Calli (13 page)

I select the playlist Dub made for me when we started going out. The first song that comes on is “Surrender.” I push my French textbook aside to check e-mail on the laptop.

There’s a message Delia sent last night. I click it open, but it’s only a forward—a personality survey. How long has it been since Delia and I talked to each other?
Really
talked to each other? I need to make an effort even if things are different between us.

The e-mail’s instructions say make a wish and answer
the questions carefully. What do I have to lose?
I want my family and friends to be okay.

I grab a pencil and a piece of scratch paper. For the first set of questions, I have to rank animals.

1.
Horse

2.
Tiger

3.
Sheep

Then, for the next set, I describe objects.

1.
Dog = loveable

2.
Rat = trouble

3.
Sea = undulating

Before finding out the results, I repeat my wish. I scroll through the e-mail, and it says the animals stand for what I value most in my life.

1.
Horse means family.

2.
Tiger means pride.

3.
Sheep means love.

I’m taken back by the responses—they feel true.

“You’ll Be My Tomorrow” starts playing. Dub called the radio station to dedicate this song to me after we’d been dating six months. I scroll down further.

1.
The dog describes me. Loveable? This doesn’t feel true, especially not lately.

2.
The rat describes my enemies. Trouble. Even if
Cherish isn’t exactly my enemy, she’s definitely in trouble now.

3.
The sea stands for how I view my life. Undulating. I think of the waves rising and falling, crashing onto the gulf coast. Undulating seems to fit.

I have to write my favorite number, one, plus the day of the week, Saturday.

One is the number of people I have to forward the e-mail to for my wish to come true by Saturday. I consider deleting the survey. I’m not superstitious, but there’s no way I want to delete my wish. The moment I send the survey back to Delia, the phone rings. I slide my headphones off so fast I rip a couple of hairs from my scalp.
Ouch!

“Hello, is this Calli?” a familiar voice asks when I answer. Unbelievable! It’s Michelle. “I’m returning your call. How can I help you?”

It’s a coincidence that she’s called at this exact moment, I know, but it’s enough to make me rethink my statement about not being superstitious. This could be an opportunity for my wish to come true, my mothers’ wishes to come true. I should carefully choose my words, but after thanking Michelle for returning my call, I can’t keep myself from saying that I feel horrible about what has happened with Cherish. I’ve confessed my actions to Dub. Liz. Mom. I’m not exactly obligated to tell Michelle anything, but it’s the right thing to do. “I want you to know I’m mostly responsible. Cherish made me so mad at times, and I . . .”

“I’m sure it’s been emotional. Cherish explained the
entire situation right up to wrongfully accusing you of stealing the jewelry. She admitted she’d been trying to start fights with you.”

I almost drop the phone. Did Michelle get the facts wrong? I doubt it—she’s not the type to get confused. Why did Cherish say that? I really need to talk to her, and I ask Michelle if this is possible.

“Only by mail.” Michelle explains how minors aren’t allowed to visit the detention center. It might even be complicated for Mom and Liz to visit her because the judge has to approve it. Michelle gives me a URL so I can look up the mailing address, and I clumsily clack the keyboard to find it while we’re speaking.

“I really appreciate the information, Michelle. One last thing. Is it possible for my moms to change their minds about taking Lemond in? It’s something they’re seriously considering.”

I expect her to sound hesitant or enthusiastic or appalled, but her voice sounds just as even when she says, “I’d have talk to them of course, as well as to others at the agency. I should be by your house soon to collect Cherish’s things and could talk to them then.”

“Thanks, Michelle. I’ll let my moms know.”

When I get off the phone I read the juvenile justice center’s mail rules. I can’t send anything else with my letter like stickers, food, or drugs. My letter might be searched or confiscated. Okay then.

I find an envelope and scrawl out the address. I haven’t written an official letter to anyone since my grandmother died, and the only person other than her I’ve ever written to was my father. I’d always hoped he would answer my
letters and we could be pen pals if nothing else. A lot has changed since those days.

I stare out my window while I think about what to write. Two squirrels race each other across the neighbor’s yard and up into a tree until I can’t see them anymore, but just a few moving branches.

Do I ask Cherish why she told Michelle what she’d done? Ask her how she’s doing even though I know she must be miserable? It takes awhile for the words to come to me.

I sign my name and draw a flower over the “i.” Before I overthink sending the letter, I search for a stamp and head out to mail it.

I EAT A CANDY BAR too quickly. I’m tempted to avoid calling Delia even after my indulgence, but that’s not dealing with things. I sit at my desk, dial her number, and wait. She answers with a loud, “Hello?”

“Hi, Delia. It’s me, Calli. So, uh, what’s been going on?”

“Nothing.”

I straighten my assignments on my desk. “Uh . . .”

“So, what’s up with you?”

Where do I start?
“A lot. Sorry if I’ve been rude.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Is Cherish gone for good?”

“Yes, and yes. How about an Intervention? I’ll catch you up on everything. I bet Liz would be willing take us later this afternoon.”

“Calli, I can’t.”

