Cinnamon (Shooting Stars 1)

Grandmother Beverly smiled at me. "Would you like something, dear?"

Mommy hated her in the kitchen. Until she had suffered the miscarriage. Mommy had not permitted her to make a single dinner for us, even though she claimed she knew all of Daddy's favorite meals. I knew Mommy's resistance wasn't born out of any great desire to be a cook. She warned me from the start that Grandmother Beverly wasn't just moving into the house.

"That woman can't live in a home without taking over," Mommy assured me. "It's not in her nature to be second in any sense. She'll take over and replace me everywhere except in bed, and

sometimes," Mommy said her eyes small. "I even fear that."

Of course, she was exaggerating.

That's what I tell myself even though it gave me a different kind of nightmare.

"I'm not hungry," I told Grandmother Beverly, glared furiously once more at Daddy and ran up the stairs to my room, slamming the door behind me.

I was fuming so hot and heavy, I was sure smoke was pouring out of my ears.

The ringing of my phone snapped me out of my seething rage. I took a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

"Hello."

"Cinnamon, what happened?" Clarence asked.

"My mother had to be taken to the hospital," I replied. He was the only one who knew Mommy had suffered a miscarriage. "She's had a nervous

breakdown because of what happened.'"

"Oh. Um sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, call the Mafia and get a hit man over here pronto to save me from my grandmother," I replied.

He laughed, but the sort of short laugh that indicated he knew it really wasn't funny.

"You were all the buzz at school."

"I'm glad the airheads had something to talk about."

"I could see Miss Hamilton was upset for you. You coming to school tomorrow?"

"I'm not staying here, that's for sure," I said.

"What are you going to tell people?" he asked.

"I'll come up with something."

"Let me know so I can be part of it," he said. I knew what he meant.

Ike and I enjoyed making up stories and telling them together, verifying what the other had said, shocking other students whenever we could.

"Meet me at my locker in the morning before homeroom," I told him. He promised he would and hung up.

I fell back spre

ad-eagled on my bed and looked up at the eggshell white ceiling. Sometimes. when I stared into the white void long enough. I'd see the faces of the young women who once lived in this house. It was as if their spirits had been trapped in the walls and I was the only one with whom they could communicate.

My memories of Mommy and me up in the attic returned. They brought tears to my eyes. I wondered if even now, sedated in that hospital room, she was afraid or just sad. Deep inside herself despite her temporary madness, she must know she has had the miscarriage. Can you get so you could really lie to yourself as well as you could lie to others, actually believing your own fabrications? And is that madness or is it the simplest way to escape the turmoil and unhappiness that sometimes storms around you?

I need inspiration. I thought. I would die before telling anyone the truth. There was only one place to go for it. While Daddy sat below m the kitchen, numbly watching Grandmother Beverly weave a web of control around him. I went up to the attic to conspire with my spirits and my own resourceful imagination.

Mommy told me that when I was only four. I had an imaginary friend. I don't remember, but I've learned it is a very common thing for a child to do: create his or her own companion. Maybe it's just as hard to be alone when you're very young as it is to be alone when you're very old. I thought. Old people imagine friends, too.