Saving Red

and we’re electric sliding

  and chicken dancing

  and moonwalking

  and bunny hopping

  and after a few minutes,

  I get this weird feeling—

  this feeling like this girl and I

  have known each other

  all our lives.

  And I Know This Might Sound Strange

  Or at the very least,

  sort of pitiful,

  but I honestly can’t remember

  the last time I had this much fun.

  I guess I’d gotten so used

  to having no friends,

  to only spending time

  with me, myself, and Pixel,

  that I didn’t really realize,

  until just now,

  how ridiculously starved I’ve been

  for human companionship.

  Then the Rain Stops Falling

  Just as suddenly as it began.

  And a second later, the dark clouds part

  like velvet curtains being pulled open—

  revealing

  one of those California sunsets

  perfect enough to be on a postcard.

  We stop singing and dancing

  and just stand here gaping

  at the way it’s painting the Pacific.

  “Oh well,” she says. “I guess bath time’s over.”

  “Time to change into some dry clothes,” I say.

  “I don’t have any dry clothes,” she says.

  “Oh yes you do,” I say,

  as I grab her hand and begin tugging her

  toward the bench.

  I Can Hardly Wait

  To see how she likes all

  the things I’ve brought her.

  But when I unzip the duffel bag

  and offer it to her for inspection,

  she doesn’t smile or thank me

  or anything.

  She just peers into it suspiciously,

  then begins rummaging through it,

  examining the snaps

  on the raincoat,

  sticking her hands inside the boots

  like she’s searching for something,

  reading all the labels

  on the T-shirts and jeans.

  Then she looks off into the distance,

  like she’s listening to something.

  She furrows her brows.

  Her shoulders seem to sag.

  She pushes the bag toward me

  and says, “No thanks. I better not.”

  I Can’t Believe My Ears

  “You don’t want any of it?” I say.

  “Not even the raincoat?

  Or the granola bars?”

  I scrounge around

  in the bottom of the bag

  and dig a couple of them out for her.

  The girl licks her lips.

  Her stomach growls so loud

  it’d actually be funny if it weren’t so sad.

  “Please,” I say. “Take them.”

  Her eyes dart to the bars I’m offering her,

  and back up to my face.

  Then she looks off into space again.

  And a second later she heaves a deep sigh.

  “No thanks,” she says again. “I better not.”

  And with that, she turns away from me,

  slogs over to her sopping-wet sleeping bag,

  wriggles down into it,

  and disappears.

  I Don’t Get It

  What the heck

  is wrong with that girl?

  Why won’t she take

  any of this stuff from me?

  I cram the granola bars into my pockets

  and have just begun to trudge away

  when I hear a stifled sob

  coming from the sleeping bag.

  I stop in my tracks.

  Did I imagine it . . . ?

  But then

  I hear another sob.

  And suddenly

  I feel like crying too.

  I pull the raincoat out of the bag

  and tuck the granola bars into its pockets.

  Then I fold it into a neat bundle,

  tiptoe over to the sleeping bag,

  and silently lay my gifts down

  next to it

  before I turn

  and head back home.

  Mom Is Exactly Where I Left Her

  Sitting in a haze of pot smoke,

  watching the Home Shopping Network.

  She glances over at me with bloodshot eyes

  and asks, “You want me to buy you one of those?”

  She gestures

  toward the TV screen,

  where a middle-aged woman is modeling

  something called a Genie Bra.

  “Nope,” I say.

  “You sure, Mooly?” she asks,

  “Totally sure,” I say.

  “And don’t call me Mooly.”

  Just then,

  Dad barges through the door

  in that permanently pissed-off

  way of his.

  “You’re home early for once,” Mom says.

  “I’ve got to prepare for a trial tomorrow,”

  he says through clenched teeth.

  “It’s quieter here.”

  Mom scowls at him.

  “I should have known

  you weren’t planning on spending

  the evening with your family.”

  Dad folds his arms over his chest.

  “Maybe I’d be able to spend more time

  with my family if you’d stop spending

  my money faster than I can earn it.”

  “Gotta do something to keep busy,” she hisses.

  “Busy my ass,” he growls. “You’re just using

  shopping as a way to avoid getting a life.”

  “I’m using shopping as a way to buy things,” she snarls.

  Then, as usual,

  the shouting match starts,

  and I hurry upstairs

  to hide in my room.

  It Wasn’t Always Like This

  Mom wasn’t a raging pothead.

