Rolling,

  swelling

  cresting

  emptying.

  Words Froth Behind My Lips

  I hold them back as long

  as I can, afraid of their power.

  But when Jaidyn sighs and lays

  her ear against my chest, they gush.

  “I love you.”

  She stays quiet. Disappears

  into herself. Finally, she responds.

  Don’t say it if it’s a lie.

  “Jai, there are two people

  in the world I’d never lie

  to. My sister. And you.”

  Why do you only tell me

  you love me once in a while?

  I admit, “I’m afraid I’ll jinx us.”

  You’re superstitious?

  “Not really. I just know

  how life works. My life, anyway.

  You’re the one exception

  to an otherwise totally

  fucked-up existence

  and I don’t deserve you.”

  Tough. You’re stuck with me.

  Ready to blow out some candles?

  Not Only

  Did Jaidyn bake me a cake,

  she decorated it, too.

  With flawless white icing

  and purple flowers

  all around “Storm.”

  “Who taught you how

  to do this? Your mom?”

  She laughs. No way. My mom’s

  excellent with a hammer

  and saw, but she doesn’t bake.

  Nah. You can learn just about

  anything on YouTube. Plus,

  I like cooking shows on TV.

  I oof audibly.

  What?

  “Nothing. Just reminded me

  of my mom. She was a huge

  Hell’s Kitchen fan.”

  She liked to cook?

  “No. She wanted to screw

  Gordon Ramsay.”

  Jaidyn kisses my neck.

  No worries, she whispers

  into my ear. Gordon’s not

  my type. I just want to do you.

  I push back from the table.

  Pull her into my lap.

  Kiss her like I mean it,

  and I totally do.

  “I love you.”

  Little kiss.

  “I love you.”

  Sweet kiss.

  “I love you.”

  Sensual kiss.

  “I love you.”

  Hot kiss.

  “Hope that makes up

  for a few of the times

  I should’ve said it but didn’t.”

  Not even close.

  But it’s a start.

  And there’s plenty

  of time for you

  to make up the rest.

  She Lights Seventeen Candles

  I extinguish them

  in a single mighty blow.

  We eat cake and ice cream for lunch.

  Have to spend twenty minutes

  cleaning up after a cake fight.

  I’ve never had a cake fight before.

  Didn’t realize how far icing could fly.

  I watch Jaidyn bend over

  to wipe a few errant drops.

  She is something. And she loves me.

  Emotions upwell suddenly.

  No, damn it.

  I can’t subscribe to hope.

  Let alone happiness.

  Those two words have never

  belonged to me.

  I don’t dare try to own them now.

  I bite hard on my lip

  to keep the tears at bay.

  Jaidyn straightens, stares

  at me. What’s wrong?

  “Nothing. It’s just this has been

  the greatest birthday ever.”

  Jaidyn Nods

  As if she understands.

  Not sure you can really know

  what it’s like unless you’ve

  walked this particular walk.

  Your birthday’s not over yet.

  I’ve got something for you.

  I never even noticed the shiny

  wrapped gift on the counter.

  I couldn’t get you a puppy,

  so I got the next best thing.

  It’s a T-shirt, with a picture

  of Rex and twelve-year-old me

  silk-screened on it.

  So much for not crying.

  “But…how…?”

  Remember that time you showed

  me your pictures you keep in

  an envelope? And you told me

  how much Rex meant to you?

  Your foster dad helped me

  scan the photo. You’re not mad,

  are you? We put it right back.

  “Jim helped? When?”

  That day last summer he sent you

  on a bus to Santa Clara to pick

  up farmers market peaches…

  That Little Outing

  Took a half day.

  Santa Clara is, like, forty miles,

  and forever by bus, away.

  I couldn’t figure out why

  supermarket peaches

  weren’t good enough for cobbler.

  But Jim loves to cook.

  Says food, foster kids,

  and Morley keep him busy

  and out of trouble.

  So, if he needed

  farm-grown organic

  fruit, no problem.

  I went with the flow.

  Am I mad they went through

  my stuff? Not like they were

  trying to steal anything.

  Besides, Jim had every right to.

  It goes with the territory.

  Jim said we could just take

  a pic of Morley for your shirt.

  I told him maybe for some

  Christmas socks. We could

  put a Santa hat on him.

