Falling for You

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Contents

the hospital—4:05 p.m.

six months earlier

it hurts

poetry journal—october

meet the new kid

i want to be brave

home away from home

late for dinner

poetry journal—october

strangers no more

first date

a little unreal

really and truly

The Colors of Me

the hospital—4:08 p.m.

five months earlier

not quite the happiest place on earth

poetry journal—november

a way with words

In My Imagination

it’s personal

desperate

wish i could be a cat

that’s a first

special delivery #1

stuck

poetry journal—november

when it rains, it pours

the hospital—4:15 p.m.

four months earlier

the season of giving

special delivery #2

poetry journal—december

enough is enough

gone

What I’ve Learned

from bad to worse

there’s more to life than kissing

fishing for answers

muddy boots

no reassurances

surprises

gifts

merry christmas

poetry journal—december

the hospital—4:21 p.m.

three months earlier

a revolution

For My Girl

ups and downs

afraid

that was close

poetry journal—january

a mutual acquaintance

the unexpected

close call

boys, boys, boys

urgent

from bad to worse

poetry journal—january

the hospital—8:56 p.m.

two months earlier

painful

Scars

special delivery #3

missing you

poetry journal—february

a good reminder

welcome home

the hospital—8:04 a.m.

one month earlier

the pink house

in the garden

nobody’s perfect

Bloom

confessions

the last special delivery

at the park

poetry journal—march

the hospital—9:17 a.m.

one day earlier

twelve hours or else

poetry journal—april

kindness revealed

shine

always love

the hospital—1:02 p.m.

two months later

cherished

acknowledgments

about the author

Lucky number seven is for Sara Crowe
,

because I am so lucky you loved my

odd little manuscript all those years ago
.

I hope there are at least seven more!

the hospital—4:05 p.m
.

At last I can breathe
.

“Has anyone reached her family?”

Before they got to me, I felt like I was suffocating
.

I can feel them working on me. Hear them
.

“Rayanna? My name is Dr. Lamb. We’re going to take care of you.”

Dr. Lamb. I like the sound of your voice. I want to believe you’ll take care of me. Except you can’t do that forever. I mean, for now, maybe. But after that, what happens?

There’s a light far, far away. I can feel it. It’s warm
.

Is it wrong to want the light?

Maybe the light doesn’t want me
.

All I want is to be wanted by someone. Just as I am
.

That may be the only thing I’ve ever wanted
.

six months earlier

it hurts

I WAS MAKING HAMBURGERS FOR DINNER. DEAN, MY STEPDAD, loves hamburgers, although I wasn’t making his favorite out of a deep devotion for the guy. Grease kept spraying up from the frying pan, burning my hands, like tiny electrical shocks. It was a small price to pay. Once I got him fed, I could retreat to my room, like always, where he’d leave me alone for the rest of the night.

When the meat was done, I put the patties and buns on two plates, then rushed around grabbing the chips, a Coke for me, and a beer for him.

“Dinner’s ready,” I called.

“Good. I’m starving,” Dean said as he got up off the couch. He took a seat at the old butcher-block table and scrutinized his dinner plate along with the condiments I’d set out earlier. I waited. There was always something.

“Shit, Rae,” he yelled. “Where’s the onions?”

Right. His beloved onions
. “Sorry. Hold on. I’ll get them.”

“Damn right you will,” he muttered.

I sliced through the onion, pretending it was his head.

I looked up. He handled his hamburger so gently. Putting on ketchup, mustard, and pickles with such tender care, you’d have thought he was a mother dressing her newborn baby.

I sliced harder. Faster.

“Ow!” The knife fell to the counter with a rattle. “Sh—” I pinched my lips together, keeping the promise to myself to be nothing like my foulmouthed stepfather. I blasted the water in the sink and thrust my hand under the stream, wincing because it stung.

Dean said nothing.

The reddish-pinkish water swirled down the drain, and I imagined a sink full of blood. It’d overflow onto the floor. Creep across the linoleum to his oil-stained boots.

How much blood before he’d notice?

How much blood before he’d care?

No doubt in my mind. He’d let me bleed to death. Years ago, when I’d hoped he might be the dad I’d never had, his nonreaction probably would have bothered me. Not anymore. I’d learned to keep my expectations low. There’s less disappointment that way.

Because one thing I really didn’t need any more of? Disappointment.

My mother definitely didn’t marry Dean for his compassion. She married him for money, what little of it he had, anyway. It was more than we had, which was nothing, and that was all that’d mattered.

I turned off the water and grabbed a paper towel, wrapping it tight around my finger, afraid to look too closely at the cut.

Dean got up with his plate and marched to the counter, cussing under his breath. He picked up a handful of sliced onions and put them on top of his burger.

Blood seeped through the towel. I squeezed it tighter.

He went back to the table. Sat down. Took a bite of his burger.

“Now, that’s better,” he mumbled.

The whole scene reminded me of the time I’d heard two DJs on the radio talking about a survey some researchers had conducted on memories. The results showed there are three things people remember most from their childhood: family vacations, holiday traditions, and mealtimes.

I had to laugh. Yeah, I’d remember mealtimes at my house, and immediately wish I could forget them.

•   •   •

I spent the evening in my room, doing homework. Mom got home around ten, like always. She worked the swing shift as a checker at the Rite Aid. I heard her in the other room, exchanging words with Dean. Their voices got louder, and my name was mentioned a time or two.

I turned up the music on my laptop in response, doing
my best to fight the world with Foo. The Foo Fighters, that is. I traced my finger along my ankle, imagining the tattoo I’d designed in my head with a circle of musical notes and lyrics from my favorite song, “Everlong.” If I make it to eighteen with my sanity intact, I figure I’ll owe it to the Foo Fighters. Well, and to my job at Full Bloom. Might need to incorporate a couple of flowers into that design.