8:35 to 11:15 a.m. Morning classes. I check in with Mom in between classes, drop off my homework and exchange books. That’s why I don’t have a locker. Mom told the principal it was unnecessary.
11:15 to 11:45 a.m. Lunch with Mom. We eat our sack lunches in her office. It’s better than eating in the cafeteria. I can’t stand having everyone stare at us. Especially on Monday, or as Mom calls it, “Matching Shirt Monday.”
11:45 a.m. to 3:15 p.m. Afternoon classes. I check in with Mom and exchange books, like I do in the morning.
3:25 p.m. Mom drives me home.
After school? Homework. Mom hovers, helps. Speech therapy sessions. Mom observes, takes notes. Speech practice. With Mom. Free time. With Mom. Sometimes Jada comes over. Her parents drop her off, and we’ll chat, watch G rated, mother-approved movies or play G-rated, mother-approved video games.
With Mom.
Delete, delete, delete! I love the sound my phone makes each time I erase part of my old life. To my ears, it’s a little bell ringing in triumph. Finally, there’s only one item left.
9:30 p.m. Bed time. Mom says goodnight and locks my door from the outside. I can hear the grating, metallic click in my mind, clearly, as if it’s happening right now. Mom’s the only one who has a key.
The phrase, “Delete selected item?” blinks at me from my cell. I hit “Yes,” and the screen of my phone glows a gorgeous, empty, electronic blue. Now each activity is gone. If it’s not on my phone, it doesn’t exist. Every day is now a blank canvas, and I’m the one who gets to fill it, any way I choose.
émile yawns again and I do too. A sleepy morning, with nowhere to be, nothing particular to do, is a luxury I’ve never had before.
Later, I snooze the afternoon away. Sylvie laughed and said something about jet lag when I nearly fell asleep in my soup, and I allowed myself the freedom of a long, uninterrupted nap.
Did I mention that I like it here?
After dinner, all three of us watch some weird movie I half understand. My new French parents are content, smiling. I cuddle Fat Cat and text Mom. It’s only morning for her, and supposed to be for me, too. I tell her I’m going to learn how to draw the human form. Oops. Then I have to spend about fifteen minutes promising that I won’t be sitting before a bunch of live, nude models.
Once I’m in bed, the big cat’s low purr lulls me to sleep. Soon I’m dreaming. My mother doesn’t even like to doodle, but in the dream, I’m watching her paint the portrait of a girl. The girl on the canvas looks back at me from over her shoulder. Her hair is long, winds around her neck and is tight around her face, covering her mouth. I start to breathe hard and I try to ask my mother fix the painting, try to get the girl’s hair off her face, off her mouth so she can breathe, so she can talk, but Mom won’t answer me.
I can’t breathe. I sit up gasping for air. I don’t know where I am. I’m terrified. Suddenly, a sharp line of light glows on the wall beside me. I go completely still, except for the pounding of my heart that gradually slows.
Breath comes back to my body as the dream dissolves, and I understand at once that it was just another one of my nightmares. It was weird, though. Usually, I dream about a set of odd images that I can’t explain. An old-fashioned dress with puffy sleeves and a torn hem. A sagging plaid couch with springs that poke through the fabric. A filthy teddy bear missing an eye. Canned peaches. Peanut butter on crackers. Always, those images fill me with a sense of quivering dread bordering on sheer panic. Yeah, I know. Peaches? Peanut butter? I can’t figure it out either, but I’ve never been able to even look at that stuff.
I turn on the bedside lamp with a shaky hand, and check out the wall where the light glows through the crack. That’s not any old crack on my wall. It’s too tall. Too straight. There’s a door.
I fling away fading nightmares and plan an attack. Padding across the cool blue-tiled kitchen floor, I mentally thank émile for being such a good cook. Aside from the fact that his meals rock, he has an awesome set of cutlery. In no time I’m back in the bedroom wielding a wicked-looking knife.
Using only the dim reading lamp to guide me, I push against the glowing line of light. Under the pressure of my hand, the wall gives a little. Is the crack a tiny bit wider? I think it is. I was right. There was once a door in this wall. It was painted over. Where was the knob? My fingers find it, a slight bulge where a hole was covered with plaster.