Two

After I collected myself, Mary took me upstairs to my room to help me pack, while Miss Oakland filled out paperwork with the Head Mother. I didn’t have much: A few tattered articles of clothing, a few mediocre drawings, a picture of my Mama and Poppa when they were young, a picture of me and Poppa before he died, and a stuffed rabbit I’ve had as long as I could remember. Her name was Bundles. Poppa named her. I couldn’t come up with anything other than ‘Wab’ and that wasn’t good enough for him, I guess. So, Bundles it was.

 

I left my quilt, it was my Mama’s, but Mary wouldn’t let me take it, saying the orphanage was low on supplies. I wasn’t too upset, I didn’t know my Mama, so I couldn’t love her or miss her- or any of her things. I walked with my suitcase down the winding hallways as the wood groaned and my sneakers squeaked, listening for Miss Oakland’s easily recognizable voice.

 

“… a very difficult child,” the Head Mother’s voice slowly creeped into my ear drums, “everything she’s been through I don’t blame her for wanting to run. You really are a wonderful woman for taking her in.”

 

I came up to the door with the big knocker. I was always taught here not to mind grown folks’ business, but I couldn’t help myself this time, I wanted to know why she picked me. She wasn’t even looking for any Children to parent, so why did she decide to make me her kid? I mean, little Alaska June. The child that was always running, playing, smiling, but nobody wanted to be friends with. I killed my Mama, they said. Even the children at the orphanage say my Mama died because she was birthing me, and I shouldn’t have been born. That my Mama died because she didn’t really love me.

 

Older folks say I’m created by Satan himself. Don’t know why that is. My Mama and Poppa weren’t married or nothing, but I didn’t know that was a problem until the orphanage took me to church the first time. I started refusing to go. I hated church, and I hated God. “Alaska is a beautiful girl,” Miss Oakland began, “she reminds me of my granddaughter in many ways.”

 

Is that what is was, she wanted me to replace her granddaughter? Now I’m just a temporary child for her to take care of until her granddaughter comes back? Or did her granddaughter run, too? Maybe Miss Oakland isn’t as nice as she seems. Maybe she’s just borrowing me and will send me away somewhere like the police did after they took me away from my house and took my Poppa away in a truck with flashing lights. 

 

“I hope she finds a happy home with you, and I am so sorry about your loss.”

 

I hear the wooden chair legs scratch against the mahogany floors in the Head Mother’s office and slowly brought my hand to the knocker.

 

Knock, Knock, Knock.

 

I heard the footsteps of the Head Mother trampling across the room in those ridiculous shoes of hers. I swear I’ll never know how she walks in those, I’m a wobbly mess in my Mary Janes. She opens the door and I peek my head in, not quite in the mood to speak to or talk to the Head Mother. We don’t even know her name. She wants everyone to call her “Mom” and all of that jazz, but I was much more comfortable calling her Head Mother since the day I met her- the day I arrived here, which was the day after my father was taken away from me in the truck with lights.

 

Miss Oakland beckons me over to her and I walk over, my head in chest, placing my luggage in her out-stretched hand. She rolls into a stand and I take the time to wonder if a walking stick would help her. My Poppa was a fine wood worker; with the right supplies I could make her a very good walking stick. Not that I would be staying very long.

 

This old woman didn’t want me. She was just using me as some type of replacement child. She lost her granddaughter somehow (I still think she ran), and now I’m supposed to be her new granddaughter.

 

Nobody wanted me. Only my Poppa.

 

I had his sandy hair, freckled face, and bright green eyes. I had his lanky, unnecessary body type. I was short though. Poppa used to say I’d hit a big old growth spurt just like him, and be nice and tall just like my Poppa. I’m so happy I don’t look nothing like my Mama, or else people would have said I killed her trying to replace her. Then my eyes widened. Miss Oakland killed her granddaughter and is replacing her with me!

 

I knew it!

 

I had to run. I wasn’t staying- she was going to murder me and chop me up into little pieces.

 

I was going to run. I was always running. There’s always something to run from.

Author's Note

Please remember this story is in the eyes and writing of an ELEVEN year old. I can understand the writing is much more sophisticated than that of an eleven year old, but this is why we use our imaginations- and this is why this is fiction.

Remember the age when I slip between past and present tense or use certain words instead of others that may come to mind.

Reviews

[SweetNutmeg]

I've read your note about it being fiction and using our imaginations, but I still feel a bit jarred by her using the phrase "collect myself." That doesn't sound like something she'd say, to me.

I'm curious, she is eleven when the action is happening, but how old is she when she is telling the story? Is she telling the story to anyone in particular?

[ZombiieszAreReal]

I never thought of that.

also.. when I was eleven I was fond of the term "in relation to" because my mom always used it. I knew how to use it and in good context.

[chubbycatchan]

Wait, that's it?! There's no more?!

[ZombiieszAreReal]

im still writing it, and I started last night

I'm already this far

[chubbycatchan]

Shes so innocent and its so sad that she had to go through a lot without really knowing what was going on :c

[ZombiieszAreReal]

yeah, she's scared shitless right now.