The Coyotes finally sit me in the dirt, and when someone removes my blindfold, I find myself in a small circle with three girls and Michelle. In the center of the circle, there’s a branch of sage, a leather cord with a white bead strung on it, a canteen, and a ziplock bag of M&Ms.
M&Ms!
“Welcome,” one of the girls says. She’s African American, with hair fluffed out above her headband bandanna. She’s the same one who broke rules to tell me to get going on starting a fire, but now she sounds so official. Like she’s conducting a tribunal, where my crimes will be exposed. Where I might be executed.
Or get some M&Ms.
I’m so confused!
“I’m Mia,” she says. “I’m on my third week. I’m seventeen. My aunt took me in when my mom left. My uncle abused me. I got way into drugs. Got violent at home. Tried to kill my uncle. My pastor started a collection at church to save my soul. I wound up here.”
She says all this like a list.
It’s not some wild story, it’s facts.
Just facts.
“I’m Shalayne,” the next girl says. She’s fake blond, with a dark root line. “I’m also in week three, also seventeen. My parents are divorced. I’m a pawn in their war. Started drinking and smoking weed at thirteen. Didn’t even try to hide it. They sent me to counselors, rehab, AA, nothing stuck. My dad remarried. I tried to burn down his house. Got sent here.”
Again, it’s like a list.
Just the facts.
“I’m Hannah,” the third girl says. She’s got a pixie cut and blue eyes so big they’re like oceans in her face. “I’m sixteen. This is my second week. I started drinking when I was eight. Just doing what my mom did every night. Got into drugs, did the street-hustle thing. My dad came back into my life, and after a few months of trying to fix me, he took me on a ‘road trip’ and left me at base camp.”
A silence falls over the circle as they all turn to look at me. I point to myself and pass a questioning look around the circle.
The answer comes in their stares.
Yes, it’s my turn.
I sit there, petrified because I’ve never admitted any of it. Meadow knows, Nico and Biggy know, but none of us actually talk about it. And I’ve sure never confessed any of it to people I don’t know. And sure not to an adult. All the school counselors I’ve been called in to speak to? All the therapy sessions I’ve been to? I’ve lied and denied and detoured. I’ve talked about little things like they’re big things. Cried, just to make sure they knew I was serious. I’ve learned the dance and can do it in my sleep. Or completely wasted.
I look around the group.
They’re still staring at me.
Calmly.
Kindly.
Waiting.
“I’m Wren,” I say.
My chin starts to quiver.
Why is my stupid chin quivering?
“I’m fourteen.”
A lump lands in my throat.
What’s the matter with me?
“We moved. I started middle school. I had no friends.”
I sound so pathetic.
So whiny and pathetic.
Especially compared to them! I haven’t been abused, my parents aren’t divorced, my mom’s not an alcoholic….I’ve got nothing tragic to flash.
Still, they look at me.
Calmly.
Kindly.
Waiting.
“Middle school sucks,” Shalayne offers.
Mia nods, her fluffy hair waving a little. “But that’s not what got you here.”
I look down.
“No one’s judging,” Hannah whispers. “We’ve all been where you are.”
I sneak a look at Michelle. I hate that there’s an adult here.
“Yes, even me,” Michelle says. “Why do you think I’m willing to do this? I’ve been right where you are, Wren. It’s frightening and painful, but if you walk through this fire, it’ll make you stronger.”
I want to yell, What’s with you and fire? I want to fight back. Lie! Escape!
Instead, it’s the truth that escapes. “I smoked my first joint in sixth grade.” My throat is suddenly dry and raw, my heart is pounding, and I can barely breathe. “I started drinking after that. Started stealing, lying…hating. Got in with some older guys. My sister narc’d on me. Things spiraled. I went ballistic. Here I am.”
I’ve said it to the dirt, but I’ve said it. And I feel sick about it.
Weak.
Disgusted with myself.
