The Original Ginny Moon. Benjamin Ludwig
your parents came in to talk about what happened last night with the electronic baby,” says Mrs. Lomos.
I sit and wait for them to talk. But they don’t.
“They let me know that you put it in a suitcase,” says Mrs. Lomos. “Is that true?”
“Do you mean the plastic electronic baby?” I say.
She looks at me funny. “Yes, of course,” she says.
“Then yes,” I say.
“Why did you put it there?”
I make sure my mouth is shut so no one can see inside my brain. Then I look at her over my glasses. “Because it was screaming,” I say.
“So you decided to hide it under all your blankets and zip the suitcase shut?”
“No,” I say. “I kept my quilt out.” Because my quilt is the only thing I have left from the apartment. Gloria’s own Frenchy mom helped her make it when she ran away to Canada with me after she had me in a hospital. They made it together for me and for no one else. I used it all the time to wrap my Baby Doll in.
“All right, but why didn’t you try to comfort the baby?” says Mrs. Lomos.
“I did try to comfort the plastic electronic baby,” I say. “I said ush, ush, ush like you’re supposed to and I tried to give it my finger but the hole in its mouth didn’t open. I gave it a bottle too.”
“And that didn’t work?”
I shake my head no.
“Did you do anything else to make the baby be quiet?” my Forever Dad says.
I make sure my mouth is closed again so no one can see inside. I shake my head a second time.
Because lying is something you do with your mouth. A lie is something you tell.
“Are you sure?” he says. “Think hard.”
So I think hard. About keeping my mouth closed.
“Ginny, there’s a computer inside the electronic baby,” says Mrs. Lomos. “It keeps track of how many times the baby is fed and changed, and how long it cries. It even keeps track of strikes and shakes.”
Everyone is looking at me. All of them. My Forever Mom next to my Forever Dad on the other side of the table with her hand on her big round belly. I don’t know what strikes and shakes are but no one asked a question so I keep my mouth shut very tight.
My Forever Dad takes out a piece of paper. “The computer said the doll was hit eighty-three times and shaken four,” he says. He puts the paper down. “Ginny, did you hit the baby?”
“The plastic electronic baby,” I say even though it’s a rule that We do not correct.
“It doesn’t matter whether the baby was real or not,” he says. “We asked you to try taking care of the baby. We can’t—”
“Brian,” says my Forever Mom. Then to me she says, “Ginny, it’s not okay to hit or shake a baby. Even if the baby isn’t real. Do you understand that?”
I like my Forever Mom a lot. She helps me with my homework every night after supper and explains things when they don’t make sense. Plus we play Chinese Checkers when I get home from school. So I say, “When I was in the apartment with Glo—”
“We know what happened in the apartment,” she interrupts. “And we’re very, very sorry that she hurt you. But it’s not okay to hurt babies, ever. So we need you to start seeing Patrice again. She’s going to help you get ready to be a big sister.”
Patrice is a therapist. An attachment therapist. I haven’t seen her since the adoption in June. I lived with my Forever Parents at the Blue House a whole year before that. That was when I started going to my new school too.
Which reminds me again that Gloria is on her way right now. I don’t know how long it will take her to get here. I don’t know if she’ll get here before I go to see Patrice. And that’s important because I need to know when things are going to happen so I can count and check my watch and make sure everything works the way it’s supposed to.
I pick hard at my fingers.
“When will I see Patrice?” I ask.
“We’ll call her on the phone today and see when she’s available,” says my Forever Mom. “Probably early this next week, if she has some time in her schedule. I bet she’ll find an opening, for you.”
2:45 IN THE AFTERNOON, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 9TH
Gloria didn’t come to school today. I waited and waited and then my watch and all the clocks in all the rooms said 2:15 and we had the afternoon announcements. Then the bell rang and I went outside with all the other kids to get on the bus.
So I am confused.
But right now I’m confused about something more pressing. Patrice says that more pressing means something more important than something else. The more pressing thing is that someone is angry here at the Blue House. I have to figure out who it is.
That’s why I’m standing here on the front step of the screen porch. I’m still wearing my backpack and carrying my flute. I see that our mailbox is knocked over and there are tire tracks on the ground which means someone peeled out. Peeling out is what people do when they’re in a car and they’re really mad. I stand there wondering who made the marks and when I look up I see my Forever Dad’s car in the driveway next to my Forever Mom’s. Usually he’s at work. He’s the guidance counselor at the high school.
With one finger I straighten my glasses. I look at the tire tracks again. In my brain I remember that at 2:44 right before the bus stopped in front of the Blue House I saw two police cars coming the other way. They were driving slowly so I took a deep breath and held it until we were past.
I don’t like police officers. They all have the same head.
Then I got off the bus and saw the mailbox and the tire tracks.
I open the door to the screen porch. Right away I smell cigarette smoke. No one at the Blue House smokes. The smell makes me think of Gloria’s apartment.
I go inside. My Forever Mom is standing in front of the kitchen sink holding a glass of water in one hand and holding her belly in the other. Her hair looks like she didn’t brush it and there are dark, dark lines under her eyes. Without looking she says, “Hi, Ginny. Come put your things down. We need to talk with you in the living room.” Her voice is quiet.
I put my backpack and flute case in my room and come back out.
“Hello, Forever Girl,” my Forever Dad says. He is standing near the window. “Did anything interesting happen at school today?”
“No,” I say, “but I would like to know which one of you is angry.”
They look at each other.
“Angry?” says my Forever Dad.
I nod my head yes.
“Why would one of us be angry?”
“Because there are tire tracks on the front lawn. Which one of you peeled out?”
“Wait,” he says. “You think that because there are tire tracks on the front lawn, one of us is angry?”
I nod my head yes again.
My Forever Mom makes a little smile and then a long breathing sound. “Well, I guess this is going to be easier than we thought,” she says. “Ginny, neither one of us made those tire tracks.”
I am confused