  That makes me laugh.

  It also makes me happy

  for once, thinking

  about Christmas.

  Holidays

  Especially the ones that come

  in December, tend to be

  problematic for foster kids.

  Most of us believe any celebrations

  are in spite of us, not because of us.

  We’re not family. Not even real guests.

  Gifts feel like requirements.

  Afterthoughts, even.

  I remember every Christmas

  placement. Good. Bad. Disturbing.

  One time at Floyd’s (good), this

  little kid—Zeke—cried and cried

  to spend the day with his mom.

  The same mom who decorated

  his arms with cigarette burns.

  I felt sorry for him, but

  after a while I got pissed

  and showed him the pocks.

  “Look what she did to you!”

  I know, he sniveled. But

  she’s sorry. She said so.

  Besides, she’s my mommy.

  I couldn’t understand

  loving his mother so much

  that he could forgive her

  for branding him

  with her own pain.

  The Bad Things

  My mom did to Lake and me

  didn’t compare, yet forgiving her

  for them has never been in my plans.

  I prefer holidays in care.

  At least I know I’ll be fed

  and usually the food’s good.

  Sometimes I get dragged to church.

  I don’t believe in God, but I like

  the carols, and the Christmas story

  seems all about hope.

  One time I was placed with

  a Jewish family. Hanukkah?

  Eight days of candles, games,

  and gifts did lift my spirits a little.

  That was some heavy lifting,

  too, because Lake and I had

  just been separated

  for the first time in our lives.

  Levi and Anna had two kids

  of their own, and another

  foster, so even without Lake

  it was hard to feel lonely.

  Levi had an incredible voice,

  and when he sang the prayers,

  I closed my eyes and this sensation

  of peace threaded through me.

  I never felt anything quite

  like it before, or since.

  It Didn’t Make Me a Believer

  But it did give me a clue as to what

  people go looking for in churches

  and mosques and synagogues.

  A sense that all is well when little is.

  Permission to relinquish control,

  understanding you’re powerless,

  looking into the face of the Universe.

  It also made me alternately

  respect and loathe those

  who take advantage of weak minds.

  Using misplaced faith to achieve

  your goals is admirable in one way.

  Encouraging minimum-wage workers

  to toss their kids’ lunch money

  into bottomless offering plates is cruel.

  Convincing your followers that the end

  of the world allows them, and only

  them, safe passage on the freeway

  to heaven is totally messed up.

  But then I come back to what kind

  of idiot sacrifices their last dime

  to a guy who flies a private jet

  and lives in a thirty-room mansion?

  And what’s up with this anxiously

  awaiting the Apocalypse bullshit?

  Some of us still have things

  we want to do, places we plan to see.

  And amazing girls like Jaidyn

  to make love with.

  LAKE

  Trying to Fit In

  At this school is impossible.

  The cliques only socialize

  within their ranks, which

  are mostly organized by

  the vehicles in student parking.

  From the top down:

  Beamers and Range Rovers

  (Ivy League bound)

  Newer Mustangs and Camaros

  (Cheerleaders and jocks)

  Classic Mustangs and Camaros

  (Quirky, with money)

  Teslas and Audi e-trons

  (Poli-sci majors)

  Bolts and Konas

  (Scholarship winners)

  Kawasakis and Yamahas

  (Bad boys, bad-ass girls)

  Newer economy cars

  (FAFSA seekers)

  Older economy cars

  (After-school workers)

  Bicycles

  (Geeks too young to drive)

  Parker and I ride the bus.

  Which tells you how we rank.

  How many seniors ride the bus?

  I started here late last year,

  when I was placed with Jay and Colleen.

  Before that, I lived with the Hipsters,

  who were super cool. (Too cool,

  social services finally decided.

  Can’t have foster kids enjoying life.)

  While I was there, I went to a charter.

  The curriculum was heavy into theater,

  music, even cooking. It was my favorite

  school ever, but light on transferable credits.

  I had to take summer school

  to catch up, and I’m still behind.

  To graduate on time, I have to make up

  geometry online. Oh, and pass my classes.

  That could prove problematic.

  I hate this school. I feel like I’ve got

  a red F for Foster tattooed on my face.

  I don’t know how they know, but they do.

