Of course, that was before I knew about Goodwill. I liked imagining them finding new families and kids to play with. I can still remember Wainwright explaining to nine-year-old me that they’d gone to foster care, too. My grammy bought me many more-Doggy the Dog, Findango, Corduroy-If-You-Please, and Sullen Moomelstein, to name a few. Fancypaws McKittenfluff, my sole remaining stuffed animal from a childhood menagerie. Wishful thinking, I guess.” “I know! You haven’t even taken out Fancypaws!” That’d be Ms. Two weeks back and I haven’t emptied my suitcase yet. “You going to the art course with me this morning?” she mumbles into Minnie’s ear. Emmy finally tosses the tennis ball away and curls around her Minnie Mouse pillow. A couple of those did involve legal issues on my end, but the others? Finances, leases running out-heck, one of my families got deported two weeks after I moved in. Sometimes things don’t work out, and things just didn’t work out for me. It’s not like I have any major horror stories to tell-nobody hit me, or starved me, or touched me. I’ve been with five-count ’em, five-families in five years since Grammy died, and I’ve spent as much time in the Center as I have in homes.
I seem to be covered in nail polish remover or something.
The lucky kids stick to their foster families. I stink at this.” “Not as bad as I stink at sticking.” Sticking-that’s what we call it. Tossing an afghan around my shoulders for good measure, I sidle up to Emmy’s bed. Mid-October and it’s already thirty degrees outside, every bit of that cold happily taking up residence in our floor. My toes instantly seek my slippers, and I cram my feet in as quickly as possible. I didn’t mean it like that.…” Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I drop down to the concrete. And I just got my own top bunk, too!” “Stay here as long as I have, and it’ll be no sweat.” “I … I’m sorry, Nicki. “You’ll get there.” “I’ll get fostered again before I get there, Nicki. You’re doing two at once!” I catch both and glance apologetically at Emmy. “God, Nicki … slow down! How am I supposed to do that? I can’t even keep the ball going. There’s something calming about the thwackathwackathwacka of the balls off the ceiling, the dance my hands do as I throw faster and faster, until I can’t hardly see my fingers anymore. I’m digging my trenches just a little deeper, carving my roads a little farther, and when I manage to break off a bigger chunk, I get new lakes and hills. As I work, pieces of plaster rain on me, but I don’t care. Well, my hands and a couple of tennis balls.
It’s a slow process, though, since I use only my hands. I’ve got the mountains and valleys, an ocean, and continents.
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