something?â
Mom laughs and snaps on her helmet, then hands me mine. Itâs pink and sparkly. âYou know, the truth is I was really looking forward to todayâs session, but I did reschedule.â
Reluctantly, I edge into the seat behind her and put on the helmet. Do I have a choice? I have to get away from school. Soon we are far away. We bike down El Camino Real past Keplerâs Books, and, naturally, itâs pouring down rain. Even though cold water lashes against my cheeks, I donât worry about my mascara running because Iâm not wearingmascaraâor any makeup, for that matter!
As the rain lets up, we pull up to an apartment complex, the Sierra Garden. Not that thereâs a garden in sight. Itâs the sort of run-down place where youâd expect some artistic type who didnât have a steady income to live. âWhy are we going here?â I say. âLetâs go home.â
Mom stares at me as if I was abducted, taken into Area 51 and reprogrammed. âThis is our home. Did you forget it was moving day? Paying for them to unpack and pack us was worth every penny. Even if it means the two of us tightening the belt a little for the next few months. The moving company did a wonderful job. Even the clothes are back in the drawers.â
âI guess I forgot,â I mumble. âAbout the move.â
Mom squints at me. âAre you okay?â
No, Iâm not okay. Iâm less than myself. A ghost of me. âSince we didnât do any packing I guess I sort of made itâthe moveânot happen in my mind or something.â
âI could see that,â said Mom. âI know itâs not easy.â
Understatement, Mom. Ãber understatement. Oh no, it has happened. Weâve really moved to the Sierra Garden apartments. Whenever Mom would be SOmad at Dad after heâd come home super late from a meeting and then tell her that he had to go out again and train for his triathlon, sheâd be the one to get on to the phone with her sister Megan and fume, âIf things get really bad, I can always move with Taffeta to the Sierra Garden apartments.â
At the time I thought it was a sort of fun, downsizing-your-life daydream. Why would she really want to give up our amazing home in Menlo Park for some apartment complex? I stare at the mission-style building with its red tiled roof and naked, statue-boy fountain that doesnât work in the center of the courtyard. Little kids run around in the front parking lot, totally unsupervised, from what I can tell, which is probably typical of poor people who live in apartments like Sierra Garden. If I had been a baby here I could see me now, barefoot, in a soggy diaper, heading into traffic. Why canât we have our old house back? Why? I guess the fact that weâve moved into an apartment is NOTHING compared to the fact that, somehow, Iâm like a TOTALLY different version of myself.
A New Day, Unfortunately
I jump out of bed and glimpse my face in the mirrorabove a scratched-up chest of drawers plastered with Lord of the Rings stickers. Only everythingâs out of focus and fuzzy. I think I spot a pair of purple plastic glasses next to a stack of fantasy books on the nightstand.
I squint and instinctively push the glasses onto my face. No chintz bedspread bought with last yearâs birthday money at Pottery Barn. Nasty-looking clothes, such as socks with images of little dragons, litter the floor. Posters cover the wallsâposters with creatures from Star Wars and UNICORNS!
On the walls, I see posters of MORE unicorns and a green dragon winging over a lavender volcano. I gaze at the face of the dragon and once again look at my face in the mirror thatâs over my bureau.
The dragon and I have a lot in common. We are both depressingly similar-looking.
I see a girl with frizzy hair, like a halo of fire. Round cheeks dotted with whiteheads. I am not looking at my motherâs middle
Learning to Kill: Stories