Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Nikki—

Brookside, Texas

The morning sun shining through the trees does nothing to lift my mood. After tossing and turning all night, I was more exhausted when I climbed out of bed than when I’d crawled into it.

Sleep depravation leaves me edgy and I jump when my cell rings. “I haven’t leaped out a window, Ashley,” I yell as I hit the speaker button on the phone, halting my cleaning of Mom’s dresser drawers. She means well, but she called four times already and it’s only 11 a.m. “Shouldn’t you be in math class?”

“I’m smart enough. Besides, I’ll get by in life on my charm alone,” she says sarcastically. “Calculus is for the dim witted.”

“Really? I always thought Calculus was for smart kids.”

“Nah. They just tell that to the kids with no personality so they don’t hop out a window. We tell them they’re bright, but what it really means is you’re boring as shit so you have to work twice as hard.”

“You do know people tell me I’m bright, right?”

“That’s okay, stick with me, I’ll dumb you down.” She pauses. “I only have English and gym left, thought I’d cut out and keep you company this afternoon.”

Surprisingly, I’m able to talk Ash out of cutting class, I know she wants to see for herself that I’m okay. That’s why I didn’t mention I found out I’ll be moving next week. Ms. Evans handed me the news this morning. Foster care. Again. Ashley’s mom agreed to keep me temporarily, but her trailer has less room than mine.

My frequent stints in foster care whenever Mom was hospitalized were usually short lived. I knew they were only temporary. But I still have almost a full year until I turn eighteen and I don’t even want to think about living with strangers for all that time. I can’t imagine surviving without Mom and Ashley.

Ashley Mason has been my best friend for four years. It’s the longest I’ve ever had a best friend. Actually, it’s the longest I’ve had any friend. We met in Mr. Carson’s English class. We had just started To Kill a Mockingbird when I transferred into Brookside. I’m the geek who reads two books a week and has every English assignment done before it’s due. Ashley is the other kind of girl. The kind who reads Spark Notes and despises any book that doesn’t have pictures. Some people just hate to read, Ashley is their queen. She couldn’t fathom that I’d already read To Kill a Mockingbird because I wanted to. Our obvious differences are what attracted us to each other. Ashley needed help and I gave help. It’s who I am. I guess all those years of taking care of Mom made it second nature for me.

I toss my phone on the bed and take a deep breath looking around. Who will I take care of now?

***

Notebooks filled with rambling thoughts.

Random newspaper articles folded into tiny squares.

Hundreds of empty pills bottles.

I’m grateful Ashley decided to stay in school; it gave me some time to finish cleaning out Mom’s drawers without having to explain anything. I know Ash won’t judge us. But some of the stuff I sorted through this morning has no explanation. Ashley knows all about Mom. She’s one of the few people who did. Mom’s diabetes wasn’t a secret— it was ultimately what took her life. But hardly anyone knew about her mental illness. It wasn’t something that was easy to explain. Most kids don’t even know what Bipolar Disorder is, let alone how to take care of a mother battling its demons each day. It was just easier not to bring anyone home. Except Ashley. She’s seen it all. Especially, the last few rough weeks…Mom’s disease was all about bad days and good days. But we hadn’t had any good days in a while. A really, really long while.

I look around the small trailer Mom and I shared the last four years. As always, my stuff is ready to go— easy to move. I never trusted permanency any more than Mom did. We had a silent understanding that my belongings would stay in the heavy cardboard boxes I kept organized like drawers. Even when Mom and I lived in a furnished place with real dressers, I never used one.

It’s Mom’s things that need to be organized and sorted through. It’s not a chore I’m comfortable with. Mom always kind of kept her things private. Even though she’s gone, I still feel like I’m doing something wrong going through her things.

The back of Mom’s drawer is where she keeps her jewelry box. I’m not sure why she always hid it, neither of us ever owned anything of value. I open the pink tattered box; the familiar ballerina pops up to greet me and suddenly I’m six and sneaking into Mom’s bedroom when she’s not home. I’d wind and wind the music box, watching the little plastic ballerina twirl around to the music and trying to imitate her pose. “You can hardly walk and chew gum at the same time,” Mom said, laughing, when I asked her if I could sign up for ballet lessons. Never mind that we couldn’t have afforded it.

I can’t help myself. I wind the key at the back of the box tightly, and as the music pings, the first real smile I’ve felt in weeks visits my face.

Two long strands of metallic beads wrapped around my neck, I hum the ballerina’s song as I slip cheap costume jewelry rings onto every finger. The silver one with the dark purple stone changes colors. I remember Mom telling me it was her mood ring; that it could see how she felt inside. Dark green meant sad, red meant happy. I’d always thought she was teasing me. But staring intently at my finger, I watch as the dark purple turns to green.

“You playing dress up without me?”

Startled, I jump from the bed, sending the jewelry box sailing across the room, the contents emptying all over the place as the box slams into the wall.

“Ashley! You scared the crap out of me!”

She grins. “I’m sorry. You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I let myself in. Nice safety precaution by the way, leaving the front door wide open so any strange person can walk in.”

“And apparently they did.” I drop to my hands and knees in search of Mom’s jewelry, now strewn all over her tiny bedroom. It’s not valuable measured in terms of money, but the junk is priceless to me.

“You weren’t answering my calls.” Ashley’s worry is in her voice and written on her face. I look up, finding the tips of her jet black hair have been dyed violet since only last night. So Ashley. I’m really going to miss her.

“Sorry, Ash. I just needed some time to go through Mom’s things.” I reach down to grab the music box from the floor where it crash landed and lift it, turning it upright, but the tray glued to the bottom dislodges and tumbles to the floor in the process. Two tiny plastic strips that must have been tucked between the tray and the bottom of the music box fall, landing at my feet.

Ashley picks them up, squinting at the faint words typed on the small pink strips of plastic. “Isn’t your birthday February 14th?”

“Yes, you know it is. Remember, you bought me that big chocolate Valentine’s Day heart and wrapped it in birthday paper? I always get ripped off on my birthday,” I tease. But something in Ashley’s face wipes the smile off mine. Taking the strips from her hand, I read the words that have caused her cheery pink face to drain of all its color. One bracelet reads: Twin A, 2/14/97, Mother: Carla Fallon. The second bracelet reads: Twin B, 2/14/97, Mother: Carla Fallon.