Saving Red

  “I’m gonna cat-sit the heck out of you.”

  Sequoia Yawns in Response

  Then she hops off

  Red’s lap,

  strolls across the grass to the empty bowl

  next to the bathroom door,

  and looks back at us

  accusingly.

  We snap into action, locate the sack

  of cat food in the garage, and fill up her bowl.

  As we watch her scarf it down,

  I suddenly realize how hungry I am.

  “Gosh,” I say. “It’s two thirty already,

  and we haven’t even had breakfast.”

  “We’re starving!” Red says.

  And at first I think she means that we are.

  But then she tells me that The Duke

  is demanding high tea,

  and that Lana says she had

  a foreboding premonition of famine.

  And I’m starting to worry

  that Lana might be right . . .

  Because after paying the hotel bill,

  all I have left of my Hanukkah gelt is $2.54—

  not even enough for a couple of bagels

  with cream cheese at the Nosh.

  So I Suggest

  That we stop by my house

  to get some of my babysitting money,

  and then go over

  to Hot Dog on a Stick.

  But Red nixes that idea

  with a “No thanks. I better not.”

  Then she suggests we search through

  the trash bins in the alley for soda cans.

  She says they pay a nickel apiece for them,

  over at the recycling center.

  But I nix that idea—

  far too many cooties involved.

  Then I offer to loan Red some money.

  Just until Cristo gets back and pays her.

  But she says she’s decided

  not to take any money from Cristo.

  She says, “I should be paying him.

  I mean, look at this place!”

  She leaps up

  and dances around the lawn.

  Then she flops back down again,

  and for a while,

  the only sound in the yard

  is our stomachs—growling a duet . . .

  Somehow This Sound Triggers a Memory

  A memory of a Sunday afternoon

  a few years ago

  when me and Rosa and Jasmine

  were at the Promenade

  and we were practically

  starving to death,

  but all of us had used up

  our allowances for the week.

  So I texted Noah.

  He showed up ten minutes later

  and taught us how to get plenty of food

  without having to spend a dime . . .

  “Hey!” I say to Red. “Why don’t we

  make this a get-something-for-nothing day?”

  “What the heck is that?” she asks.

  So I explain:

  “It’s when we wander around the city

  seeing how much free stuff we can get.”

  “I like where you’re going with this,” she says,

  flashing me a smile.

  Before We Head Off

  I talk Red into

  posing cheek to cheek

  with Sequoia and Pixel and me,

  for a big group selfie.

  Then I send it to Cristo with this caption:

  My friends and I think your backyard is cool.

  But it would be way cooler

  if you were in it.

  A minute later,

  Cristo sends back a photo of himself—

  posing cheek to cheek with a little stuffed bear

  dressed like a New York Yankee,

  along with these words:

  My bear and I think NYC is cool.

  But it would be way cooler

  if you were in it.

  And Cristo looks so ridiculously cute,

  cuter than his bear, even,

  that I have to just stand here

  and stare at him for a minute . . .

  Red Peeks at the Picture Over My Shoulder

  Then, before I can stop her,

  she grabs my cell

  and types:

  What kind of weirdo

  poses with a dumb little stuffed bear

  to try to impress a girl?

  I scramble to grab it back from her.

  But it’s too late.

  She’s already clicked send.

  That horrible message

  is hurtling through cyberspace

  like a nuclear missile.

  My fingers fly over the keys.

  Ack! No! That wasn’t me. That was Red.

  She grabbed my phone.

  I stare at my cell.

  But I don’t see those three pulsating dots

  that would mean he was texting me back.

  I’m So Mad

  I’m literally seeing red.

  The irony of which does not escape me.

  “Jeez!” I hiss. “Why’d you do that?”

  She shrugs and then starts giggling.

  “I’ve got a problem with impulse control,” she says.

  “Especially when I’m manic.”

  “You sure do,” I growl. “And it sucks.”

  Red’s face falls.

  She bites her lip.

  Then she says,

  “The Duke thinks

  I owe you a royal apology.”

  “Oh yeah?” I snap.

  “And what does Lana think?”

  “Lana thinks I’m a bitch,” she says.

  And even though I’m still mad,

  I can’t help laughing at this.

  And then Red’s laughing too,

  and she’s telling me she’s sorry

  and promising she’ll never

  do anything like that again.

  And I’m accepting her apology

  because I know she couldn’t help it.

  It was just her mental illness talking.

  And then—Cristo calls!

