Author: Nyrae Dawn

I can’t stay, though, can’t find a way to breathe inside, and I miss my haven. I miss my pottery and clay. Miss making something out of nothing. Having something that’s mine. Mom might have worked to give it to me, but still, pottery has always been mine.

Almost more than I want to forget about Jason, I want that back.

Quietly, I slip out our back door. I’m just at the door to my pottery room when I freeze.

A shuffle sounds from over the fence. Do I want it to be Christian or not? We haven’t talked since that day in the hall a few weeks ago. I should have apologized a long time ago, but I’m not sure how to go about it.

It’s easier not to talk to him at school because he’s always with my old friends, but it’s harder at the center. There all I do is visit with Emery or have my lame weekly sessions with Valerie. Emery and I never really talk about anything important, which is nice. Valerie is always poking and prodding.

My instincts scream at me to keep walking. To open this door, walk in, and close it behind me. I don’t need him or anyone else. I don’t trust him or anyone else.

A little flash of that stupid speedometer zips into my head.

My hand twists the knob, but then I stop, for some reason, just needing to know. A nightmare brought me out at this time of night and I wonder what would bring Christian out.

Trying to be all inconspicuous, I glance over my shoulder, toward the house on the other side of the fence, but it’s not Christian. It’s the Hispanic woman from the center. She’s taking a drag of a cigarette when she sees me.

“Busted,” she says, her shoulders going up and down. Her voice sounds more ethnic than Christian’s. He has that Hispanic lilt to his voice, but hers is thicker. “Is there any chance we can keep this a secret?” She holds up the cigarette.

When she smiles, I notice it’s the same as Christian’s…light, happy, like they don’t have a care in the world. For some reason, it makes me want to do the same. “Umm…sure? I don’t know who I would tell anyway.” Talk about an odd request coming from someone’s mom.

“Shh. Christian is a light sleeper and he’s got the back room. My son doesn’t like smoking.”

Go, Christian! Still, it’s strange that she’s hiding it from him. “Sorry,” I whisper, sort of wanting to laugh at how she looks over her shoulder to make sure Christian isn’t coming.

“It’s okay, mija. It’s not your fault. I’m too old to be out here sneaking cigarettes, but I’m down to one a day. Not too bad if you ask me. My boy is a tough critic, though.”

Yeah, no kidding, I want to tell her, when I think about that day in the hall.

“What are you doing outside this early in the morning? I can’t keep closet-smoking secrets for you. At least I’m of age.” Christian’s mom winks at me.

“No, no. I don’t smoke. This is my…” My pottery room. I was coming out here to try and claim something of mine back. “Couldn’t sleep,” I finish lamely.

“Story of my life. There’s nothing in the world worse than being tired and not being able to find sleep. Probably not as tough on you young ones as it is on us old ladies, though.” She takes another puff of her cigarette before putting it into a soda can and then slipping that into her robe pocket. “I have a secret hiding place.” She laughs, this time a little more loudly. I guess she doesn’t mind the risk of waking him after she’s finished.

“Ignore me. What’s that saying? Do as I say, not as I do. Smoking is bad for you.” She shakes her finger at me. Just as it happened with Christian that night, a laugh sneaks up on me.

“No worries. Zero chance of me ever touching one of those things.”

“Good girl.” She smiles and I realize I’m smiling, too. She reminds me of my mom.

Christian’s mom cocks her head at me, studying me. “You’re much too pretty to look so sad, mija.”

My first instinct is to blush, but then, I feel like crying. I want to tell her I’m broken. I want to tell her about Mom, about Jason…even about Dad. I want to tell her…someone…everything. That little taste of talking with Emery the other day makes me crave more, but my fear always steps in the way. “I’m fine.”

She shakes her head. “I have a daughter.” Her voice suddenly sounds as alone as I feel. “I’ve started to know what it sounds like when someone says she’s fine but she’s really not.” Just like Christian did all those weeks ago, she grabs the chair from the porch, walks over, puts it by the fence, and stands on it.

It’s such a strange thing to see a mom do. I can imagine my mom doing it, but I’ve never met another parent like her.

“I’m Brenda.” Another kind smile. Big blue eyes that match her son’s.

“Brynn.” For some reason, I whisper.

“Well, Brynn. It’s nice to meet you. We don’t know each other, but you ever want to talk, I owe you a secret. As long as it can’t hurt you, I’ll repay you that secret, okay, mija?”

There’s something so comforting about her. The way it feels to slide into my favorite slippers or curl up on the couch with hot chocolate on a rainy day. There’s no judgment in her eyes, or even too much curiosity. Just genuine kindness.

“Okay.” I nod.

“Okay,” she confirms before stepping down from the chair and walking back over to the porch. “I’m holding you to that. We all need friends. I might be old, but I make a pretty good one. I see you at the center. You sit with Emery but you still look alone. It won’t do you any good if you don’t talk. We can go together sometime, if you want.”

She waits as though she wants me to reply, but I don’t.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go brush my teeth and wash my hands before my partner or that boy of mine wakes up.” With another wink, Brenda is gone.

