Piecing Me Together(33)

She keeps talking, but I lose track of what she is saying. I am too busy thinking, How did this happen? Too busy trying to concentrate on the moving cars and trucks so I can distract my tears from falling.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.

If she has to ask, it’s not worth explaining. “Nothing,” I say. She probably wouldn’t understand anyway.

“Are you sure?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

The bus comes. We get on, show our bus passes, and head to our usual section. I get in first, sit next to the window. The bus jerks, and Sam stumbles into the seat next to me. Once she is situated in her seat, she turns to me and says, “You should come to the meeting too. The two of us in Costa Rica? That would be the best thing—”

“You have to be nominated to go, Sam. No one nominated me.”

“But, well, maybe—”

“Maybe what?”

Sam puts the envelope into her backpack.

We ride in silence. Finally silence.

Passengers get on and off the bus. On and off.

Sam moves her too-long bangs out of her face. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

We’re getting close to Sam’s stop. She scoots forward, getting ready to get up even though there are at least four more blocks to go. Sam starts talking again. “I, uh, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over this weekend. Maybe spend the night?”

“I’ll let you know what my mom says.”

“We can make pizza. My grandpa taught me how to make it from scratch. You like pizza, right?”

I nod.

When the bus pulls over at Sam’s stop, she walks to the back door. “See you tomorrow,” she says.

“Bye.”

I ride through the transition blocks, and then I’m back on my side of town. Where the river is polluted. I am thinking about the fish and the river. The giving and the learning. I am wondering how choices are made about who gets what and how much they get. Wondering who owns the river and the line, and the hook, and the worm.





41


familia

family

I haven’t spent time with Maxine since the outing to the symphony. She’s called a lot, but I usually make an excuse and say how busy I am and that I can’t talk. But she was determined to hang out today, so she invited me to her family’s Sunday dinner. “It’s a tradition in my family to eat dinner together on the first Sunday of the month,” Maxine tells me. “We call it Soul Food Sunday.”

I am surprised when Maxine says this. She doesn’t seem like the type of person who knows anything about soul food.

“I’m in charge of dessert,” Maxine says. She studies the cakes inside the glass case. We’re at some fancy bakery in the Pearl District, browsing through cakes, scones, and cookies. “What looks good to you?”

“Everything,” I tell her.

She laughs. “Yeah, this is pastry heaven. I get myself in trouble when I come here on Fridays. Everything’s half off on Fridays.”

The baker behind the counter has just finished decorating a cake. She’s sculpted it to look like a dollhouse. I doubt the little girl it’s being made for will even want to cut into it. It looks so real. Too real to eat.

Maxine waves over one of the men behind the counter. “Can I get a dozen of these?” She points to the lemon-marionberry scones. Then she looks at me and says, “Now you pick something. A cake. Which one should we get?” She hands me the cake list.

I look it over: Sacher torte, pink champagne, crème de menthe, chocolate ganache. I go with the one that has chocolate in the name. You can’t go wrong with chocolate.

“Good choice,” Maxine says. “My dad loves chocolate ganache. You’ve won him over without even trying.”

Maxine pays for the cake and scones, and we leave the bakery.

I can tell we’re entering the rich part of Portland. We’re driving up a winding road that’s got us so high, my ears are popping. The road is secluded by tall trees tickling the sky. We come to a stop sign, and it feels like we might slide back down the hill. The car is at an angle, and I feel like I’m on a carnival ride that got stuck. Maxine looks both ways and begins to drive again. Then she says, “Look to your left.”

I turn my head and see the city of Portland below, Mount Hood in the distance. Maxine makes a right turn onto a steep hill, leading us down into a cul-de-sac of houses. Wait, not houses. Mansions. I’ve seen places like this before, like when I watch those shows that give an inside look at celebrity homes. But I’ve never been inside one.

“We’re here,” Maxine says. She pulls up to a house that has three garage doors and a balcony that wraps around to the front of the house. The yard looks fake, too plush and green to be real.

A woman who looks just like Maxine is standing at the door. When we get out of the car, she calls out, “Max!”

“That’s my sister, Mia,” Maxine tells me.

They hug and we go inside.

It takes only seconds before Maxine’s family is surrounding us, hugging us and welcoming me. Maxine introduces me to everyone: Maxine’s brother, Nathan, and his wife, Abby, and Mr. and Mrs. Winters, Maxine’s parents.