  I Dash Across the Lawn

  So we can talk in private,

  glancing back over my shoulder at Red.

  She lifts her chin at me

  to let me know she understands.

  As soon as I pick up, Cristo says,

  “That’s okay. Red’s right. I am a weirdo.”

  “No you’re not.

  You’re funny and generous, and—”

  “And I’m a weirdo,” he interrupts.

  “But that’s what you like about me, right?”

  “I like everything about you,” I say.

  And then I instantly wish I could unsay it.

  Because it made me sound

  like one of those gushy girly-girls.

  Which I totally am not.

  Or at least I haven’t been . . . until now.

  A mortifying silence follows.

  But I guess if God hadn’t

  wanted silences to be mortifying,

  he would have made them . . . unmortifying?

  Then,

  finally,

  Cristo says,

  “I like everything about you, too, Molly.”

  And when he says that,

  I have to flop down onto the grass

  and just lie here on my back for a while,

  trying to catch my breath.

  Then He FaceTimes Me

  And when Cristo’s eyes

  pop onto my screen

  I feel like I just drank

  a ton of caffeine,

  and my heart turns into

  a jumping bean,

  like it thinks that my chest

  is a trampoline . . .

  Oh man . . . That face

  that’s on my screen—

  it’s the handsomest thing

  I’ve ever seen!

  And We Just Sort of Gaze at Each Other


  Grinning

  these goofy grins,

  till someone calls

  Cristo’s name.

  Then he sighs and says he has to go,

  because his parents are taking him

  skating at Rockefeller Center

  and they’ve got to hail a cab.

  I say I have to go too,

  because I’m taking Red

  on a get-something-for-nothing day

  and we’ve got to catch a bus.

  He doesn’t

  even ask me what

  a get-something-for-nothing day is.

  He just says,

  “Well, the first thing

  you can get for nothing is the use

  of the two bikes in my garage—rent free!

  Forget about taking the bus!”

  Honestly. I don’t think I could

  like this guy any more if I tried.

  Having him in my life

  is kind of like dating Santa Claus.

  I mean,

  if Santa Claus

  were young and cute and single,

  instead of old and fat and married.

  Though I’m not sure that one date,

  forty-seven text messages,

  two FaceTimes, and three phone calls

  exactly qualifies as “dating.”

  Not that I’m counting or anything . . .

  The Bicycles Are Perfect

  All tricked out with headlights for night riding.

  One of them even has a big basket

  mounted on the front

  that’s just the right size for Pixel.

  We head to Trader Joe’s first.

  But Red seems a little worried about going in.

  So I tell her, “If you act like you belong

  somewhere, they’ll never kick you out.”

  Then I lead her through the door

  and right over to a plate of free samples.

  Now that Red’s all cleaned up,

  no one even looks twice at us.

  We come back for seconds

  (and thirds . . . and fourths!)

  of those scrumptious little

  pig-in-a-blanket thingies.

  Then we ride over to Bloomingdale’s

  for free Bobbi Brown makeovers.

  And after that, we hit the food court,

  for a fast-food-sample rampage.

  And I guess the makeup

  makes me look as old as Red,

  because two cute guys in their twenties

  offer to buy us tacos at Pinches.

  But Red says, “No thanks. We better not.”

  And as she steers us away from them,

  she whispers, “Never accept tacos—

  or candy—from strangers.”

  On the Way Back to Cristo’s Backyard

  We spot one of those

  Little Free Libraries

  in someone’s front yard.

  “Whoa . . . ,” Red says.

  “Until today, I never noticed how much

  free stuff there was in this world.”

  She chooses I’ll Give You the Sun.

  And I reach for a beat-up old copy

  of Fifty Shades of Grey.

  Pixel gives me a look like,

  “Do you really want to read that smut?”

  And I give him a look back, like, “Yes. I do!”

  But the second I crack it open,

  my phone rings.

  And it’s my mom.

  I slam the book closed

  and shove it back inside

  the wooden box.

  Maybe

  she really does have eyes

  in the back of her head.

  She Always Used to Say She Did, Anyway

  Though, if she does,

  she hasn’t exactly

  been using them much lately.

  At least not since Noah disappeared.

  Ever since then

  she’s been pretty much checked out—

  with the aid of all the medical marijuana

  her doctor prescribes for her migraines.

  I personally

  don’t even think she has headaches.

  But she sure gives me headaches.

