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to our usual Monday extracurricular activities at the community center. Sam is part of Science for Scouts, a program that basically teaches five-year-olds about nature, like bugs and stuff. He has terrariums in his room with stick bugs, a praying mantis and other creepy things. They’re illegal in most places, but since Sam teaches with them he’s been alllowed to keep them as pets.
    Luckily, no one at St. Anthony’s knows. Because, can you say loser ?
    My thing is art class. For the after school program designed to keep little kids off the street. Last year I got paid. Just minimum wage and materials, but I made some cash. Then the program lost part of their funding and my job was cut. I was furious. Not because of the pay thing. But, because in my experience, adults don’t want to help kids, not really. They just want to shut them up. Especially if it involves paying for a program to benefit kids who aren’t even their own.
    So now I volunteer.
    Today there are about thirty kids in the center, ranging in age from six to twelve. Most of them are gathered around the table where the afternoon snack of the three C’s is set out: cheese and crackers and carrots.
    Angie, the director, smiles and waves me over. “Hey, Sylvie Sweetheart! Did you have a good summer? What d’ya got for today?”
    I hold up a huge shopping bag, full of materials. It’s a little crunched from spending the day in my locker, but nothing’s ruined. “Paper bag kites. We can decorate them and fly ‘em. Not much wind, but ...”
    “That’s a big bump.” Obviously, she’s talking about my forehead.
    “Yeah.” I shrug. “I’m such a klutz.”
    We discuss her vacation in Door County and my summer stuck at home. The kids that are new, the ones who’ve come back. American Idol . I don’t bring up bad stuff like my dad leaving. I talk as if life were normal. As if I were normal.
    About half the kids do the kite project with me. We spend a good hour preparing the kites with paint, glitter, ribbons, and crepe paper. Most of the kids progress on their own, not caring if lines are straight or if the paint runs — what they want is to take the thing out to fly it. They hop up and down and push and shove to bring me their bags so I can punch holes and thread the string through.
    Their excitement buoys me. Mondays are actually my fun days. Nobody here calls me Psycho, or treats me like I’m contagious, or forces me to eat bean sprouts. These kids have siblings who’ve died violent deaths, or parents who need to work three jobs. They’ve seen so much. Yet they still believe in the magic a grocery bag, glitter glue and a bit of wind can create.
    And they allow me to believe it, too, if for just a thin slice of time.
     
    When Sam and I get home, Mom is dressed in stiff brown pants and standing at the kitchen table with her hands on the back of a chair. Oh, crap . I feel a family meeting coming on.
    I squeak past Mom and slide into the pantry. “Just getting a granola bar,” I lie. Among the packages of prunes, rice cakes and Mom’s huge jars of flaxseed, hidden behind the dusty ice cream maker is where Dad always stashes the chocolate. He hides it there for us so we can get proper junk without Mom on our case. I run my hand behind the ice cream maker and my stomach sinks. There’s only one bar left. A cheerful red, white, and blue Nestle Crunch bar. Only I don’t feel so cheerful. Now that Dad’s gone, who’s going to stock the pantry with contraband? And not only that. Now that he’s gone, all of us have lost our sense of humor. Three months ago, Sam and I were still playing practical jokes on each other. In June, I poured Wasabi on his All-Bran and he froze my underwear. But now ... who’s going to laugh every once in a while?
    “Sylvie. Come here, please. We have some things we need to discuss as a family.” Mom sounds like someone’s strangling her.
    Sam is already sitting at the kitchen table. Mom motions for me to sit across from