A List of Cages(2)

Closest to me is Kristin, a girl who looks a little bit like a goldfish with her orange hair and bulging eyes. She sends me a bruising glare, and I feel like I’m wearing a defective invisibility cloak—a device that works perfectly until I do something stupid.

I met Kristin at the beginning of school this year. In first period, she tapped my shoulder and asked if I was reading an Elian Mariner book. I nodded, wary, because no one ever starts conversations with me. But when she asked what it was about, my words just spilled out. Yes, it was an Elian Mariner book, probably my favorite in the entire series. Kristin kept nodding and asking questions, and she said her sister loved those books. Then she added, “My sister’s seven.”

When everyone around us started laughing, I hid the book in my backpack. It wasn’t until my next class that I noticed it was missing. Then in sixth period, I was returning from sharpening my pencil, and there it was, sitting on my chair.

I opened it to find that every illustration had been desecrated with black Sharpie. Drawings of penises were jutting up from Elian’s pants, and floating penises were pointed at his mouth. Eyes stinging, I looked up to find the entire class watching me. I caught Kristin’s fish eyes in the crowd, then she fell headfirst into her desk, shaking with laughter.

“Julian!” Miss Carlisle calls out now. “Move.”

I quickly drag my desk to join the girls.

“So, Violet, Jen,” Kristin says, “should we split things up?”

I pretend not to notice that she’s excluding me and open my textbook.

“Okay,” Violet answers. “Julian, did you want to—”

“I want a good grade on this,” Kristin interrupts her. “Let’s just divide it between us.”

Violet doesn’t answer, and I keep pretending I can’t hear.


After the final bell, it looks like someone kicked over a beehive. Kids are swarming and flying in a thousand different directions. There’s a sudden explosion of noise—talking and cell phones beeping. But I stand frozen at the top of the steps just outside the school.

My father is leaning against a tall tree across the street.

When I was little, my mother was usually the one who picked me up, but every now and then Dad would get off early and surprise me. Instead of joining the pickup line of cars, he’d meet me on foot. His hands were always blotted with ink, like a child’s after finger painting, and he’d say, It’s too nice a day not to walk. He’d say that even if it was raining.

But of course the man across the street isn’t actually my father. It’s just some trick of the sunlight filtering through the branches on a jogger who stopped to catch his breath.

I stand here, heavy now.

So heavy that the tall steps become a mountain to climb down. So heavy that it takes a while to summon the energy to start the long walk home.

Ten blocks from school, I start to shiver. Autumn is here, but it seems too soon. Almost like I skipped over the last three months because there are certain things that are supposed to happen every summer.

I’m supposed to go to the beach with my parents. We’re supposed to see fireworks and buy sparklers and find seashells. I’m supposed to stay up late and sit on the front porch eating popsicles while my mother plays the guitar and my father draws. Then as he’s tucking me into bed, he’s supposed to ask, How many stars?

On a great day I’m supposed to say nine or ten. But if it was amazing, the best day I ever had, I’m supposed to cheat and say something like ten thousand stars.

But we didn’t get to see fireworks or eat popsicles or do any summer things, and I have this ache inside, like how you might feel if you slept through Christmas.


The same heaviness I felt after school reappears the minute I walk inside the empty house. Every inch of it is dark, glossy, and neat. Every piece of furniture is strategic. Every color is coordinated by someone trained to do it. It’s exactly the sort of house I thought I wanted…until I got it.

I enter my room with its polished wood floors, desert-brown walls, and heavy furniture. My eyes are pulled to the only thing out of place—the big steel trunk at the foot of the bed. My parents got it for me to take to camp the summer I turned nine. They told me I was brave to go off on my own, but I got so homesick I couldn’t even make it through the first night.

I drop my backpack to the floor and lift the trunk’s heavy lid. My heart squeezes as I look down at all the things I love: photo albums and Elian Mariner books and my mother’s green spiral notebook. I leave that untouched for today and fish around for my own notebook. I flip a few pages, then pick up where I left off.

It’s hours later when I drop my pen at the sound of a car pulling into the garage. It’s after eight o’clock, but sometimes my uncle gets home even later. And sometimes, if he has to go meet with clients in other cities, he doesn’t come home at all.

I watch my bedroom door, the way the light from the hall shines around the perimeter like an entryway to another dimension. I listen for the sound of him climbing the stairs to his office, because even when he’s home, he’s usually working.

Instead, I see a shadow fall beneath my door.

I close my eyes, but I can’t teleport, and I can’t disappear.


My uncle Russell once told me he used to be so tall and willowy that when his high school theater put on A Christmas Carol, he was asked to play the grim reaper. I’ve tried to picture it, but it’s hard to imagine he was ever frail.