  Dad wasn’t a workaholic.

  We used to be

  a regular family.

  We played Monopoly.

  We told each other knock-knock jokes.

  We snuggled up under blankets

  and watched old movies together.

  Then

  everything changed—

  after the awful thing that happened

  last winter.

  But I’m not ready

  to talk about that yet.

  I may never

  be ready.

  I Guess By Now It’s Pretty Clear

  That my home

  isn’t exactly one of those

  “home sweet” homes.

  And even now,

  even though I’m upstairs

  in my bedroom

  with the door closed

  and my headphones on

  and the music turned way up,

  I can still hear my parents

  yelling in the background

  like a couple of off-key backup singers,

  blaming each other

  for making me

  run out of the room.

  I log on to Facebook

  and stare dully at the picture

  Rosa’s just posted:

  a cheek-to-cheek selfie

  of Jasmine and her,

  grinning and crossing their eyes,

  the ocean

  shining behind them,

  like a patch of perfect happiness.

  I Would Have Tried to Stay Awake

  If I’d known

  I was gonna have

  yet another variation

  of my recurring coffin dream:

  the one that always takes place

  in the chapel at our synagogue.

  This time,

  I’m standing next to the coffin,

  and I can h
ear someone

  screaming inside of it,

  pounding on the heavy wooden lid,

  trying desperately to escape . . .

  And then I realize

  that it’s my own voice I’m hearing—

  me who’s trapped

  in that coffin!

  And I can hear myself wheezing now,

  wheezing and gasping for air

  and I reach down to try to lift the lid

  and set myself free . . .

  But it’s been nailed shut!

  And Then—It’s Morning

  And I’m lying here in bed,

  in a puddle of clammy sweat,

  the angry echoes of my parents’ fight

  still throbbing in my skull,

  making this Friday

  feel more like doomsday . . .

  But then Pixel tugs on the bottom of my curtain

  and yanks it open with his teeth,

  revealing one of those shiny blue

  after-the-rain mornings

  when you look out your window

  and you can see an entire mountain range

  that wasn’t even visible

  the day before.

  Now that all the smog’s

  been washed away

  everything looks so clean,

  so new, so hopeful,

  that for the first time

  in forever

  I don’t feel slammed

  by that overwhelming feeling of . . .

  of overwhelmedness.

  Pixel Grins at Me

  His scruffy goatee

  making him look sort of like

  Colonel Sanders.

  Then he trots over,

  like a cheerful little white mop,

  and licks my nose.

  This is his way

  of telling me that he loves me.

  And also, that he has to pee.

  I give him a quick scratch behind his left ear.

  “I guess we better take a walk,” I say,

  “before you have an accident.”

  I climb out of bed,

  stub my toe on the tent,

  trip over the duffel bag,

  and end up

  sprawled on the floor

  with my face in Pixel’s water bowl.

  As I wipe the water off

  with the sleeve of my pajamas,

  he makes this funny choking sound.

  I could swear

  he’s trying to stifle

  a giggle.

  It’s Quiet in the House

  Bizarrely quiet.

  Mom and Dad must still be asleep.

  As I head out the front door with Pixel,

  I glance at the mantel over the fireplace.

  No menorah.

  No candles waiting to be lit.

  No presents, no dreidels,

  no little mesh bags of gold chocolate coins.

  My parents have obviously forgotten

  that tonight’s the first night of Hanukkah.

  Oh well.

  It doesn’t matter.

  There’s only one thing

  I want for Hanukkah anyway.

  But no one

  can give that to me.

  And I’m Contemplating

  This Monumentally Sad Fact

  As Pixel tugs me from tree to tree,

  past all the neighbors’ yards

  festooned with fake icicles

  dangling from rooftops,

  cardboard snowmen

  hanging ten on surfboards,

  and plastic blow-up sleighs

  heaped high with plastic gifts . . .

  When an idea

  suddenly pops into my head.

  An idea so brilliant

  it feels more like an epiphany:

  Maybe no one can give me

  what I want for the holidays.

  But I can give

  that gift to someone else!

  I don’t know how

  I’m gonna do it.

  But I’m gonna find the family

  of that girl who’s been sleeping on the bluff

  and I’m gonna

  get her home to them.

  I’m gonna get her home to them

  by Christmas Eve.

  Which Means

  I’ve only got ten days

  to make that happen.

  And judging from yesterday,

  it’s not gonna be easy.

