Like Gravity(85)

Our foster mother, Eva, had agreed to take us to the Fall Festival, and the eight of us kids divided into two minivans, with the oldest fighting for the front seats. There were two chaperones with our group – women I’d never met before – but they kept mostly to themselves, talking to each other rather than the kids. I think they were Eva’s friends – sometimes they hung around with her at our group home – but I wasn’t really sure.

As usual, my scrawny frame was shoved into the back row, between two of the bigger kids. I kept my eyes closed for the majority of the ride, retelling myself the legend of Andromeda over and over in my head to shut out the noise in the van and the uncomfortable, cramped backseat.

The boy sat in the row ahead of me and didn’t look back. A part of me wished he would, but I knew it was for the best – we never talked to each other in front of the other kids. As far as they knew, I was still the little mute girl who kept to herself.

The back porch at night – that was our place, the one space in the house I ever felt safe enough to be myself. Safe enough to speak. Every day I feared one of the other kids would discover us out there, and learn my secret. But for now, on my way to a carnival with the promise of sugar and fun hanging in the air all around me, I pushed my fears away and determined to have a good time. It was my birthday, after all.

I was seven. I didn’t feel any different – I didn’t look any bigger, either.

I hadn’t told anyone it was my birthday, not even the boy. My foster mother had given me a rare, unexpected hug when I’d walked into the kitchen for breakfast this morning, but other than that there had been no recognition that I was one year older.

If my mom had been here, there’d have been cake and presents and so much laughter my sides would ache for the next three days. The fact that it was my birthday and she wasn’t here made it seem more real, more final than ever before – she was gone, and she was never coming back.

Even with my eyes pressed closed, I could tell we were approaching the fairgrounds. The other kids’ voices got louder as they talked about which rides they would go on and pointed at different attractions through the windows as our car rolled slowly into line for the parking lot.

Squeezing my eyes shut even tighter, I made a birthday wish. It wasn’t done over a cake, and I hadn’t blown out any candles, but I hoped it would count anyway.

I didn’t wish for presents. I didn’t wish for my father to find me. I didn’t wish to be adopted. I didn’t even wish for my mother back.

Instead, I wished on every star in the night sky, on all those constellations the boy had taught me to find and name, that we wouldn’t be separated. That, whatever happened, we would stay together. Because the boy with the sad eyes? He’d become my brightest star; the one who led me to safety every night, when the nightmares and the grief became too much. He’d guided me from the darkness – my North Star in the never-ending shadows.

And I didn’t want to lose him, not ever.

Our foster mother parked the van and the rest of the kids immediately jumped out and sprinted for the park entrance. I trailed slowly behind, knowing I would never be able to keep up anyway. When we were handed our tickets and allowed into the park, the group splintered off in every direction.

The older girls I shared a bedroom with, Mary and Katie, took off for the food stands on the other side of the park. A pack of the older boys ran for the giant thrill rides that flipped upside down and made you throw up. The rest headed for the ring toss and dart throwing games.

I didn’t see where the boy had gone.

My foster mother and the other two chaperones were busy with Bobbie, the three-year-old toddler who’d arrived at the house two weeks ago. He was the youngest by far, and he used up almost all their attention. The rest of us had been given an allowance of twenty tickets each, and sent off to spend them however we wanted. I think Eva was just happy that she didn’t have to deal with the other seven of us for the next few hours.

I decided to stick by myself, rather than chase after a group of older kids who didn’t want me tagging along anyway. I wandered around for a few minutes, taking in the sights and smells, and eventually parted with three of my tickets in return for a lump of cotton candy so sticky I had to suck on each of my fingers for several seconds to get them clean.

When I saw the Ferris wheel – shiny red and lit up with hundreds of tiny glowing lights – it seemed magical, like something out of a storybook. It was enchanting, utterly unlike any ride I’d ever seen before, and I instantly wanted to ride it up, up, up into the sky. I knew the view of the stars from the very top would be incredible.

I got into line and tried to ignore the three boys standing several feet ahead of me. They lived in the group home, and I knew from experience that they would tease me mercilessly if they discovered me standing anywhere near them. I should have gotten out of line as soon as I saw them – I almost did – but the lure of the Ferris wheel was too strong, and I figured there was a pretty good chance they wouldn’t notice me anyway.

I was wrong.

We were nearing the front of the line when Eugene, the oldest – and meanest – of the boys turned and spotted me. About thirteen, with blond hair and a tall frame, Eugene was a bully. I’d always thought it was because he hated his dorky name so much, he felt like had to prove how tough he was every minute of the day.

“Hey, freak!” he yelled, the excitement and malice clear in his eyes.