Calli. Jessica Lee Anderson
piles of paper on Cherish’s desk—my old desk. I dig through the stacks to find my iPod. I could ask Mom and Liz to reimburse me like they did before with the DVDs, but they had saved up for weeks to buy it for my birthday. I know they get money for being foster parents, but they’re constantly buying stuff for Cherish. At her last foster home, she didn’t have many things, so Mom and Liz make sure she has everything she needs and more. From what they’ve said, her previous foster mother would feed her biological kids first, and it was too bad if there wasn’t food left over for Cherish and the other foster kid. Cherish had never had brand-new clothes before coming to our house. Liz took her shopping the very next day. Despite her rough past, I still think Cherish should be responsible for her actions.
In Cherish’s homework pile, I find a handwritten essay Mom has helped her write about François Barbé-Marbois. He may have negotiated the Louisiana Purchase, but to me his French name is like nails on a chalkboard. I crumple the essay.
Going through her stack of things, I also find an engraved pen that used to belong to my father. Mom had passed it on to me so I’d have something of his besides genes. I hadn’t realized it was missing. I stuff it into my pocket.
I try not to shuffle the tubes of lipstick or lip gloss in her organized makeup drawer. I keep the furniture in place so it won’t look obvious someone raided her stuff. But I still can’t find my iPod. It’s probably long gone by now, so I’ll have to take something valuable of hers.
There’s a whole stack of untouched school supplies Mom bought for her when she moved in. Things weren’t nearly as complicated then. Delia’s sister, Rashell, was home from college for Christmas break and I was still excited about fulfilling my dream of becoming a sister and making a difference in someone’s life. Mom and Liz had wanted to foster younger children, but they got word about a teen, same age as me, in desperate need of placement. From what I could gather, the girl had been abused by her stepfather in the past and didn’t exactly mind my family’s “special” circumstances. She liked that Liz had been in foster care most of her life too. Things moved forward, and I wanted more than anything else to be the sister this girl desperately needed. We even had cute sistery names: Calli and Cherish.
In the closet Cherish’s new clothes are grouped by school colors. Hunter green. White. Navy blue.
There isn’t anything valuable enough of hers to lift. I get so frantic that I dig through her underwear drawer. She has a colorful collection of thongs. My moms must not care. Delia’s mom lets her wear thongs, but my mother told me I can’t wear them until I’m at least sixteen. Too mature, she said. I’m mature, but Mom doesn’t seem to agree.
Digging carefully through the lace and the zebra patterns, I find something valuable enough. When I grab the necklace and dangle it from my hands, I realize there’s a locket attached. The picture inside is hard to make out, a faded image of an older woman.
Even in the darkened room, the gold necklace sparkles. I wonder how much I’ll get for it at a pawn shop.
I swallow hard and leave her room as organized as I found it.
Back in my room, the crumpled essay shreds easily, reminding me of the hurricane shredding the aluminum on our front porch. The wind didn’t have a purpose, but I do. I’m finally fighting back.
So why don’t I feel better about it? Ripping the essay should’ve been satisfying, but there is a knot in my throat.
I’ve never done something so wrong on purpose.
I bury the essay remains deep in my trashcan. Liz will be surprised when I volunteer to dump the trash tonight.
My fingers clasp the necklace until the metal is the same temperature as my hand. After thinking about it, I decide the perfect hiding place is the 3 Musketeers box under my bed.
I eat a chocolate bar so fast I can barely taste it, and I set the necklace inside of the silvery wrapper to disguise it.
The candy settles heavy.
PRE-INTERVENTION
Saturday, April 19
THE PHONE IN MY ROOM RINGS. It’s seven and I’m pretty sure Delia isn’t calling about the Intervention at this hour.
I should answer the phone regardless of who is calling. Mom needs her sleep.
“Hello,” I whisper into the phone before it rings a third time.
“I knew you’d answer this early in the morning. Calli, look, I’m really sorry . . .” a deep voice says.
“You broke my heart, Dub.”
“I didn’t mean to—the kiss was an accident.”
“Are you serious? An accident?”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Calli!”
“Don’t lie to me. Just leave me alone!” I hang up. He can’t kiss my foster sister and play it off like it was some silly little accident! In case he tries calling back, I disconnect our phone. I actually want to talk to him, but he just made it impossible with his stupid “accident” lie.
I think about tiptoeing back into bed, but I doubt I’ll be able to fall asleep after tossing and turning all night. I kept wondering when Cherish would notice that her necklace was missing. I even rehearsed what I plan to do when she does. I’ll return the necklace with a warning—You can’t mess with me without paying for it. Not anymore.
Before bedtime last night, I started to get nervous even though Cherish wasn’t acting suspicious or anything. She was watching some reality TV show with Mom and Liz. I tried to do my homework but couldn’t concentrate so I joined them in the living room. Cherish was stretched out sideways in the recliner with her feet dangling over the side. Mom would’ve had a fit if I’d sat like that on our furniture. She didn’t say a thing to Cherish though.
The reality show was awful—one of the girls cheated on her boyfriend after getting drunk. “I bet he’ll take her back,” Cherish said. Mom and Liz disagreed, which I silently appreciated. Once a cheater, always a cheater—a good reason to continue avoiding Dub. Cherish was right though. The guy did take the girl back.
I dig underneath the bed to make sure the necklace is still there. It’s in the same exact spot, camouflaged in the metallic wrapper. I study the photo in the locket. The woman looks too old to be Cherish’s mother. I bet it’s her maw-maw.
When Cherish first moved in, she threw several fits where she’d toss things and rant about getting stuck with other families and two lesbians when all she wanted was for someone she called Maw-Maw to adopt her.
After one particularly awful tantrum, I overheard Mom crying and telling Liz that maybe Cherish was more than they could handle. “You can’t give up on her, not when she needs us the most,” Liz had said. They got Michelle involved, and she explained that Maw-Maw was one of the few family members Cherish had who was still alive and not incarcerated. But she wasn’t blood related, and past circumstances with her son, Cherish’s stepdad, complicated things.
It broke my heart—here her family had given her a name like Cherish and none of them was around to cherish her.
After this conversation and a few extra appointments, Cherish seemed to surrender the dream of living with her stepgrandmother. The fits calmed down, though I kept wondering when the next one might erupt.
I hope we don’t have any problems when the new foster child moves into our house. Michelle said he’s staying with a great-aunt who’s able to watch him only for a short period of time while his mom gets help. When I asked Cherish if she was nervous about the new kid too, she said, “What’s the big deal? You’re way too sheltered, Calli.” I wish she weren’t right.
I make sure the necklace stays hidden for now by sliding it back into place and twisting