I’m glad he has Lily.
I’m Glad
Because I’ve spent
a lot of time alone
here in this house,
but I knew eventually
someone would come
home.
But I won’t always
live with Dad.
Will won’t, either.
We might move
far away from
home.
Maybe to the mountains.
To ski or snowboard.
Maybe to the ocean.
To play music at the beach.
Maybe to Minnesota.
To grow food on a farm.
Who knows?
But while we’re
figuring out where
we want to go,
I wouldn’t want Dad
to be alone.
Mom Isn’t Coming Back
She could barely step
through the door
and hang out for
a couple of minutes.
I wish things could be
different, but wishes
don’t always come true.
Maybe I’ll see her this summer.
But even if I do, it won’t be
her and Will and me, hiking
or mountain biking.
It won’t even just be her
and me. It will always
be her and her music.
And maybe her and Rory.
That’s something else I can’t fix.
I go to my closet.
Way in back, behind
the stack of Lego boxes,
is the bottle of shampoo
and the magazines.
I leave the shampoo.
Someday I might
want that reminder
of my mother’s
hair perfume.
As for the magazines,
I turn to the articles
featuring Mom that
I’ve looked at dozens
of times. I know them
word for word, by heart.
And that’s where
I decide to leave them.
In my heart.
I can’t quite bring
myself to throw
them away, though.
Dad yells, Hey, Trace! Game’s
about to start. LA at Colorado.
Should be a good one.
Colorado. That gives me
an idea. I take the magazines
to the living room, where
the game is just underway.
“Hey, Dad? Can we mail
these to Maureen and Paul?
They might want them
for a scrapbook or something.”
When he sees what they are,
he asks if I’m sure, and I nod.
“Positive.”
Bottom of the Ninth
The Dodgers are creaming the Astros,
10–2, when Lily and Sylvester
come through the door. With pizza.
Dad gets up to give Lily a kiss,
but before he does, he looks
in her eyes and says softly,
I love you.
She glances my way,
and I realize she’s wondering
if it’s okay with me. Yes or no,
she kisses him back, whispers,
Love you, too.
So, yeah, they love each other,
and I see now that it doesn’t mean
less love for me. It means more.
And there’s no such thing as too
much love, only too little.
Sylvester trots over for a pet,
and when he nuzzles my hand,
kind of pushing it up toward
the top of his head, I understand
this dog is asking for love.
and I think he’s got lots for me.
As the last Astro batter folds
and the Dodgers win, Lily takes
the pizza into the kitchen.
Sylvester follows, probably
hoping for a stray piece
of pepperoni or cheese.
That hollow place
Mom and Will left
behind shrinks a little.
This isn’t the family
I grew up with, the one
I tried to stitch back together
when it came unraveled.
But this one isn’t bad.
Dad starts toward the kitchen.
“Wait,” I tell him. “About you
and Lily. I guess it’s okay.
But you have to wait at least
six months, so you’re sure.”
Dad grins. Okay, Trace.
We all want to be sure.
Six months seems reasonable.
Now, let’s get some pizza.
Dad Knows
Being sure is not
the real reason
I want them to wait.
They definitely are,
and I am mostly
sure along with them.
But this is huge.
Not just for me,
but for all of us
who are part of
this expanding family.
We are growing,
despite losing one.
Mom will always be
important to me, but
we can move on without her.
If Dad and Lily’s wedding
is in our future, all the rest
of us have to be there.
That will take six months.
We can’t move forward
without my brother.
And so,
one more time . . .
What about Will?
Author’s Note
Family dynamics are personal, and always thought-provoking. My husband and I are currently raising a third generation of kids. Gen One: way-adult children, two daughters and a son. Growing up, the girls related to each other, but not so much to their older brother.
Gen Two: adopted only-child son, who did all the things—school, sports, music (metal?!), lots of travel—and built deep friendships but lacked sibling connections.
Gen Three: our grandchildren. And with them, for the first time, we are watching the relationship between brothers, almost five years apart.
