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. 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. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I drop down to the concrete. “Stay here as long as I have, and it’ll be no sweat.” “I’ll get fostered again before I get there, Nicki. 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. Well, my hands and a couple of tennis balls.Īs I work, pieces of plaster rain on me, but I don’t care. 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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