Page 37

Starting Over

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

During dessert, Marjorie asks about school, about our move from Virginia, and about what my parents do. Normal questions from a normal woman in a normal home. I answer like I’ve done this dozens of times: meeting the family of someone who interests me. Except I never imagined myself in this starting-over place because it was never, never, never supposed to be this way.

After cake, Isaiah and Marjorie clear plates. Naya, true to her word, spends a few minutes teaching me how to draw a realistic eye, using negative space to create the illusion of reflecting light, before scampering upstairs to study spelling words. As Marjorie wipes down countertops, Isaiah gives me an inquiring look: Want to go?

I shake my head.

I’m…good.

He smiles, then tells Marjorie, “We’re going upstairs.”

“Have fun. Door open?”

Isaiah aims a smirk at me, and I drop my jaw in mock horror because what does she think we’re going to get up to under her nose?

“Door open,” he promises.

As I follow him upstairs, my attention catches on the wall, which is lined with framed photos. I recognize Isaiah, of course, in a series of six eight-by-tens. Naya’s framed once, which makes sense, since she’s been with Marjorie for less time. There are photos of a dozen others spanning childhood—chubby infants, rosy-cheeked toddlers, schoolkids with cowlicks, preteens with braces—an array of genders and races and expressions and style choices.

“Marjorie’s been a foster mom for a long time,” Isaiah tells me as I look. “She thinks of all of us as her kids, no matter how long we stay, or how much shit we give her.”

“Where are they all now?”

“Some went back to be with their parents. Some were adopted by other families. Some are adults now, aged out of the system. Marjorie stays in touch with most of them. She has them for holidays, sends birthday gifts, helps out when they need it. You know.”

No, not really.

What a privilege, to have such limited awareness of the child welfare system.

Isaiah leads me to the door at the end of the hall. “If you have questions,” he says as we step into his room, “I’ll answer them.”

I sit on the floor, leaning against the bed. He joins me, stretching his long legs across the rug. His space is orderly; his comforter is green plaid, and the curtains, which are pulled closed, match. On his desk sits a school-issued laptop, a mug of pens and drawing pencils, and a stack of sketchbooks. Sure enough, the picture I drew in Art Club is tacked to the wall. A nearby bookshelf is stocked with nonfiction: adventure stories by Jon Krakauer, Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy , plus biographies on basketball players—Jordan, Bryant, Bird.

“Naya stole my Percy Jackson books,” he says as I scan the spines.

“Smart girl.” I nudge his shoe with mine, indicating the pink doodles I noticed the day we met. “Did she draw those stars?”

“Yep. That girl leaves drawings everywhere.”

I lower my voice and ask, “What’ll happen to her?”

His mouth dips into a frown. “The plan is for her to reunite. Marjorie thinks the judge will hand down an official decision next month.”

“Reunite with her parents?”

“Her mother, Gloria, yeah.” He’s speaking softly. I suspect he’s not supposed to be telling me this. It’s none of my business, and there must be rules about confidentiality. But I’m glad he is. I’ve already taken a liking to his foster sister. I hope her future is sound.

“Naya came into the system because of neglect,” he goes on. “Gloria’s a single mom with a hell of a past, but she was trying. Problem is, for her, trying looked like leaving Naya alone while she worked a slew of shitty jobs. I’m not saying it’s cool for a little kid to spend nights by herself, but what’s a mom in that position supposed to do? DCS stepped in, and Naya ended up here. But now Gloria’s doing everything right. Taking advantage of services, showing up for visits, for court. She loves Naya, and Naya wants to go home. Sometimes parents backslide, though.”

“If that happens, will Marjorie adopt her?”

“I doubt it. She got into foster care because she wants to preserve families, help kids short term. She’s not interested in parenting indefinitely.”

“But you’ve been here six years,” I say, wondering what it’s been like for him. Marjorie is awesome, but he’s spent a significant chunk of his life in limbo. Even I know that foster care is meant to be temporary; kids aren’t supposed to languish for years.

He shrugs. “My case was complicated. There are exceptions to every rule.”

“Would Marjorie adopt you?”

“Nah. I turned eighteen in October, so it’d be pointless. She and I’ve worked it out though. I’m here through the summer, and back again when I want to be.”

I’m grilling him—I know I am. Once upon a time, I thought it’d be best to keep him at a distance, to maintain a buffer of indifference. But now that I’ve stepped into his world, I can’t imagine backing out.

“What happens after this summer?” I ask.

“I’m gonna travel.”

“But what about college?”

“Someday, maybe. First, I want an adventure.”

I sink back against the bed, feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of me.

It’s never occurred to me that college can wait.

“What about basketball? You must’ve had recruiters after you.”

“Some, yeah. But basketball’s a hobby. An outlet. Marjorie signed me up for a team when I was thirteen and full of rage, and I’ve loved it ever since. But it’s not my future.”

“What is?”