  I’ve got to snap into action right now

  and start working on gaining her trust!

  I’ll stop off to buy her a cinnamon bun

  and then head straight over to the bluff . . .

  Pixel’s been attacking

  his reflection in a puddle.

  But now he stops and looks up at me,

  his eyes blazing like two tiny torches.

  He cocks his head at me, blinks,

  and then starts straining on his leash,

  pulling me in the direction

  of Café Zella,

  where they serve the best

  cinnamon buns on the planet.

  “What are you,” I say,

  “some kind of mind reader?”

  He glances back over his shoulder at me

  like, “Why, yes, thank you. I am.”

  Fifteen Minutes Later

  As we approach the bluff,

  my heart begins to race

  like we’ve jogged the whole way here.

  But when

  we get a little closer,

  it grinds to a sudden halt—

  because that’s when I see

  that the girl, and all traces of her,

  have vanished.

  Except for the raincoat I left behind.

  It’s still sitting there, all by itself,

  folded into that neat little bundle.

  It looks so wretched.

  So rejected.

  So utterly alone . . .

  I hop over the fence

  and stoop down

  to pick it up.

  I check the pockets,

  hoping they’ll be empty.

  But the granola bars are still there.

  So Much for My Winter Break Plans

  I plunk down

  on the nearest bench,

  feeling as useless as a car

  with an empty tank.

  Pixel hops up next to me

  and wags his bushy tail like,

  “I’ll never leave you.”

  I bury my face in his infinite softness.

  Then I look up

  and stare out at the ocean,

  wondering where the girl has gone.

  And why.

  Am I such a loser that she’d rather

  go to the trouble of packing up all her stuff

  and moving somewhere else

  than risk ever having to see me again?

  I mean,

  why did she have to disappear like that?

  Why do people keep doing that to me?

  Why do they keep on leaving

  without even saying good-bye?

  Pixel Cocks His Head at Me

  Like, “It isn’t always

  about you, you know.

  People have places to go.”

  “I wish I could believe you,” I say.

  He snuffles his nose into my palm,

  then rests his paw on my arm.

  Which is his way of saying,

  “This pity party has lasted long enough.

  Let’s go sniff some stuff!”

  “You’re right,” I say,

  ruffling the silky fur on his head.

  “No point in sitting around here all day.”

  So I pick up the raincoat,

  peel myself off the bench,

  and let Pixel lead me away.

  I Offer the Coat and the Cinnamon Bun

  To the first homeless woman I see.

  She plucks them out of my hands,

  flashes me a toothless grin, br />
  and croaks, “Bless your soul, missy.”

  Pixel looks at me like,

  “See? Not everyone’s an ingrate.”

  Then he guides me across Ocean Avenue,

  and into the farmers’ market.

  As we meander

  past stalls packed with radishes

  and raspberry jam

  and festive poinsettias,

  I tell myself

  to stop looking for the girl.

  I tell myself it’s pointless.

  I tell myself to just cut it out.

  But I can’t

  seem to keep my eyes

  from scanning every face

  in the crowd.

  I Think I See Her

  Trudging

  down the alley

  behind the AMC theater . . .

  I think I see her

  heading into the bathroom

  next to the food court in the mall . . .

  I think I see her

  strolling down the ramp

  that leads onto the pier . . .

  But each time,

  when I dash to catch up with her,

  I see that it’s not her . . . It’s not her . . .

  It’s never her.

  NO DOGS ALLOWED

  The sign is clearly posted

  at the entrance to Pacific Park on the pier,

  where all the games and rides are.

  Pixel lifts his chin at me as if to say, “We aren’t

  gonna let a little thing like that stop us, are we?”

  I pull his service dog vest out of my backpack.

  Whenever I need to bring him

  somewhere that dogs aren’t allowed,

  that vest sure comes in handy.

  Don’t get the wrong impression.

  It’s not a scam.

  Pixel really is a service dog—

  one of those emotional support dogs

  who’s been trained to help anxious people

  feel less anxious.

  It’s just that . . .

  That I sort of . . .

  I sort of inherited him.

  But my doctor

  thought it would be a good idea

  for me to keep him.

  The Pier’s Hideously Crowded

  Pixel and I

  weave through the throngs

  of families on vacation—

  watching them whacking moles

  and munching on funnel cakes,

  and cracking each other up with inside jokes,

  crowding in close together

  to snap big beaming