This book is a tribute to the younger of the two, who has grown up in the very long shadow of his troubled brother. To love someone and watch them struggle is hard. It’s even more difficult when your own accomplishments too often go unrecognized because the spotlight is shining on someone else’s problems. And yet you soldier on, earning straight A’s, pitching Little League no-hit innings, and singing your way through every day, because that is who you are.
With or without siblings, whatever their circumstances, every child deserves recognition. If raising one “takes a village,” we’d better build galaxies.
Turn the page for more from Ellen Hopkins
Definition of Resent:
Feel Bothered By
Cal moved in
a little more than a year ago.
He wasn’t exactly a stranger.
Aunt Caryn was his mom,
and she and my mom were more
than sisters. They were identical twins.
Two halves of a whole,
Mom called them.
They were close, but they
didn’t live near each other.
Aunt Caryn moved to Arizona
before Cal was born.
She visited once in a while
and came to a couple of family
reunions. Talk about trouble!
I guess when Aunt Caryn met
Cal’s dad and dropped out
of college, it made Grandma mad.
They hardly talk at all anymore,
Mom told me once. And when
they do, they end up shouting.
“So why does Aunt Caryn
go to the reunions?” I asked.
“Grandma’s always there.”
Caryn still wants to be part
of the family, and she wants
Cal to know his relatives.
“I think Grandma should
forgive her,” I said.
I think so, too. But my mother
has a hard time with forgiveness.
She thinks it’s a sign of weakness.
Grandma still hadn’t forgiven
her when Aunt Caryn died.
I’ll never forget that day.
Mom cried and cried.
When she finally stopped,
her face was so puffed up,
I could barely see her eyes.
I lost a piece of myself, she said.
Maybe Cal living with us
Maybe that’s why Mom lets him
get away with everything,
from pranks to meltdowns to lies.
I’m sorry, but I resent that.
Try to find a little sympathy,
Mom urges. After Caryn passed,
things got pretty rough for Cal.
His dad took him after
the funeral, but the details
of the next two years are a mystery.
And no one’s giving out clues.
You’ll have to wait for Cal to tell
you, Mom says. It’s not up to me.
Whatever happened, I feel sorry
for Cal. If my mom died, I’d be lost.
Cal must feel lost sometimes, too.
So, yeah, I want to forgive his quirks.
Definition of Quirk:
Weird Habit
Still, Cal isn’t easy to live
with. I like order. Routine.
He’s the king of chaos.
Our spare room is Cal’s lair
now. Mom let him paint it
charcoal and doesn’t even
yell about the mess—
greasy wrappers here,
dirty clothes there.
Imagine what’s crawling
around in his closet!
Gross.
I have to share a bathroom
with him, which might not
be so bad, except he forgets
to drop the toilet seat.
I’ve splashed down
in the dark
more than once.
Gross squared.
Cal drinks milk straight
from the carton,
and brushes his teeth
without toothpaste.
Sometimes he doesn’t
brush them at all.
Gross cubed.
Those are little things.
But Cal has bigger problems.
Like right now at school,
we’re outside for recess.
It never gets really cold here,
but it’s early November. The sky
is gray and the air is kind of sharp.
Almost everyone is playing ball.
Softball.
Kickball.
Tetherball.
Basketball.
But Cal is sitting against
a wall of the sixth-grade
building, face in a book.
He reads, like, three a week.
Our teacher, Mrs. Peabody,
keeps telling him to slow down.
Comprehension means more
than word count, she says.
But, no. He has to read more
than anyone else, and asks
for books that are long and
advanced. Sometimes it seems
like he’s showing off.
The problem with that
is it can draw the attention
of bullies, especially those
who think it’s hilarious
to make someone freak out.
There go two now,
and they’re headed
in Cal’s direction.
This could be bad.
Definition of Intervene:
Get Involved
Vic Malloy is
taller than average
square
buzz-cut
meaner than snot.
