Forever, or a Long, Long Time Page 3

  “Why were we in line inside a house?” Julian asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “That’s the memory. It happened. Ever since then I’ve been growing.” I take a bite of roll. “Tell me yours.”

  “I’m in a kitchen,” Julian says. “You’re there too. We’re sitting next to each other at a tiny table, but it’s OK the table is tiny, because so are we. Everything is white too, the table, the floor, the walls. And there’s a lot of kids at the table. And there’s a little bit of food in the middle, but there’s a lot of kids. And I’m hungry.”

  “Yup,” I say. “It’s the same house. Yours and mine. The white house.”

  Julian nods. “It’s the same place. It’s where we first were.”

  We sigh next to each other at the exact same time. Onlys.

  “I don’t have a second memory though,” Julian says. “There’s a bunch of like colors and faces and feelings.”

  “But nothing goes in order,” I say.

  “We don’t even know which parts of it were real,” Julian says.

  “We just have a first memory. We only know where we started and where we are now.”

  “With a little Gloria mixed in,” Julian says.

  “And a little Megan B.,” I say.

  I don’t want to think about Megan B. though. I don’t want to know why Person would hide her postcards, why Person would hide the good stuff. The good stuff is so easy to forget and it leaves my brain with only the bad stuff.

  “Another theory,” I say. “Do you have one?”

  Julian shoves some bread in his mouth and chews, thinking. Finally he says, “Dogs. Maybe we come from dogs.”

  THEORY #847

  We come from dogs, my brother and me. We were roly-poly puppies with a whole bunch of others. We would jump on each other in piles, nipping each other’s ears, chasing each other’s tails.

  But then all the other puppies grew longer tails and ours got shorter. The other puppies learned to bark and we learned to talk. The other puppies walked on four legs but we started to walk on two. Our paws grew into hands. Our snouts became noses.

  We spoke.

  And when we tried to play with the other puppies, we would yell. Their teeth were too sharp. Their nails were too hard. We couldn’t nip and scratch and growl anymore in our human skin.

  All the playing started to hurt.

  Four

  FAMILIES HAVE NORMAL DAYS

  “GOOD MORNING, EMILY,” MS. K SAYS the next day. She keeps talking to Person.

  Person and I are sitting across from her big desk. Person is wearing her blue scrubs because she has a work day so we are here very, very early. Six a.m. Person’s shift starts at seven. Ms. K is wearing the dark green dress that she wears every other Friday. I don’t think I was supposed to notice that she wears the same ten outfits over and over again but I did. I’m wearing my plaid skirt and white shirt uniform because after this meeting I’ll go down to Early Care and then I’ll go right into school.

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. K says.

  I scratch my ankle. I’m thinking about Ms. K’s green dress and the recent dog theory and how Dad will be the one to pick us up today because Person will be at the hospital until seven tonight but how it’s Friday so we’ll probably go out to eat ice cream and I won’t have to do my homework to earn Jeopardy! family time.

  I’m thinking about stolen postcards, even though I don’t want to. I’m thinking about how to be a better, normal-er kid to make her happier.

  I’m waiting for them to finish the adult chat and talk to me.

  “Did you hear Ms. K, Flora?” Person asks.

  I look up. “Huh?” I say.

  “I said I’m sorry,” Ms. K says. “I owe you an apology.”

  “No,” I say.

  No one has ever apologized to me. I scratch my ankle harder. I scratch my elbow. I want to take off the skin and scratch the bone directly.

  “I do,” Ms. K says. “You asked a question yesterday and I think it was an important one. I think I should have answered you or taken the time to understand you. I’m afraid it felt like I was brushing you off. I feel awful. So I thought your mom and I could try to answer you together now. Do you remember the question you asked?”

  “About the mice like me,” I say right away. The heat of hate toward Ms. K is cooling off.

  “Explain?” Person says.

  But I say, “I’m not in trouble?”

  “Flora,” Ms. K says with a smile that cools my blood and warms my heart back into the sun. “I’m concerned about you. That’s why I called you in here.”

  “Oh,” I say. I’m sure she can see how I’m glowing. How I’m relieved.

  I love Ms. K almost as much as I love Person. But I don’t think that’s allowed.

  “OK,” Person says, looking at me. “Explain about the mice. Which mouse is like you?” She points to the mouse cage.

  “No, not these,” I say. Then I put the words together. It takes a while. “I mean the ones that don’t come from another mouse. The ones that come another way. Come to life. Without the other mouse.”

  No one is smiling anymore. Ms. K and my person exchange a hard look, then talk to me softly.

  “What other way, honey?” Person asks.

  I shrug.

  “Do you mean how we got Pringles in the first place?” Ms. K says.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “We bought her from a pet store.”

  “The pet store,” I say. “I mean.”

  “Explain,” Person says again. I can tell that she’s getting worried or nervous. Maybe it’s almost time for her to go to work. I have to use my words. I have to get through this while being as normal as I can be. Normal Kid. I think about being Normal Kid.

  “I mean how Pringles got to the pet store,” I say.

  “Well, she was probably born there,” Ms. K says. “I would imagine.”

