I’VE WOKEN UP in this building thousands of times—in my old place or Sneaky’s. But when I wake up in Miz Rita’s apartment, it feels weird, and not right. The room I’m in is pitch black and quiet, except for a clock that’s tick, tick, ticking away. No Charlie snoring, no Mama moving around. I can’t sleep.
I sit up and blink until I can see good enough to get out of bed and walk to the door. A tiny bit of light hits my face when I open it, and I hear soft voices coming from the kitchen. I tiptoe down the hall, and luckily, Miz Rita’s floor’s not squeaky like ours was. I pass Charlie knocked out on the couch, but no Mama.
I peek into the kitchen and see Mama and Miz Rita sitting at the table. Crumpled tissues cover the table like snow, and both Mama and Miz Rita have their hands wrapped around two mugs with steam coming out of them. Mama’s head is down, so she doesn’t see me, and Miz Rita’s sitting sideways, looking at Mama, so she doesn’t see me, either.
“I just don’t see how I can go on,” Mama says. “Some days I don’t even want to.”
“I know, sweetie, I know,” Miz Rita says. I yank my head back when Mama looks up to grab another tissue from the box on the table.
“I should be out of tears by now,” Mama says. That makes me think about writing a poem, one about tears. Miz Rita says something nice to Mama, but I don’t really hear her. I’m too busy thinking about my words. I wonder if Daddy did the same thing. Maybe while he was working, he thought about his stories. I ninja-walk back down the hall, close the door, and turn on the light. I open my notebook to a free space and write:
I should be out of tears, but more keep falling.
Where they coming from? I can't stop bawling.
Where do tears start? Where do they end?
I wish they'd stop soon, and never come again.
When I’m done writing, I close the notebook and put it next to Daddy’s in my backpack. Then I turn off the light and tiptoe back down the hall. When I get to Charlie, I scoot her over on the couch and climb under the blanket with her. She doesn’t even move. I listen to her breathing, and to Miz Rita and Mama in the kitchen, until I can’t keep my eyes and ears open anymore.