  If I get a smile, it’s a sneer, followed

  by a snicker. Mostly they turn away.

  Maybe it’s my clothes. The girls here

  are all, like, Nordstrom or Urban Outfitters,

  with the occasional Forever 21.

  I prefer upcycling thrift store oddities.

  Amazing what some people toss.

  At the charter, we made it a weekend

  game. Who could find excellent stuff

  for the cheapest, then dress best on Monday?

  Parker likes my weird fashion taste.

  No one else here seems to agree.

  Including my teachers, except for Ms. Bolton

  (English), who’s into the shabby chic look herself,

  and Mr. Mason (theater), who enjoys cosplay.

  I Only Have One Class

  With Parker. Ironically, chemistry.

  She’s not much into chem.

  We’re currently sitting next to each

  other, last row, but while I’m doing

  my best to pay attention to the periodic

  table, Parker keeps touching me.

  First, with her foot. We’re wearing sandals

  and her toes thrum against my straps.

  When I don’t respond, she reaches

  across the space between us, slides

  her palm over the back of my hand.

  “Quit,” I finally whisper.

  A pair of Newer Mustangs turn to gawk.

  What the fuck’s your problem?

  Parker growls at them.

  One snort-laughs. The other gives

  the hugest eye roll I’ve ever seen.

  The exchange ignites the classroom.

  “Jesus, Parker, shut up.”

  She jerks her hand away quite

  obviously, and now everyone

  understands. Apparently,

  that includes Mrs. Pederson.

  Ahem…this class will prove easier

  if you pay attention. So, please keep

  your eyes—and hands—to yourselves.

  Barely Three Weeks

  Into a new school year and already

  on a teacher’s shit list. Awesome.

  I love Parker, but she’s impulsive.

  Speaks before she thinks.

  I don’t need my teachers

  to care about me. I just want

  them to give me a fair shake.

  That won’t happen

  if they decide I’m trouble.

  Maintaining decent grades

  when you change schools

  way too often is challenging.

  But somehow, I’ve managed it.

  I’m not sure why it’s important.

  College is likely out of reach.

  But it always seemed like one

  small thing I could succeed at.

  More, it was something,

  maybe the only thing,

  I could control.

  Plus, it made my brother

  take pride in me, which

  probably wouldn’t sound

  like much to most people.

  But it means everything.

  He’s the only person

  who’s ever been proud of me.

  The Bell Rings

  Parker grabs her stuff, stalks off,

  loudly singing “abcdefu,”

  a Gayle song about breaking up.

  So now she’s pissed at me?

  She’s always thought

  my educational aspirations

  are pretty much pointless.

  The only classes she finds

  worthwhile are chorus and drama.

  Chorus = music.

  Drama = Parker.

  I catch up to her anyway.

  “Hey. Why’d you take off?”

  She keeps walking. Figured being

  seen with a lesbian might embarrass you.

  I put my hand on her arm, tug

  her to a stop. “I really don’t care

  who knows about you and me.

  Adding the L-word to my résumé

  would probably impress a few.”

  A grin stretches cheek to cheek.

  Probably. Especially a couple of guys.

  “I have to get to class. See you at—”

  Wait. I don’t embarrass you?

  “No, girlfriend.”

  Prove it.

  Parker Blocks My Path

  The hallway’s crowded,

  and people are forced

  to stream around us.

  A few stare.

  A few laugh.

  A few flip us off.

  Whatever.

  I know what she wants,

  and for me to not be late,

  I kiss her.

  “There. Now Honors English

  awaits. See you at lunch, okay?”

  I hustle through the door

  just as the tardy bell rings.

  Ms. Bolton notices, but I don’t think

  she marks me late.

  We’re reading The Great Gatsby,

  and today’s discussion is

  the roles of women in the book.

  Not so long ago, a major glass ceiling

  was shattered when we elected a woman

  What glass ceiling was broken just prior

  to Fitzgerald’s “Jazz Age”?

  I’m rarely the first to raise my hand,

  but when no one else does,

  up mine goes. “Women’s suffrage.”

  Yes. Thank you. And with the right

  to vote, American women changed…

  We talk about jazz.

  Speakeasies. Cigarettes.

  Women’s fashion—corsets

  to miniskirts.

  Marriage. Affairs, and

  the reasons for them.