  I shake my head. “Not Pringles then. The other mice. The ones like me.”

  “What?” Person says this time. Not explain. Dr. Fredrick told her to say explain not what, which means Person made a mistake. Both Person and Ms. K made a mistake because of this.

  It feels huge and important and impossible.

  “Sweetie,” Ms. K says slowly. “How would a mouse be like you? What is the similarity you’re describing?”

  Words rush through my brain and I try to put them together.

  Sand.

  Dogs.

  Television.

  Foster kids.

  “Like me and Julian,” I say.

  “Like you and Julian how?” Ms. K says.

  I’m sweating now. My heart is racing like gym class. My feet are kicking the bottom of Ms. K’s desk.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Person says. “Quick break. We need a reset. Ms. K, would you like to learn how we reset?”

  “Sure,” Ms. K says.

  Together we take three deep breaths, then we count to ten.

  It works. No more sweating. No more pumping hearts.

  Person takes my hand. “Flora, we want to know what you mean. But we don’t mean to be impatient. Take your time. Put your words together slowly. Then we’ll figure this out together.”

  But she doesn’t have to say all of that. The reset worked. I have the words ready to go.

  I can even speak in full sentences when I have this much time.

  “The mice like me and Julian,” I say. “The mice who don’t come from mothers, who came to life some other way.”

  Both women scrunch their eyebrows at me in a silent what.

  “The mice who were never born.”

  Ms. K and Person freeze and stare at me. Both of their mouths are half open like Ms. K’s was yesterday.

  “Flora, do you think—?”

  I interrupt Person without meaning to, the words are pouring forward. “I haven’t figured how we came here yet,” I say. “We both remember the same thing first, but we don’t know how we got there. How we got into that white house with the tab
le and the line. I have a bunch of theories. But you know. Julian and I always had shifting mothers. We didn’t come out of someone the way the thumbs came out of Pringles. We . . . we’re just . . . here. We were never babies. We weren’t born.”

  Ms. K and Person haven’t moved.

  The bell rings.

  “I thought maybe if I knew how the other mice got here, the not-born mice, I could get close to figuring out how Julian and I got here.”

  They still don’t move.

  Kids come into the back of the classroom and I realize we’ve been talking all through Early Care and Person will definitely be late to work and she doesn’t even seem angry about it. She doesn’t seem anything. She’s frozen.

  Finally she talks to Ms. K, adult chat again.

  “Well, good thing it’s the weekend. We’ll talk about this over the next few days and I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  Ms. K nods.

  “I love you, Flora,” Person says. She stands and kisses the top of my head and the kids in the room giggle at that but I don’t care. “I’m really glad you’re my kid. No matter what. Remember that, OK?”

  I like when she says these things and kisses me but I always duck away from it because I’m afraid there’s going to be a day when she doesn’t say those things or kiss me anymore. It’s when the best things are happening that it’s hardest to believe in Forever.

  “You’re a great kid, Flora,” Ms. K says. “You’ve grown so much in just the past few months, and I’m thrilled to get to see it. You’ll figure out this part too, OK?”

  I love Ms. K and I love Person, but Ms. K never promised me Forever. She’s trying her hardest to make sure I leave her next month. It’s so confusing.

  Then Person is gone and Ms. K says to sit down and we have a normal day.

  I’m going to miss these normal days so badly.

  Five

  FAMILIES HAVE THE SAME NAME

  IT’S FRIDAY, WHICH MEANS WE HAVE late recess with the sixth, seventh, and eighth graders because we also have music and PE on Fridays. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, I spend recess doing my math homework because I’m so excited and I can’t wait any longer to solve a problem with a definite answer.

  Sometimes some of the nice girls in my class, like Lisa and Annie, invite me to play four square or draw with chalk and I really want to talk to them but my tongue gets tied and my words get heavy and I listen to them chat and giggle and hope I’ll be able to be a girl like they are a girl one day.

  On Tuesdays, first, second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth grades all have recess together because we have PE but no music. Julian and I sit with our knees pressed together and try to pretend we’re OK in the middle of a recess with that many kids running everywhere and screaming, which feels exactly like foster care and I hate Tuesdays.

  But Fridays are different. On Fridays I have recess at the same time as Elena and not Julian. There’s only big kids here and they’re quieter and run less so it’s not as scary. Today is Friday.

  It’s my turn to be nice.

  I walk up to where she’s leaning against a basketball hoop with a bunch of the other sixth graders. They’re all taller than us fourth graders, which makes it look like their skirts are shorter. They laugh with their heads back. Their hair is so shiny it looks like it never needs brushing. They make me glad I’m still in the fourth grade.

  “Hi, Elena,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. Her friends all giggle.

  “Go play with Lisa, Flora,” she says.

  “OK,” I say, and walk away.

  The same thing happens every Friday, but I always forget until it’s over. Because then on Saturday and Sunday, Elena talks and talks to me and stays by my side all day long and Person says “She wants to be close to you, Flora. You should give it some effort” but when Julian is around it’s hard to remember to pay attention to Elena too.

  Elena and I are sort of friends, I think. I try on Fridays. She tries on Sundays.

