought this would be better. But maybe we were wrong.”
“Maybe.” I shove my hands into my sweat pant pockets and bite my lip, stopping myself from shouting—yes you were wrong!
“Could you give us the summer?”
“Do I have a choice?” Why is it so important to them? Why do they even want me? It’s not like I’m going to stay. I’ll leave once I turn eighteen and this year will be forgotten.
Summer folds her arms, her hair in a severe bun on top of her head—she looks so serious. She makes certain her eyes meet mine. “Yes. You do. You have a choice.”
“Really? What about Rodrick?”
“He would never force you to stay. He wants you to be happy.”
“Okay, then,” I say, feeling somehow a little more lighthearted. “you can have the summer.”
A weak smile forms on her lips and I’m afraid she’s going to try and hug me again. But she just points past me into my room. “Are you drawing?”
“Oh, yeah. Nothing amazing, just doodles.” I shake my head, hoping she won’t ask to see it.
Her gaze narrows. “I’m guessing its more than a doodle. Esther, that tree is gorgeous. I’m going to have to see it for myself.”
I chew on my thumbnail. “Yeah? I mean, I was happy with it.”
“You should be very proud. In fact,” she waves her hand, “come with me.”
I follow her into Angelo and Brayden’s room. Angelo is playing at a friend’s house and Brayden lies awake in his crib, staring at the white ceiling with his big blue eyes.
“This room is so white—so boring. What if we put a mural or something creative on this wall?” She motions to the wall Angelo’s bed is pushed up against.
I ignore that she’s trying to involve me in a family project and sincerely check out the room. “If you pushed the crib up against this wall, you’d have room for the bed here and then we could do something fun and interactive on that wall.”
“Yeah, we could do that.” She nods, peering at the space and considering my words. “You’re good at this.”
I tug on one of my curls, self-conscious with the compliment. I like to draw, to get my hands dirty. I don’t really know what I’m good at. “What kind of mural were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. Angelo likes space and dinosaurs, but space feels so dark and dinosaurs seem scary—this is Brayden’s room too.”
“I know it sounds as if I only have one tune—but what about trees or a jungle? We wouldn’t have to add the dinosaurs, but Angelo could play dinosaurs with his jungle wall and the colors would be bright and vibrant, not dark and dreary for the little guy.”
“I like it,” Summer says, picking up Brayden from his crib. “Can you hold him a minute?”
She just picked him up. Why would she do that just to hand him off? “I don’t know—I haven’t been around babies much. I just—”
“Here,” she says, placing the kid in my arms, “it’s easy, like holding a bag of flour—only don’t drop him.” She winks and walks over to Brayden’s blue, four drawer dresser.
He does feel like a bag of flour. He’s heavier than I thought he’d be, and warm. He stares up at me, his lips smacking, and one of his hands reaching for my spiraled curls. It’s a surreal experience, feeling his life in my arms.
“Hi,” I say to him.
“See,” Summer says, “nothing to it.” She’s holding a set of clothes and a diaper for him. “Do you want to help me bathe him?”