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trapped.
By everything.

    Yeah.
35,600 is not the number of doctors
who fix broken babies,
it’s just a bunch of studies
and hospitals
and things that have nothing to do with anything.
Uuugh.
Now what?

    Mystery bag contents for the week:
Bread
Milk
Cheese
Bologna
Spaghetti
Sauce
Vanilla yogurt
Frozen OJ
And in a second mystery bag:
popcorn kernels
butter
an action movie DVD
with the $4.99 sticker still on it.
When I picked up the bag
off the mat
I looked down the street
like I always do
and this time
this time
I saw something.
A red car turning by the stop sign.
The same color red as James’s car.

    Mom and I are watching the movie
upstairs
alone
with popcorn
in her bed!
It’s so weird
hearing the suction machine downstairs
and knowing Levi is down there
but that we’re up here.
Every time I hear it I jump
but Mom’s hand goes to my knee.
He’s fine , she smiles.
Let’s have some you-and-me time, OK?
OK. I should be used to night nurses by now,
but we hardly ever get one scheduled.
It’s nice.
But weird.
I better put this notebook down
before I get butter all over it.

    Are you leaving these bags, James?
Has it been you the whole time?
Even at the hospital?
Because I know how much you hate hospitals.
It must have been hard
to show up there anyway
and pay to park
and go inside
and get buzzed into the ICU
and stay hidden from us
and give a bag to a nurse
and ask her to give it to us.
I mean, that’s a lot of stuff to do
when you’re scared of a place.
Our breath must have been really bad
for you to go to all that trouble
to get us new toothbrushes.
If it was you leaving the bags.
It might not have been.
I don’t know.
Leaving bags of cool stuff . . .
that doesn’t seem like a
Probation Officer University thing.
That seems like just a nice person thing.

WEEK 1 9
    We’ll find the money.
Mom was talking to herself.
We’ll find a way.
Her face leaning forward,
her hands in her hair,
papers all over the kitchen table.
She didn’t see me
so I snuck back upstairs.

    The Carnival of Giving.
I’m thinking about it.
Thinking about that stupid flyer
Mrs. B stole from school.
The one still crumpled up on my desk,
the one I can’t quite throw away.
Mom would never say yes.
I can’t help but wonder . . .
No.
It’s stupid.

    We’re fine.
Please don’t worry.
It’s not like we live in a cave in China.
Or in a hut in Africa.
It’s not like there are flies circling my face.
Or clods of dirt caked on my feet.
We have enough.
We’re OK.
Please, Mrs. B, don’t talk about social services again.
We’re doing our best.
We’re fine.

    What is that, T-man?
Don’t call me T-man. I held up the bag so Mom could see inside.
I couldn’t help smiling.
Thick-cut bacon
sourdough bread
eggs
syrup
a cactus with a pink flower
and a pair of tiny socks
exactly Levi’s size.
I know it’s you, James.
Only you could give things
prickly and soft
sweet and sour
all at the same time.

    You and that journal, Timothy. Isa sat next to me at lunch, smiled,
made my head go all sunny.
I didn’t know she had B lunch.
My cheeks went red from the sun in my brain.
I have to keep the journal. Court-ordered. (You know, when she nods, her hair shines extra shiny
like she must have sun in her head, too,
shining through.)
What are you doing here, gordita ? José dropped his tray next to mine
splattering spaghetti sauce
making Isa jump back and scowl.
I’m tutoring during C lunch.
Maybe you should skip lunch. Then he puffed out his cheeks and laughed.
I really wish he wouldn’t do things like that.
She’s his sister, fine.
But still.
Isa stood up, no bites taken from her lunch.
See you later, Timothy. She turned, and was gone.
My cheeks still red, but now for a different reason.

    How goes the turtle?
Huh?
The car? How’s it going? With your dad?
Oh. Fine.
Are you, like, bonding and stuff ?
I don’t know.
He’s not teaching you the