They’ve finally broken me. After all the counselors and therapists, after all the framed therapy certificates I’ve seen hanging on office walls, after all the chairs and couches and action-figure playacting, after all the lying and denying, all the diverting and skirting, I’ve finally given up the truth.
In the desert.
In the dirt.
I turn to the side and puke.
Moving from Rabbit to Coyote is a ritual. There are steps. Solemn stares. The burning of sage. The eating of candy.
It reminds me of the things I had to do to hang with Nico and his friends.
As we sit in our solemn circle in the dirt, Mia asks, “What do you bring to the group?” When I sat in Nico’s car, Biggy asked, “What’s in it for us?”
I don’t know how to answer Mia any more than I knew how to answer Biggy. My mind went blank then, and it’s blank now. I can think of absolutely nothing I bring to the group.
I am worthless.
Totally worthless.
Michelle coaxes. “You can build a fire. You can find water.”
“All of them can do that,” I whisper.
“You are tenacious, determined, and strong,” Michelle says in a firm voice.
Nico had said, “She’s a minor, smart, and fast.”
What Nico meant was that I could carry and deliver drugs and not go to jail if I got caught. And if the heat was on, I had a good chance of ditching the cops on foot. I didn’t understand that when Nico said it. His words were wrapped around me, silky smooth and soft, and he was looking at me like he was finally going to kiss me again. He pulled back at the last second, but I knew he wanted to, and that meant so much.
And now…what do Michelle’s words really mean? Tenacious, determined, and strong sound good, but they seem desperate. Like she’s trying to cover up that I have nothing.
Mia nods as the words float away, but it’s a contradictory nod where yes means not-good-enough. “Can you cook?” she asks.
I look at her straight on. “Is there a microwave?”
The other Coyotes snicker.
“How about gather firewood?” Shalayne asks.
“Or dig? Like, with a shovel?” Hannah asks.
I shrug. “I guess….”
“So…you got anything you can teach us?” Mia asks.
“Teach you?”
Hannah nods her pixie head. “I’ve been teaching them to draw.”
“And I make killer scrambled eggs,” Shalayne says. “Which, believe me, is a skill you want on your team when you’re dealing with freeze-dried.”
Mia doesn’t volunteer anything. She asks, “How about talents?”
“Yeah,” Hannah says. “Like if you were going to be in a talent show, what would you do?”
I give her a little squint. “Hide in the bathroom?”
The Coyotes look uncomfortable. I feel completely stupid. Maybe I’ll be stuck on Rabbit forever.
Michelle tries again. “I understand you have a close relationship with your little brother.”
I want to glare at her, but there’s a sudden ache in my heart.
And my eyes are stinging.
“How do you entertain him?” she asks.
I shrug. “I don’t think you have computer games out here.” But the truth is those games were never as much fun as playing Jungle Book. Or even reading him Disney stories. There’s a collection of Disney kid books in his room, and when he was younger, he’d make me get in his bottom-bunk fort and read those sto
ries.
That was before we moved.
Before we each got our own room.
Before everything changed.
“Wren?” It’s Michelle’s voice, prompting. “You were thinking about…?”
I just shake my head.
But they’re all quiet.
Waiting.
The silence is not something I’m used to. At home it gets filled in with advice. Instructions. Reprimands.
Here, they just wait.
“I used to read to my brother,” I finally say. My voice is small. Unsure. “He loves Disney stories.”
“Nemo!” Hannah cries. “My all-time favorite story—Nemo!”
The Coyotes shoot their favorite titles around—Aladdin, Toy Story, 101 Dalmatians, Zootopia—until they get to Frozen and I cry, “No! Not Frozen. Anything but Frozen.”
Mia nods. “I hated Frozen.”
The other two frown at us. “How can you hate Frozen?”
Michelle intervenes. “I think what we can derive from this is that Wren can serve as storyteller.”
“Storyteller? No! I could never be like that Mokov guy. I just read to my brother.”
“But I’m guessing you’ve read the same stories over and over and over?” Michelle says.
