on my first day of high school.
Alone with my secret.
My sister Kellen is the only person who knows. Now she’s a freshman, too, a college freshman—far away, across the mountains at Washington State University and I don’t talk to her anymore.
She only has a month and a half left to live.
But I don’t know that, and neither does anyone else.
2. First, pick cut-outs of drops.
..........................................................
I open the old four-paneled door marked private and drop my backpack on the bottom step, deciding to take a walk instead of going upstairs to the tiny apartment I share with Mom.
We couldn’t stay in the house once my dad left. He wasted no time sticking around after Kellen died.
When I was little and hated dinner, I’d swipe bits of food into my napkin every time eyes were off me, so each time someone looked there was less food on the plate. I think of my dad and how he started leaving us in the same way, bit by bit.
Pieces of him fell away—or were swiped away—long before my sister died, with every shift change, every new case.
But I really noticed Dad’s departure when Kellen would talk about college, and he’d find a way to leave the room. As the time got closer, he went out on more calls.
Swipe.
And then he’d pick more fights with Mom and always leave the house. Where did he go?
Swipe.
Kellen went off to college, and I don’t think he or Mom even knew I’d entered high school. He started taking phone calls in the garage, and in the bathroom.
Swipe.
The chores Kellen used to do were left to me, including laundry. Hard not to notice that distinctly not-Mom smell on Dad’s shirts. Mom was allergic to all perfume.
Swipe.
By the time Kellen died, he was all but gone. A few pieces of him were left, but all of them were too sad to stay in a house of memories. Mom didn’t care. She was already lost inside herself, not seeing the last bit of him slip away. My dad couldn’t even stand the memories of being on this side of the state, so he moved three hundred miles east to Spokane and I have to spend summers with him. Until I turn eighteen.
I walk down to my favorite store because it always makes me happy. This is how I fool myself into pretending I don’t have another note, unread and burning a hole in my backpack.
Wind gusts up from Puget Sound, stinging my face. It delivers the aroma of the bagels and coffee and grilled meat. I pull up the hood on my jacket and tighten the drawstrings under my chin.
On Queen Anne Avenue—“the Ave”—I pass five people, each holding the leash of a big-ass dog in one hand and a latte in the other. The Hill is very coffee-addicted and very dog-friendly. I’m sure if all the coffee shops found a way to sell dog water, everyone on the Hill would buy it. All the shops set out water dishes for the dogs, year-round. The Moon Bar’s water dish is frozen and yellow, with two dead flies and a cigarette butt in it. They’re just putting on an act.
The pet shop where Noelle works has three dishes out front, all clean with fresh water. I slow down enough to peek through the window to look for Noelle, even though I know she’s with Mason in my mom’s café; it’s a reflex. It’s hard to see around the display of organic, vegan dog treats. I’m pretty sure dogs would rather eat meat.
On the next block, I pause at the display window of Hill Kitchen. It’s only November but cookie cutters dangle from a twinkly Christmas tree; sprinkle jars with bows on top sit underneath. This is my favorite store. I collect cookie cutters and sprinkles like other girls collect makeup or shoes. But this time I can’t have them. I have a plane ticket to save for.
Something catches the corner of my eye and when I turn, I see my former friend Jen. She stands a couple doors down, in front of Queen Anne Pizza, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s by herself, so the disgust I sometimes see on her face when she looks at me is only half
Alone with my secret.
My sister Kellen is the only person who knows. Now she’s a freshman, too, a college freshman—far away, across the mountains at Washington State University and I don’t talk to her anymore.
She only has a month and a half left to live.
But I don’t know that, and neither does anyone else.
2. First, pick cut-outs of drops.
..........................................................
I open the old four-paneled door marked private and drop my backpack on the bottom step, deciding to take a walk instead of going upstairs to the tiny apartment I share with Mom.
We couldn’t stay in the house once my dad left. He wasted no time sticking around after Kellen died.
When I was little and hated dinner, I’d swipe bits of food into my napkin every time eyes were off me, so each time someone looked there was less food on the plate. I think of my dad and how he started leaving us in the same way, bit by bit.
Pieces of him fell away—or were swiped away—long before my sister died, with every shift change, every new case.
But I really noticed Dad’s departure when Kellen would talk about college, and he’d find a way to leave the room. As the time got closer, he went out on more calls.
Swipe.
And then he’d pick more fights with Mom and always leave the house. Where did he go?
Swipe.
Kellen went off to college, and I don’t think he or Mom even knew I’d entered high school. He started taking phone calls in the garage, and in the bathroom.
Swipe.
The chores Kellen used to do were left to me, including laundry. Hard not to notice that distinctly not-Mom smell on Dad’s shirts. Mom was allergic to all perfume.
Swipe.
By the time Kellen died, he was all but gone. A few pieces of him were left, but all of them were too sad to stay in a house of memories. Mom didn’t care. She was already lost inside herself, not seeing the last bit of him slip away. My dad couldn’t even stand the memories of being on this side of the state, so he moved three hundred miles east to Spokane and I have to spend summers with him. Until I turn eighteen.
I walk down to my favorite store because it always makes me happy. This is how I fool myself into pretending I don’t have another note, unread and burning a hole in my backpack.
Wind gusts up from Puget Sound, stinging my face. It delivers the aroma of the bagels and coffee and grilled meat. I pull up the hood on my jacket and tighten the drawstrings under my chin.
On Queen Anne Avenue—“the Ave”—I pass five people, each holding the leash of a big-ass dog in one hand and a latte in the other. The Hill is very coffee-addicted and very dog-friendly. I’m sure if all the coffee shops found a way to sell dog water, everyone on the Hill would buy it. All the shops set out water dishes for the dogs, year-round. The Moon Bar’s water dish is frozen and yellow, with two dead flies and a cigarette butt in it. They’re just putting on an act.
The pet shop where Noelle works has three dishes out front, all clean with fresh water. I slow down enough to peek through the window to look for Noelle, even though I know she’s with Mason in my mom’s café; it’s a reflex. It’s hard to see around the display of organic, vegan dog treats. I’m pretty sure dogs would rather eat meat.
On the next block, I pause at the display window of Hill Kitchen. It’s only November but cookie cutters dangle from a twinkly Christmas tree; sprinkle jars with bows on top sit underneath. This is my favorite store. I collect cookie cutters and sprinkles like other girls collect makeup or shoes. But this time I can’t have them. I have a plane ticket to save for.
Something catches the corner of my eye and when I turn, I see my former friend Jen. She stands a couple doors down, in front of Queen Anne Pizza, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s by herself, so the disgust I sometimes see on her face when she looks at me is only half
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