Chapter 7 #2
It’s a struggle to hold myself together, and I hope Georgie can’t see how I’m fighting a losing battle.
I see myself in her as she brings down a mask—or tries to—one that reminds me of when she was four and she came downstairs wearing all my clothes that were way too big for her.
“I heard you talking to Ms. Mullins when you picked me up from school last year. Because Mom was—” she trails off, leaving the word unsaid.
Drunk.
Our mom was drunk—too drunk to remember she had to pick her daughter up from school.
Georgie walks over to the living room, having a seat on the couch, and I try to remember that first conversation with Georgie’s teacher, but the only thing I remember is how worried I was about my mom and the feeling of my nails meeting my palms, counting to seventeen over and over again, barely registering what Callie was saying to me as she looked over my shoulder at Georgie waiting for me in the car.
“What did you hear?” I ask, wracking my brain for what possibly could have made Georgie afraid to call me about our mom drinking again and wishing I didn’t have a brain that actively works against me—causing me to forget key information that could’ve prevented all of this.
Following her to the couch, I sit next to her.
“She told you that if there was something going on at home—with Mom—that she’d have to report it. Since she’s a mendable teleporter,” Georgie explains.
“A what?”
“A mendable teleporter.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I ask, “And what is a ‘mendable teleporter’?”
Georgie sighs, as if just talking to me is exhausting her. “I looked it up with my friend, Benji, on our Chromebooks last year during free time.”
I wait for her to say more, but when she doesn’t, I ask, “And, what did you and Benji find?”
She lets out another sigh—this one way more dramatic.
“Well,” she says, dragging the word out forever, “the internet said ‘mendable’ means something you can fix, and a ‘teleporter’ is someone who moves stuff from one place to another.” She does little air quotes around each word like I’m supposed to already know this, and I’m inconveniencing her by having her explain it to me.
“So obviously a mendable teleporter is someone who fixes a problem by moving it somewhere else.” She shakes her head. “Shouldn’t you already know this?”
Part of me is impressed by her ability to utilize context clues—the other part of me is reminded that this girl is still just a kid at the age where you feel so grown-up yet have so much more growing up to do.
“And you’re saying Ms. Mullins is one of these ‘teleporters?” I copy her air quotes, asking carefully.
She nods. “So I didn’t tell anyone about mom.
I didn’t want her to try to fix it and make me leave my house.
Benji told me about these houses called foster homes where they put kids who can’t live in their own houses.
He said they have scary parents who make you eat out of dog bowls and drink out of toilets.
” She shakes her head, a shiver going through her body.
It hits me then. “Oh, your teacher is a mandatory reporter.”
It all begins to make sense.
“Georgie, teachers don’t put kids into foster care for no reason—and I’m pretty sure your friend Benji should have some parental locks on his TV.”
“What was she talking about then?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Teachers are mandatory reporters, which means if they suspect one of their students isn’t being treated the way they should be at home, by their parents or guardians, the teacher is legally responsible to report it.”
Georgie throws her hands up in exasperation. “That’s basically the same thing!”
“It’s not.” But I guess maybe to a seventh grader, it isn’t much different than her explanation.
She groans. “Well, sorry, I couldn’t hear a conversation ten feet away and from behind a glass window.
” She crosses her arms, frustrated and maybe even a little embarrassed, and I don’t want her to dwell on the confusion.
In the end, she convinced herself that telling her teacher would make things worse, and I can’t imagine how alone she must have been feeling over these last months.
“Either way,” I say on a sigh, reaching to put my hand on her forearm and squeezing. “You’re right. And since I told Ms. Mullins about what happened with Mom, she had to report it to Child Protective Services. That’s why Patricia is coming tonight.”
Georgie’s eyes go wide. “But Benji said—”
I hold a hand up. “I don’t want to know what bullshit Benji said. I say that we are going to tell Patricia about our plans for you to stay with me permanently. That way, Mom can get help.”
And I can make sure she never puts her drinking above you again.
My chest feels tight, and I ignore the little voice in my head telling me I have no control over whether Georgie is going to be able to stay with me, not if I can’t convince the social worker and CPS that I’m fit to be her legal guardian.
“But—”
“No ‘buts’.” Georgie’s mouth closes, but I know she wants to say more.
“But—” she repeats.
“What did I just say about ‘buts’?”
It’s silent for a moment before we both burst out into laughter.
It’s the kind of laughter that makes you laugh even harder because what you found funny really isn’t all that funny to begin with.
Laughter that has tears falling down your face.
Laughter that you do so you don’t cry.
As we settle, my hand finds my little sister’s, and we both just look at each other.
Throughout our conversation, our bodies angled toward each other. Our heads rest against the couch, our legs pulled up under us, mirroring one another.
“We’re going to get through this, George,” I finally say, breaking the silence.
I reach for her hands with both of mine, interlocking our fingers and holding tightly.
A tear slides down my cheek, and I don’t know if it’s residual from the laughter or from the way the back of my eyes prickle as I look at my little sister. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I pull her into my arms, hugging her as tightly as I can, just as a knock sounds at our door.