“No idea—it’s too scary to think about. I’ve got a short-term plan, though,” he says, his timbre sparking with excitement. “As soon as basketball season’s done, I’ll get a job, and save for a car. Marjorie’s gotten a stipend every month for as long as I’ve been with her. It’s meant to go toward my care, but she’s put it all away for me. Done the same for every kid who’s been with her, no matter how long.”

“Because she’s an angel,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

He smiles. “Exactly. By now, she’s saved more than enough for me to live on for a year. At the end of this summer, I’m going on a road trip. I’m gonna see every state in the lower forty-eight.”

“Whoa,” I say, surprised by the immensity of his goal, and how wildly unconventional it is. “Where are you heading first?”

“Don’t know. I’m gonna see where the highway takes me. Kind of like of Into the Wild .”

I frown. Into the Wild ends in tragedy.

Isaiah goes on. “After my year on the road, I might go to art school or look for an internship. Or maybe I’ll apply to universities. Whatever feels right.”

Okay, but that’s not really a plan. A plan involves an itinerary. Strategizing. Advanced bookings. Debating pros and cons. To-do lists scribbled into notebooks.

Isaiah’s is an idea, wide open and fuzzy-edged, optimistic but amorphous.

Yet, he doesn’t seem daunted.

The day we shot baskets in my neighborhood, he told me I’m steady.

He’s steady. To set out on a country-crossing escapade all on his own? To see where he ends up? To possess the faith, the confidence, to do whatever feels right ?

I’m lost for words, thinking about the way he makes decisions—with his gut, with his heart—and agonizing over my own rigid plans for the future.

Have I gotten it all wrong?

It’s a question to angst over tomorrow.

Tonight, I want to try living in the moment. For once letting my instincts lead, I take Isaiah’s hand, weaving my fingers through his. I’ve been tasked with setting our speed, and this—holding his hand in the quiet warmth of his bedroom—is the beam of light I need to ride out the storm of uncertainty that’s rolled in.

He moves closer, until his arm aligns with mine. Taking a pen from his nightstand, he begins to draw on the hand he holds. A tiny flower on my first finger. A butterfly below my pinky. A basketball on the inside of my wrist. I wonder if he picked up doodling from Naya, or if she mirrors him.

“I’ve never invited anyone here,” he tells me, inking a lightning bolt onto my palm. “Not even Trev.”

“How come?”

His voice is low as thunder. “The house I grew up in was a nightmare. My first few foster placements weren’t much better. For a long time, school was my only safe place. I got used to compartmentalizing and never really stopped.”

“God, Isaiah,” I say, my stomach turning over. “I can’t imagine.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. Point is, it’s taken years of therapy and a hell of a lot of patience on Marjorie’s part, but I finally trust that my relationships are secure. This house is safe. The life I’ve built is solid. I want you to be part of it.”

He pauses doodling to smile sweetly at me, and I feel so welcomed, so cozy and so comfortable with him in his room and in his home, with the people who make up his family.

Would it be so bad to stray from the pothole-riddled path I’ve been trying to navigate?

To veer toward Isaiah instead of a future that no longer feels like me ?

Would it be so wrong to let myself settle into his world?

Buzzer Beater

She waited for an official invitation to watch him play.

It came as they sat at neighboring pottery wheels.

He was throwing a gorgeous vase.

She was starting over, her previous effort collapsed beneath her muddy hands.

“We’re playing Rudolph,” he said. “Friday night. Huge rivalry. Will you come?”

He didn’t look up from his clay,

but hope glowed phosphorescent in his voice.

“Okay,” she told him, though rooting a second boy to victory

is another step away from her first.

Two days later, she’s squished onto a crowded bench,

flanked by her friends.

The game is fast paced, exciting.

The players are aggressive.

She’s never known this side of the boy.

She’s used to his contemplative glances, hands covered in clay.

His even voice and his piercing gaze.

On the court, he’s dynamic, a leader, a flare of white-bright light.

He’s a step ahead of his teammates and miles ahead of his opponents.

Even so, the game is close.

Rubber soles squeal against polished wood.

Players whoop, spectators shout.

The lead shifts with each possession.

The girl and her friends are on their feet, hands in the air,

hollering like victory depends on the racket they make.

She shouts the boy’s name because the ball is in his charge.

Seconds remain.

He pulls up short, just outside the three-point line.

Rudolph’s defenders descend.

He shoots.

A buzzer beater, barely.

Time screeches to a halt as the ball arcs through the air.

She squeezes her eyes closed—it’s too much.

She hears it: the whisper of leather through nylon netting.

The East River High crowd explodes.

The girl’s feet leave the ground, the gym’s energy propelling her skyward.

She claps, she cheers, she hugs her friends.

She’s so glad she came.

On the court, the team celebrates in a huddle.

The boy has transformed again, grinning, triumph in his eyes.

And then his eyes are on her.

He stares at her, intentionally, intently, intensely.

She stares back.

He furnishes her with confidence, autonomy, a desire to feel.

Her vision goes soft.

She thinks of the day they met, of kissing him.

“I’ll hang beside you,” he told her.

She believes he will.