I nod. “So true.”
“Which means you probably pretty much know them by heart?”
I think for a minute. “Yeah. I kind of do.”
Michelle smiles, very pleased. “Hmm,” she says. “Disney stories as oral tradition? Interesting! They do contain metaphor. And moral consequence.”
“Hey, don’t ruin them with analysis,” Hannah says with a frown. “Leave our childhoods alone.”
Michelle laughs. “Point taken.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen 101 Dalmatians?” Shalayne asks with a faraway look. She turns to me. “Can you tell that story…do you know it?”
“I do.”
“Do you do voices?” Hannah asks, ocean eyes wide.
I am feeling weirdly exposed. “I do.”
She claps her hands. “Awesome!”
Shalayne laughs. “We could do the Twilight Bark!” And she and Hannah throw back their heads and yip and howl and bark like idiots.
Michelle gives Mia a nod, and Mia hands me the sprig of sagebrush. “Walk with us, Wren. We invite you to be our storyteller.”
Hannah and Shalayne jump in, tag-teaming me. “That doesn’t mean you don’t have to bust out a fire.” “Or gather wood.” “Or bring home water.” “Or dig the latrine!”
Mia ties the cord with the white bead around my neck, and the others pull theirs out of their shirts—all white beads on cords.
“You get a new bead at each level,” Michelle explains. “A yellow one when you advance to Elk, an orange one at Falcon.”
Then they open the M&Ms and we glut on chocolate, and the whole time I’m thinking how different things are out here. First willful became a compliment instead of a complaint, and now I’m a storyteller, and that’s considered a good thing. At home that word is on my parents’ rotation of synonyms that included liar and prevaricator, fibber and fabricator, con artist and dissembler.
I pop in a fistful of M&Ms, wondering how being called the exact same word can make a person feel so completely different.
The first time my mother accused me of telling stories, I was actually telling the truth. It was back in seventh grade, and there were a hundred questions she could have asked where I would have lied, but for this specific question—had I borrowed her diamond necklace—I didn’t have to. “No” was technically the truth.
What I’d done was steal it.
Steal it and sell it.
It was definitely not a “borrow” situation—there was no chance she’d be getting it back.
“Have you asked Anabella?” I asked my mother when she didn’t seem to believe me.
“She told me to ask you.”
“Why? She’s the one who wants it. For winter formal, right?” I swept an arm across my jeans and Minnie Mouse T-shirt. “Not seeing much need for diamonds with the clothes I wear. Now, Anabella…”
Mom pressed. “She thinks maybe you didn’t want her to wear it?”
It was true. And truth, Meadow had taught me, is best avoided through redirection. “Why would I care if Anabella wore it? I sure don’t want to wear it!” I gave her a hard look. “And why do you always believe her and not me?”
“I don’t. I treat you equally. And fairly.” She squirmed. “I just want to make sure you’re not…telling stories.”
“Thanks, Mom. The vote of confidence is so comforting.” I looked her right in the eye. “I did not borrow your necklace. Go cross-examine Anabella.”
“But she’s the one who noticed it was missing!”
“When?”
“This afternoon!”
“While you were at work? Why was she even in your jewelry box?” I crossed my arms. “Or maybe her discovering it missing is just a clever ploy to seem innocent? She’s very good at that, if you haven’t noticed.”
She paused. Blinked. Shook her head. Left the room.
And from down the hall came Anabella’s whine: “Why would I take a necklace you told me I could borrow?”
Soothing words came out of Mom, but from my eavesdropping spot outside Anabella’s room I couldn’t quite make out what they were.
“I planned my whole outfit around that necklace!” Anabella cried. “She has it, Mom. She has to!”
“I do not!” I said, walking into her room. Then I ripped into her about being the worst sister on the planet for accusing me.
Things got louder from there.
What I learned from the necklace incident was to not steal your parents’ stuff. Stuff is risky. I didn’t even get much for the stupid necklace. Pawn shops are a rip-off. The only really good part was messing up Anabella’s perfect princess plans.