…

Emery falls into the seat beside me and lets out a deep breath. “My feet are swollen and they’re killing me.”

I frown. “Is that normal? I mean…is everything okay?”

“Yeah, they said I’m fine. They’re keeping an eye on everything. I’m not supposed to be on my feet a whole lot, though.”

“Oh.” There’s so much about pregnancy I didn’t know. My feet might have swelled and they could have told me to stay off them. It’s a small thing, but something I probably should have known.

Emery grabs another chair and sets it in front of her before putting her feet up on it. Then, she leans back. “You’ve never told my why you come here. Are they forcing you or something?”

“Pretty much. They gave me an option of the school counselor, but I chose this.”

She lets out a small laugh. “Ohhhh-kay. You’re like a thousand-piece puzzle or something. Tough to figure out and a total mystery when I’m staring at the pieces.”

And she’s not? Before I can say so, she continues. “It’s not that bad. Max used to give me shit about coming, but I kind of like it. Gives me something to do, ya know? Now that we’re splits, it helps even more.”

My eyes dart to her stomach again. Max must be her ex. Did he treat her the same way Jason did me?

“You’re not very smooth. I’ll tell you all the details—you don’t have to ask. Sixteen, Max dumped me, parents kicked me out, and I’m giving my baby up for adoption. I think that about covers it.”

She cocks a brow at me and I’m sure my mouth is hanging open. It’s crazy to me that she can be so nonchalant about such a big deal. Dad may not be able to look me in the eyes, but I know he never would have kicked me out. Even if I didn’t lose the baby, he would have helped me.

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh. What can you do? That’s life, right?”

How do you do it? I want to ask her. She’s friendly and talkative and looks happy when everything in her life is so screwed up. I want to be able to hold it together like that. I want to be strong, but I don’t know how. Just when I think I might open my mouth and ask her, Valerie comes into the room. “There you are, Emery. Are you ready to talk?”

Emery sighs, but somehow I can tell it’s more because she doesn’t feel like getting up than because she’s afraid to talk. “Sure thing.” She pushes to her feet and gives me a small wave before walking away. As she does, I notice a piece of paper falling to the floor.

“You dropped something,” I call to her.

“Oh, it’s just a doodle. You can have it.”

When she’s gone I open the piece of paper. It’s incredible. Way more than a doodle. It’s a drawing of a tree in perfect detail. It looks like an old one with knobs and holes in it.

Emery is an artist.

“I used to make pottery,” I say. No one’s close enough to me to hear.

Chapter Twenty

Before

Standing up, I stick my hand deep into the open top on the piece of pottery I’m making. I let the wheel circle, my hands smoothing out the inside.

It’s almost done. And it’s going to be gorgeous.

“Brynn De Luca! Get your butt out here. It’s almost time to get ready.”

I roll my eyes at the sound of Mom’s voice. Just as I turn around, she and Dad walk into my pottery room. Dad’s standing behind her, and he puts his finger up to the side of his head and makes a circle, as if to say she’s crazy.

I chuckle.

“Do I want to know what your father is doing behind my back?” She smiles.

“What? Me? I’m not doing anything at all, am I, dolcezza?”

“Nope. Nothing at all.”

Mom crosses her arms and pretends to pout. “I don’t believe either of you. Stop ganging up on me on my favorite holiday.”

“Whose favorite holiday is Halloween?” I say at the same time Dad says, “I thought that was Christmas. Every holiday can’t be your favorite. That’s cheating.”

Mom turns to him. “I do not cheat, Anthony, and don’t you accuse me of it again. Halloween and Christmas are tied for number one and all the other holidays are number two.”

Dad and I both laugh at her. She always makes us laugh.

“I’m too old to dress up,” I tell her.

“There’s no such thing. Your father and I are dressing up and I’m pretty sure we’re older than you.”

“You don’t act like it,” I tease.

“Only on Halloween. I deserve one day a year to be a kid. Now, scoot. You have about fifteen minutes to finish up in here before you need to get on your costume. We have a haunted house to run.”

“Brynn, help me!” Dad laughs, a smile on his face as Mom drags him from the room. I finish my piece and then go get dressed.

My stomach hurts from laughing so hard as I watch Dad chase kids around the haunted house. Mom makes all sorts of corny noises that I’m pretty sure she thinks are scary but sound like a Disney princess trying to act tough.

After about an hour, my friends call to ask if I want to do something with them.

“You can go,” Mom says, but yes isn’t even an answer I’d consider.

“That’s okay. We’re having fun here. I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow,” I say into the phone.

After I hang up, Mom clips me with her hip. “Did I hear you say this was fun? I thought you were too old.”

“AHHHH!” a group of kids yells as Dad starts chasing again.

My eyes catch Mom’s. “There’s no such thing as being too old for Halloween.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Now

Is it ridiculous that I’ve spent the past couple weeks leading up to Halloween watching Christian’s house? I’m sure it is, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s one of the smaller reasons I have to feel ridiculous.