I crumple a sheet of paper in my hands. “Because of the way I’ve been acting?”

“No. Torey’s brother is getting married later today and I’m invited.”

“Really? Torey has a brother old enough to get married?”

“He’s twice as old as she is.”

A thirty-year-old brother? That’s a big age difference. If Mom and Liz change their minds and work things out with the agency, I might have a six-year-old foster brother named Lemond. That’s only a nine-year difference.

I do my best to smooth out the paper. “Well, I hope you have fun.”

“Thanks, Calli. My mom let me buy a black-and-white strapless dress. I wish you could see it. Torey’s a bridesmaid, and her dress is beautiful. Blue satin.”

“Nice,” I force myself to say. I bet Delia and Torey helped pick out each other’s dress. This shouldn’t bother me, but it does. “Listen, I better check on Mom.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’s been better. We all have. Let’s talk soon.”

“Sure,” Delia says.

After the phone call ends, I really do check on my mother. She’s in the living room stretched out on the loveseat with a pillow propped behind her back and a dog near her feet. Sassy’s tail thumps on the couch cushion when she sees me.

Mom holds up a thick leather photo album. “Want to look at a few pictures with me?”

Dub’s taking driver’s ed today, and it’s not like I have anything else to do other than homework, so I sit next to her on the floor. Sassy jumps off the couch to join
me and nibbles on my fingers. They must taste like the chocolate I inhaled before calling Delia.

Mom shares a picture of Sassy cradled in my arms taken the day we adopted her from the shelter. She was only a couple of months old, just a big ball of fur. “I can hardly remember how little she used to be. Look at how young you are too.”

She’s right. I cringe. Sprigs of hair stick out from my ponytail, and my teeth look much too big for my face, not to mention crooked. Braces are a pain, but here’s proof they’re helping.

“You’ve really grown into a young woman, but you’ll always be my baby.” Mom flips through a few more pictures before saying anything else. “Liz and I have been doing a lot of talking about the Lemond situation.”

At least they haven’t been yelling at each other again. “And?”

“You’ve made a good point, but before we recommit to anything, I want to make sure you don’t have any second thoughts. It’s okay if you do.”

Of course I have second thoughts. Having Cherish here taught me that anytime you open your home up—your heart up—there are major risks. Good and bad.

My mind wraps around the bad. What if the stress of fostering makes Mom more ill? What if Lemond has a bad habit of playing with matches and burns our place down? There’s an infinite number of what-ifs, and the more I dwell on the many possibilities the less I’ll be able to see the good. “I haven’t changed my mind, but do you think you’ll be healthy enough to handle the extra stress?”

“I’m feeling much better, and have a checkup with Dr. Inez this week. If anything, I think fostering gives me additional purpose.” Mom’s cheeks change from pale to red, but not from a rash. “Not that you don’t give me purpose.”

“I know,” I say and then tell her about the phone call I had with Michelle. I even tell her that I wrote Cherish a letter. “Think she’ll write back?”

“I suppose you have a fifty-fifty chance.”

I nod and then flip to the next picture in the album—a photo of Liz helping me give Sassy her very first bath. “I should give you a bath today,” I say to Sassy. She smells musty in addition to her signature corn chip odor.

At the mention of the word “bath,” Sassy bolts down the hallway and into Mom and Liz’s room.

I may as well bathe her now that she thinks she’s actually getting cleaned up. I chase after her, but I’m much too slow. She’s already army-crawled underneath the bed.

I find Liz puttering around in the garage, and I enlist her in Mission Bathe Sassy. Mom chuckles at our efforts as we load up on treats. Sassy’s no dumb dog and stays tucked under the bed, out of reach.

Liz gets on one side of the bed and I get on the other. The odor of the treats weakens Sassy’s stubbornness, and she starts crawling toward me. I hold out my hand and she cautiously reaches for the goodies, but not before I capture her.

Sassy squirms and scratches my arms, but I’m able to quiet her down by feeding her another Milk-Bone. Liz
helps me out by drawing the water in the bathtub and gathering cleaning supplies, plus some towels. When everything is ready, I set Sassy in the bathtub and douse her with water. The whole bathroom reeks of wet dog.

“Did Brandi have a chance to talk to you?” Liz asks, reaching for the doggie shampoo. She squirts a generous line over Sassy’s back. We both start scrubbing until her fur looks like a blob of foam.

“Yeah, we were just talking. I’m not having any second thoughts if that’s what you’re wondering about.” That feels sort of like a lie, so I add, “Well, not that many.”

Liz laughs, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my comment or because Sassy starts shaking out her fur, spraying foam all over us.

“What about you, Liz?”

“I think you put it best. You know, I lived in quite a few homes and always understood how it affected me, but now I think about how it affected everyone else too.”

“Have you kept in touch with any of the families you lived with?”

“Sadly not as much as I should’ve, other than a few random Christmas cards.”

When I ask her opinion, Liz isn’t as optimistic as Mom that Cherish will write back. “Once I moved on, I wanted to forget those times in my life. Even though I know now that they shaped who I am.”