  Like the one she’s giving me right now—

  bugging me, out of the blue,

  with all these questions:

  like where am I and who am I with

  and when am I coming home?

  I tell her I’m with a friend

  and that it’s the same friend

  whose house I slept over at last night

  and that she’s invited me to sleep over again.

  But Mom says it’s the third night of Hanukkah

  and she needs me to come home

  to help her light the candles on the menorah.

  I say, “Can’t Dad help you?”

  She’s quiet for a minute, then she says,

  “Dad’s out with a client.”

  “That figures,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. “It does.”

  And her voice sounds so shaky,

  so small and lonely and sad,

  that I don’t even try to convince her

  to change her mind.

  Though I Sort of Wish I Had

  Because now that Red and I

  are pedaling down the alley,

  getting closer and closer

  to Cristo’s backyard,

  closer and closer

  to the moment

  when I’ll have to say good-bye

  and leave Red there all by herself,

  I can feel my throat

  closing up,

  my fingers

  starting to tingle,

  the samples in my stomach

  swirling around

  like soggy clothes

  in a broken dryer.

  I Know I Should Just Say Good Night

  And head home to be with my mom,

  but I find myself following Red

  into the yard and asking her

  if she thinks she’ll be warm enough.

  And even though

  she says she’ll be fine,

  I search every cabinet in the garage

  until I find some blankets and a pillow for her.

  Then I lug them over to the lounge chair

  and start plumping up the pillow and tucking

  in the blankets and basically doing anything

  else I can think of to delay saying good-bye.

  “Look,” Red says. “I know you’re afraid

  that when you come back in the morning

  I won’t be here. But I promise you—

  I will be.”

  Even so, I make her pinky swear on that.

  Then I give her a bone-crushing squeeze,

  put Pixel into the bike basket,

  and head toward the gate.

  But before I push it open,

  I turn to take one more look at her.

  Because I’m still scared to death

  that this might be the last time I ever see her.

  When Pixel and I Get Home

  The house doesn’t smell like latkes.

  It smells like pot.

  Mom’s sitting on the couch as usual,

  staring at the TV.

  Only tonight

  it’s not on.

  Which sends

  a shiver up my spine.

  I give her an awkward hug.

  She gives me one back.

  We say the blessing, light three candles,

  and sing the song:

  “I’m spending Hanukkah in Santa Monica,

  wearing sandals, lighting candles by the sea . . .”

  It used to seem

  like such a jolly little tune.

  Tonight

  it just seems tragic.

  Maybe it’s because Dad isn’t here.

  Or because Noah isn’t here.

  Or because

  neither of them are.

&nb
sp; And it’s all my fault.

  God I Miss My Brother Tonight

  When I was a little girl,

  I practically thought

  he walked on water.

  If I could have sewn myself onto him,

  like that shadow in Peter Pan,

  I would have.

  Noah was the kind of guy who loved little kids.

  Even when he was still

  just a kid himself.

  Whenever we saw a lemonade stand,

  he always made a point

  of stopping.

  And he wouldn’t just buy one cup either.

  He’d buy three—one for me

  and two for him.

  Then he’d guzzle down both of his

  and tell the kids it was the best lemonade

  he’d ever had in his life.

  And before we left,

  he’d always ask them

  for their recipe.

  That’s

  the kind of guy

  Noah was . . .

  And That’s the Kind of Guy Dad Was, Too

  Maybe it’s hereditary.

  Maybe Noah got all that

  nice-to-kids-ness from him.

  Before Noah disappeared,

  before Dad turned into

  a workaholic,

  he was the father

  that all the other kids used to wish

  was their father.

  In the summertime,

  he’d leave work early once a week,

  just so he could chase

  Noah and me and our friends

  all around the yard with the hose,

  pretending to be Robot Sprinkler Man.

  And in the wintertime,

  if Dad heard about snow falling

  anywhere within 150 miles of home,

  he’d skip work, load the family

  into the car, and just keep driving

  northeast till we found it.

  It was so magical—

  like suddenly being

  inside of a snow globe . . .

  But those days are long gone.

  Noah’s disappearance

  shattered that globe,

  and everything else.

  I Toss and Turn for Hours

  And when I finally manage to drift off,

  I have another coffin nightmare.

  Only this time, it’s Noah and me

  who are trapped inside that dank, airless box,

  both of us pounding

  on the lid with all our might,

  pounding and pounding,

  our knuckles bruised and bloodied,

  making

  no noise at all . . .