Tiffany D. Jackson

not everyone circles the same sun.

Monday grunted, staring off. “She never gets that mad.”

This was us, in our own world, with our own language and customs. We lived inside a thick, shiny bubble that no needle was sharp enough to pop.

“I said wait!” Mrs. Charles growled. “Damn! Little fast ass won’t listen! Fast since the day she was born, I swear.”

Monday backed away from her in a frantic panic, crashing into the table behind us. Ma blinked, her brows pinching together. Monday’s teary eyes glanced between Ma and me a thousand times before she gulped.

Climbing out the tent, I froze midway, my mouth dropping at the sight of her purpling skin.

“Dang, what happened to your back?”

“Hey, fast ass,” Mrs. Charles sneered. “Where’s my kiss?”

Monday froze, her face tight.

But one drop of another color could spoil her brightness. Leave her out in the heat too long and her banana peel would start to rot. The tip of her highlighter blackens with wear. The prickling of her pineapple skin sometimes leaves her impossible to open.

And dandelions are nothing but pretty weeds.

But when you’re always cold, it’s easy to be drawn to the sun.

Social worker filed it with CFSA to follow up.”

Ms. Valente blinked, leaning in as if she didn’t hear her right. “But . . . that was weeks ago,” she challenged. “Anybody stop by yet?”

“What’s CFSA?” I asked.

Ms. Clark raised an eyebrow at Ms. Valente, tipping her head in my direction. Ms. Valente winced. “Um, it stands for Child and Family Services Agency.”

She rolled her eyes and giggled. “I was fine. I’ve done it before . . . when I had to.”

That’s weird, I thought. Why the hell would she have to climb out a window? Maybe they practice for fire drills or something.