Page 11 of Catch the Sun

Flashing her my teeth, I wave my invisible pom-poms in the air, wondering if perhaps I should have joined the drama club. My acting skills seem to be remarkably decent, according to the spark of hope shimmering in my mother’s gaze.

But her face falls when I cock my head and give her that “Have you lost it?” look. The one she’s all too familiar with. The one that has become my entire personality at this point.

Mom sighs, plucking her wire-rimmed glasses off the bridge of her nose and leaning back. The chair swivels from side to side as two gray-green eyes narrow in my direction. “Ella.”

“Mom.”

“How was school?” she repeats.

We maintain eye contact for a drumbeat before I pick my bag back up and shuffle past her down the short hallway toward my bedroom without a word. She doesn’t need to know that I had detention today, after calling out a teacher on her bullshit. She probably wouldn’t care.

“Ella!” Mom hollers after me.

I’m too tired to respond.

Tired of pretending to be happy.

Tired of trying to acclimate to a world that is constantly against me.

Tired of waiting for a little bit of good luck to fall into our laps.

Most of all, I’m tired of missing my big brother while simultaneously hating him for what he did. Loving and hating somebody at the same time has got to be the most exhausting thing in this world.

I waltz into my bedroom and toss my backpack to the floor, then close the door behind me. I don’t slam it because I’m not angry.

I’m just tired.

Since I don’t hear my mother’s footsteps closing in, I plop down in the middle of my room and stare at the faded orange book bag resting between my ankles.

My heart rate kicks up.

When I was eight years old, I asked for one of those Doodle Bears for Christmas. I recall tearing apart silver and gold wrapping paper that glinted like tinsel underneath the grand chandelier in our living room, begging for justoneof those boxes to be a Doodle Bear. But that didn’t happen. My uncle told me I was spoiled when I exploded into tears beside the multicolored tree and collapsed among a plethora of pricey electronics.

I didn’t feel spoiled; I just felt like Santa had forgotten about me.

Jonah found me crying in my bedroom later that night. He was only twelve at the time, but he was wise. There was a time when I thought he was the smartest person in the whole world.

I don’t think that anymore…but, at one time, I did.

I remember the way he pulled my brand-new Vera Bradley book bag out ofthe closet, clutching a Sharpie in his hand, and tossed it on the mattress beside me. The bag was orange, which has always been my favorite color.

“It’s not a Doodle Bear, but it’ll work,” he told me, flicking his copper bangs out of his eyes with a lopsided grin. “Sometimes we just need to improvise.”

I didn’t know what that word meant, but I nodded anyway.

He uncapped the marker and proceeded to doodle on the burnt-orange fabric. My smile was wide and whimsical as I watched him draw Winnie the Pooh onto the front zipper pocket, along with a cartoon heart on the bear’s chest.

It became a tradition after that.

Every day, Jonah would draw a new picture or scrawl a silly word onto my backpack. It’s now covered in random images, quotes, doodles, and symbols.

This backpack is my most prized possession. It’s the only thing I have left of the boy I used to know.

I’m picking at the zipper slider when my dark cloud of solitude is interrupted by the whoosh of the bedroom door swinging open. Mom spots me seated in the center of the room and props a shoulder against the doorframe, eyeing me with her signature look of motherly worry.

I shoot her a glance before returning my attention to the backpack.

“I made that citrus cake you love,” she states.

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