The other reason I stole the necklace is that no one can live off twenty bucks a week allowance. Even Anabella griped about it. Being in seventh grade, I was on the middle school’s prepaid meal plan, but Anabella was now in high school, where there were options. So her whining got her somewhere, where mine did not. Which was, as usual, unfair.
Meadow was totally sympathetic when I complained about it. “No one can live off that,” she said. “Go to the movies once and it’s gone.”
“Exactly!”
We were getting high in a faculty hallway bathroom during nutrition break. Every wing at the middle school had a faculty bathroom. They were basically locking closets with a toilet, a sink, a vent fan, and air freshener. But since teachers hardly ever used them, Meadow had devised a system to make them into our own private stall. It included an Out of Order sign, a locked door, and heavy doses of air freshener.
It was genius.
“You should pinch cash from your parents,” Meadow was saying.
“Are you serious?” I handed the joint back to her. “I’d be petrified of getting caught!”
“Pinching is an art,” she told me. “The trick is to pinch, not grab. Like, if you’re going to pinch from your dad’s wallet, take one bill. Don’t get greedy.” She held in her breath and handed the joint back. She exhaled slowly. “How do you think I’ve kept us in weed for over a year? I pinch from their stash. If I took too much, they’d notice.”
I tried it at home that night. Dad’s wallet was always on him, but Mom kept her purse and keys on a little desk in an alcove near the kitchen. Mo was asleep, Anabella was holed up in her room, and Mom and Dad were watching TV. I sneaked to the alcove, opened the purse, opened the wallet, slipped out a twenty, then returned everything to the way I’d found it.
I went back to bed with my heart pounding. Twenty bucks! Just like that! No asking, no begging, no thank-you notes to write…it was the best, easiest twenty bucks ever!
And I was sure Meadow was right.
My mother would never notice.
It took until spring break, but my mot
her did notice.
First she came up short at the farmers’ market.
“Why do you even buy stuff here?” I asked, trying to redirect. “We just throw it away.”
“We do not.” She was practically pouting. Like I had hurt her feelings. My mother has great intentions to go organic and “reduce our carbon footprint,” but nobody in the family likes what she does with kale or Asian eggplant or bean sprouts, and you won’t catch that woman on a bike. She doesn’t even own a bike. And since we moved from a small, tri-level apartment in San Francisco to a sprawling single-story house in Orange County, our footprint went from lizard to T. rex.
She also went from working part-time to working full-time. Dad is an “imaging professional,” which means he does MRIs and CT scans, and Mom works billing medical claims. When they both got offered jobs at Kaiser in Southern California, Mom told us again and again how much sense it made to accept them. Mo was starting first grade and she didn’t need to be home so much anymore; taking the new jobs and getting out of San Francisco meant they could afford to buy a house instead of rent an apartment. We’d have space. Maybe get a dog. It was all rosy. A dream.
Except nobody was ever home. Mo went to after-school day care, Anabella found an instant circle of friends, I found Meadow, and the dog was a rabbit that died after three weeks.
When we lived in San Francisco, Tuesday was taco night and Thursday was spaghetti night. The other nights were wild cards, but I always looked forward to Mom’s cooking on those two nights. Everyone did.
After we moved, Domino’s and Panda and Taco Bell became our dinner choices.
We even stopped transferring it to plates, because, I mean, why?
Mom and Dad were also too busy or tired to notice that Anabella and I were fighting, or that Mo would wake up alone in his big new room and start to cry. They didn’t notice that I’d go into his room and tell him a story—just make up a story—until he fell back to sleep.
All the extra space did was give us room to drift apart.
Mom was still rifling through her purse to pay the kale man. The total was almost thirty dollars—way too much for what we were getting, if you asked me. I’d pinched two twenties the night before, thinking there was a lot of money in her wallet. I didn’t know the rest of the bills were all ones.