“Did you talk to him?”
I nod.
“And?” Wren chirps.
“A-and the ch-cheerleader is in with him now.”
“Oh,” Wren says.
“Yeah,” I say.
I’m an idiot.
Peck
When I was twelve, I went for months thinking I was dead. Everyone in my household ignored me. That was per my mother. “If she won’t speak, don’t speak to her,” she’d said. What she didn’t understand was that I wanted to speak. I wanted to speak with a desperation unlike any other. I wanted to unburden my mind. I wanted to talk.
I just couldn’t.
So I moved around the house, prepared my own meals, got myself on the bus and off, took care of my own laundry, and I spent most of my time in my room, since no one was going to talk to me anyway.
I thought I was dead. Because why else would they not speak to me? Why would they punish me like they did for something I couldn’t control? I must have died and someone forgot to tell me. I was a ghostly specter of myself.
My mother and her boyfriend spent more time away from home than in the small apartment my mom and I shared. He kept a place across town, and it became easier for her to stay there rather than come home. I didn’t mind. I was a ghost walking around alone anyway, right? I spent my nights alone and was grateful for the silence. Because it would still be silent even if she were here.
But then there was a problem one day at school, and I ended up in the emergency room and then had my appendix out. It took them four days to find my mother, and suddenly someone cared if I lived or died.
Her name was Mrs. Derricks, and she was the school counselor. She brought me into her office and changed my life that day, and every day since.
The door slamming behind me jerks me from my thoughts of Mrs. Derricks.
Why aren’t you dressed? I ask Lark in sign language as she drops her things on the couch and flops down.
“Dressed for what?” she asks, blowing out a breath.
For the funeral.
Her brow furrows. “What funeral?”
My hands fly wildly. Mrs. Derricks’ funeral!
“Oh, crap,” she says. She jumps up. “Totally forgot. Give me five minutes to change.”
I text Wren and Star to see where they are, but just as I hit send, they come through the door. They couldn’t be more opposite. They’re sisters, born one year apart. And while they look alike, they couldn’t be more different.
“You need to tie your shoe,” Star says to Wren.
Wren looks down. “Why?”
“Because you’ll trip over it.”
“Who cares,” Wren tosses back.
Star has her shirt tucked into a pair of nice pants, her creases all perfect and sharp. Wren, on the other hand, is wearing jeans and a T-shirt I think she stole from Emilio when we stayed over with him and Marta at their house for Christmas. It’s four sizes too big for her and hangs down almost to her knees.
Emilio Vasquez isn’t our real dad. He’s the man who “sprung us from jail” as he calls it. In reality, it was a group home, but he’s pretty accurate. He and his wife Marta couldn’t have kids, so they decided to use their millions to better the life of a child. And they ended up with five of us, all at once.
Emilio is a former rock and roll star who hung up his microphone when drugs and drinking destroyed his band. Marta is a former groupie he fell in love with, or that’s at least how he tells it. She smacks the back of his head every time he calls her a groupie. She’s a tiny little Latina fireball.
To us, they’re our parents. They’re the family we weren’t born with, but were lucky enough to grow into.
“I can’t find black gloves!” Lark calls from her room.
“Why do you need black gloves?” Wren yells back.
“For the funeral!” Lark bellows.
“Oh, shit.” Wren streaks to her room with Star right behind her. They forgot too, apparently.
Five minutes later, they all come out dressed in dark colors. Wren looks like a slouch, but a respectable slouch. Star looks like she could be walking a runway.
“Tie your shoe,” Star says to Wren.
“Why?” Wren asks.
Do we really have to do this every day? When we lived with Emilio and Marta, their solid presences kept the fighting down. But now that we’re on our own, my sisters snipe at one another like verbal fencing is their favorite pastime.
I tap my finger on the counter, because when I tap, I can speak without a stammer. “Has anyone seen Fin?” I ask.
Star shakes her head and squats down to tie Wren’s shoe.
“Can’t stand it, can you?” Wren taunts.
“Shut up,” Star grumbles. She pulls a brush from the tidy little purse she has hanging over her arm and goes toward Wren with it. Wren backs up and blocks her.
“You are not brushing my hair,” Wren says.
“Somebody needs to,” Star says. She holds the brush out and raises her brow.
Wren turns to the mirror, licks the palm of her hand, and slicks her hair down by dragging her wet hand through her pink-and-blue locks.
“That is so gross,” Star says.
Wren grins.
I shake my head and motion for everyone to go. We’ll just have to leave Fin. If I wait any longer, I’m going to be late for the funeral, and I simply can’t have that. Mrs. Derricks saved my life. She’s the reason I’m still alive. And now she’s gone. Tears burn my nose and I sniffle.
“Are you all right?” Wren asks quietly as we walk toward the car waiting out front. Our driver gets out and holds the door for us, and we all slide in.