  One week we’ll figure out how to try on the same day.

  In the afternoon, when it’s time for religion class, Ms. K walks around the room and gives everyone a marker.

  “Now,” she says. “There are nineteen kids in this class and each of you came up with four names. So how many names will we have total?”

  She’s always doing that, shoving arithmetic into a subject where it doesn’t belong. Making social studies about phonics or spelling. Forcing grammar into math class.

  “Seventy-six!” David yells.

  “Good,” Ms. K says. “But raise your hand.”

  “But if there’s two,” I say. Then I realize my hand is still down. I’m not working very hard on hand-raising today.

  But Ms. K doesn’t remind me. She says, “What’s that, Flora?”

  “If there’s two. Like two Minnies.”

  The class is silent. I’m sure they’re staring at me. I’m not making sense again. Like always.

  But Ms. K says, “Oh yes, that’s a great point, Flora. There will be seventy-six names, but some of you may have come up with the same name, at which point would there be more or less than seventy-six?”

  Hands go up.

  I say, “Less.”

  Ms. K looks at me like she wants to tell me to raise my hand but her tongue is too exhausted from saying those words over and over for the past nine months. She nods.

  Then she finishes handing out the markers and explaining that in a minute we will all get to go find our spot on the boards around the classroom and write our list of mouse names. There’s a buzzing excitement everywhere in the room. Everyone wants to write on the board. It’s the most fun thing we get to do.

  We all want our own mouse names to be chosen.

  Ms. K explains that she’s going to be the first judge of new mouse names. She’ll go around with an eraser and get rid of names that are not appropriate, which include names of real people and names that are mean and maybe some other names.

  Then she says “GO” and we all rush to the boards.

  My spot on the board is next to David’s because my desk in the front row is next to his too. When we scribble side by side, he leans over to me and whispers, “She never tells you to raise your hand.”

  Which makes me freeze with my marker halfway through the u in Julian.

  “Yes,” I say. Because Ms. K tells me to raise my hand all the time. More than anyone else. Mostly that’s because everyone else is better at it than I am.

  “You get away with everything,” David says.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere,” I whisper back. I don’t want to get away with anything or without anything. I want to stay right here and keep having normal days with Person and Dad and Julian and Ms. K and Dr. Fredrick and Elena and even David who I don’t care about at all. I just want us to stay in one place.

  “What?” David says. “You don’t even make sense. Jeez.”

  He shakes his head. He’s trying to be mean to me but I don’t care. There’s no room in my heart for one more worry when Person is stealing postcards from me and mice are born to regular mothers and I’m not going to have Ms. K as a teacher anymore if I do my best like I keep promising I will.

  David writes the rest of his list. He’s writing in purple. I’m writing in red so my letters are brighter. I make sure they’re neater too.

  David’s list says

  1. Slimy

  2. Rolly

  3. Orange

  4. Doofus

  My list is much prettier and I think the ideas are better too.

  1. Julian

  2. Person

  3. Ms. K

  4. Castillo

  A minute later we all sit and watch, leaning out of our desks to see closer as Ms. K walks around to the boards and erases different names. I can’t wait for her to get to mine. I’m sure my list is the best and I will get to name all of the mice.

  When she gets to David’s, she erases Doofus right away without saying anything. After a second, she
erases Slimy too. Then she says, “Rolly and Orange, explain those to me.” She pronounces Rolly like lollipop.

  “ROLL-y,” David yells. “Because they rolled right out of Pringles.”

  The rest of the class laughs.

  “Hm,” Ms. K says. “And what about Orange?”

  David shrugs. “My mom gives me orange juice every morning. It’s my favorite juice. I figure it could be my favorite mouse too.”

  Ms. K smiles. “That’s what we’re looking for,” she says. She winks at him. She erases “Rolly” but David beams anyway and I feel itchy because when she winks at me and says those nice things to me I sort of hate it but that doesn’t mean I’m OK with her being so nice to someone else.

  Even though I also like that she’s nice to everyone, even David who is the Mean Boy in the class. She’s nice to everyone which proves she’s nice for real and it’s not that she feels sorry for me.

  Julian and I are confused about this. We want people to feel sorry for us, until they do. Then we want them to stop feeling sorry for us. Then they stop. Then we want them to feel sorry for us again.

  Ms. K moves on to my list. She erases Ms. K and Julian.

  “But,” I say.

  Ms. K shakes her head. “No naming mice after real people we know, remember?”

  I nod but my heart is sinking. She’s using her Warning Voice. David got a wink and I get the Warning Voice.

  She says, “Where did you get the idea to name a mouse ‘Person’?”

  I don’t want to answer. No one knows that Person is what I call Person who is the best person ever. Not even Julian.

  Plus, I’m mad at Ms. K now and I don’t want to say anything to her.

  I shake my head and she erases the name.

  “What’s this?” Ms. K asks, pointing to the one and only name left on my list.

  “Castillo,” I say. “The old one.”

  Ms. K turns. She looks at me softly. That look on her face is her version of Person’s explain.

  I put the words together.

  “Our old one. Last name. Before Baker.”