Bradley Jones is
a head shorter
round
faux-hawked
meaner than snot.
They close in on Cal.
I know what they’ve got in mind.
Cal’s been in this school
for a year. They’ve seen
him melt down before.
I nudge my best friend
Misty, who’s watching
the tetherball wind
and unwind around the pole.
“Look.”
Uh-oh, she says.
We’re all the way across
the field, so we can’t hear
what the boys are saying.
But when Cal looks up,
his expression is easy to read.
Annoyed.
Anxious.
Angry.
Think we should intervene?
Misty asks. Like the counselor
told us to do in that assembly?
“Yeah. We probably should.”
But before we can, Vic kicks
the book, and when it goes
flying, Cal jumps to his feet.
The other boys laugh
and move in toward him.
Some kids might respond
by raising their fists.
Others might shrink back
against the wall.
Cal screams.
Like a siren.
Piercing.
Panicky.
Painful.
Everyone stops
what they’re doing.
Turns to stare.
The playground-duty
teachers go running.
Vic and Bradley
slink off into the shadows.
Laughing hysterically.
And Cal
is still screaming.
Definition of Mortified:
Totally Embarrassed
Our principal, Mr. Love
(yeah, I know), comes
to see what the problem is.
He puts an arm around
Cal’s shoulders, steers
him toward the office.
Well, that was special,
says Misty. Your cousin
is weird, you know.
My cheeks were already
hot. Now they’re on fire.
“Hey, it’s not my fault.”
Misty sniffs. I didn’t say
it was your fault.
No one thinks that.
“So why is everyone looking
at me? I’m mortified!”
Hannah, you’re the most
popular girl in the sixth grade.
Don’t even worry about it.
“Okay, fine.” But my face
is still burning when the bell
rings and we go back inside.
Luckily, Cal isn’t here.
Mr. Love has him working
in the office, where it’s quiet.
That’s an “accommodation”
of Cal’s IEP. That means
Individualized Education Program.
Kids who have a hard time
learning get accommodations. It doesn’t
mean they’re not smart.
Cal is, for sure. But when
he has a meltdown like that one,
he can’t pay attention in class.
Neither can anyone else.
Especially not me. Mom
swears Cal can’t control it.
His therapist says when
too much comes at him
at once, his brain crashes.
Crashing brain!
Siren screaming!
Sometimes he throws things.
I get that it’s not all his fault.
No one wants to be pushed
aside and made fun of.
I wish I knew how to help
him. I wish I could figure
out how to be his friend.
But that’s hard
because I’m not exactly
sure who he really is.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is always a semi-lonely pursuit. You spend a lot of time in your own head, not to mention your office or wherever you go to create. So, you might think writing a book during a pandemic-induced stay-at-home lockdown wouldn’t be such a big deal. But you’d be wrong.
Almost every writer I know struggled to create during the time I wrote this book, and that includes me. Where words used to flow by the thousands, they sputtered by the dozens. There were days I called myself an imposter and meant it. Had this story not been so important to me, it might never have found its way into these pages. It took the moral support of a number of people, whom I’d like to acknowledge here.
To my family, who listened to me yell, moan, cry, cuss, and whisper to my computer, thank you for your patience, grocery store runs, help in the kitchen, and endless inspiration. To my mutual admiration club—Susan, Susan, Andrew, Amy, Amy, Matt, Laura, and Jim—thank you for those late-night calls and regular Zooms that reminded me I’m a writer second. First, I’m a (good) person, and subject to human frailties. To forever friends and old classmates, thanks for your longtime presence in my life. It’s been quite the journey. To my SCBWI clan, you remain a beacon. To readers, teachers, librarians, and all those who support my efforts daily, I appreciate every one of you.
To my agent, Laura Rennert, who always insists I can when I complain I can’t, I wouldn’t be here without you. And, of course, to my team at Penguin, especially Stacey Barney, this beautiful book is in the world because of you. Thank you for not only being in my corner but for being my corner of the publishing world.