A List of Cages(16)

He looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide with despair. “They disappeared.”


Julian had no relatives, no godparents, no anyone, so at the two-week mark, when most of the foster kids went home, he stayed. At first it seemed like he was never going to be anything resembling himself again, like he would always be sad. But then there were little things.

We’d go to the mall, and he’d want to wear those joke glasses you could buy at Spencer’s—the kind with an attached nose and handlebar mustache.

Or Mom would be reading him a story before bed—he still loved Elian Mariner—and when she finished, he’d add this crazy-long epilogue.

Or he’d sing and talk about his mom—she could sing anything. And his dad—he could draw everything.

But sometimes, out of nowhere, he did this approximation of crying, where his face would scrunch up in pain and his shoulders would shake, only he wouldn’t make a sound.

Months went by, and it started to feel like Julian had always been with us, like we were real brothers. After school we’d run around the neighborhood, and at night we’d run around the house till Mom told us to wind down. We’d watch TV—I’d suffer though all those Disney Channel and Nickelodeon shows he liked. He’d endure my superhero movies and endless questions about which superpower he’d want if he could only have only one.

That time we watched Superman still pops into my head every now and then. I wasn’t really thinking when I stuck in the DVD. Then we reached the part where Lois Lane dies….

It was like Julian stopped breathing—he looked that stricken—as a devastated Superman pulled her from the wrecked car and cradled her head. Julian covered his face and whispered, “Don’t cry, Superman.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “See?”

Julian peeked through his fingers. Superman was rising up through the air, into the clouds. Julian gasped as he spun the world backward and brought her back to life.





MISS HOOPER DOESN’T wait for Adam to knock on her door anymore every Tuesday and Friday. She just sends me on my way. Today, as soon as I step into the hall, he asks, “What is that?” He’s laughing at me, but it doesn’t feel mean the way it does when other people do it.

“It’s for Child Development,” I explain.

He takes the large plastic doll from my hands. “You have to carry this thing around all day?”

“All week.”

“I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head in sympathy.

“Miss Carlisle says we need to learn that having a baby is terrible.”

Adam laughs. “I guess this would do it.”

My parents never told me it was terrible. They always sounded so happy when they’d talk about bringing me home from the hospital, or the expression on my face the first time I tried baby-food spinach.

“Do your teachers get pissed when it goes off in class?” Adam asks.

“Sort of.” Mostly Miss West. “But I think Miss Cross likes it.” She says things like You couldn’t find a sitter? Or It must be tough to be a single dad. I’m almost sure she’s joking, but I can never think of a joke to say back, so I mostly wish she wouldn’t say anything at all.

The baby suddenly bursts into loud mechanical sobs. “What do I do?” Adam panics, pushing it back at me. I type the correct code into its back to stop the crying. “All week,” he repeats, shaking his head again. “Jesus.”

When he starts walking, I fall into step beside him, and it’s like trying to keep up with something that has too much energy for its container. It fills the hall and ricochets against everyone we pass. A teacher can be approaching, face stressed or sad, and body bent as if they’re carrying something too heavy.

Then they see Adam.

They blink as if blinded, and their mouth spreads into a Christmas-morning smile. Sometimes they stop to tell him how much they’ve missed him, that Algebra or Geography isn’t the same without him. Then they ask him what his schedule looks like next semester—does he have room to be their teacher’s aide? Adam will ask about their family, mentioning each relative by name; then with a brilliant smile, he promises to visit their classroom very soon.

And now that smile is aimed at me. “Anything interesting happen today?” It’s a question I get every Tuesday and Friday.

“Yes,” I say. “Miss Cross is making us be in a play.”

“‘Shakespeare in the Spring.’ The English department does it every year, and every year it’s awful. Do you know which one you’re doing?”

“The one…I can’t remember his name…something weird.”

“Not specific enough.”

“The one where everyone dies.”

“Still not specific enough.” The nice thing about Adam is it’s easy to tell when he’s joking, because he’s nearly always joking.

The doll starts to scream again. I have to punch in the code for Distress. “Miss Carlisle says the old egg method was better,” I say. “Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah. Kids used to carry around an egg instead of a doll. You passed as long as you didn’t break yours.”

“Oh.” That sounds a lot easier than this. “What play did you do?”