Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,3

won’t turn it off, even while reading. Being the youngest in a house this full, she’s been steeped in noise since the womb.

“Hey, Jewel?”

No response.

“Jewel!”

“Yeah?” she says into the pages of her book.

“Ally’s mom is going to pick you up from Girl Scouts today.”

“Why?”

“Something came up I have to do,” I tell her, my voice catching a little, so I cough.

With no second car, I usually walk up to meet Jewel at the school cafeteria, where Girl Scouts meets. But if the weather’s bad, or I’m sick, I impose on one of the other parents. And they do let me know that I impose.

I top off my coffee, and at the kitchen phone, I dial up Ally’s mom, who agrees to bring Jewel home but advertises her annoyance with heavy sighs and a long pause to check her daily planner. Once while waiting to pick up Jewel I overhard her explaining to another mom: “She’s not the stepmother. The father’s girlfriend,” with so much stress on girl you’d think I was fourteen years old instead of twenty-six. That’s not so much younger than Michael, really. If we were forty and fifty, no one would even blink.

I could look older if I dressed more like the other mothers, but I’m comfortable in my baggy thrift-store Levi’s with my hair in a ponytail.

Not that it will much matter after today.

I check the schedule, and Dylan and Angel both have practices today: sax for him, school play for her, and they both have rides. Michael should be home on time, unless there’s breaking news, but in any case, Angel and Dylan will be home when Jewel gets dropped off from Girl Scouts.

So. They’re all taken care of.

I put Jewel on the bus with a wave. She doesn’t go for a hug this time, and I turn away quickly so she can’t see the wetness in my lashes. I wait until I’m back inside the house to wipe it away.

I sit down at my desk and hesitate in front of the blank paper. From here, I can see the houses across the street: tall and narrow turn-of-the-century homes nestled together like children sharing a bed. Most are in muted colors, the occasional fanciful pastel. One, across and to my left, is electric green.

I used to so much admire these houses that I imagined their interiors filled with happy, harmonious families. It’s not until these last few months I’ve become conscious of the assumption, and how ridiculous it was. We were all taught as children not to judge books by their covers, after all.

I recall Jewel’s jaunty wave as she got on the bus. I can’t imagine what she’ll think. But then I remember also the “vision board” she’s making in her room, the collage of pictures representing the things she wants to happen in her life. In the center of the board is a family picture. I’m not in it. It’s a Christmas card portrait; the last holiday when Mallory and Michael were still married.

She likes me, Jewel does, but when she’s really falling apart over something, she cries for her mother, as all children do, even the children of volatile Mallory.

Next to me is my journal. I haven’t opened it again since before dawn this morning, when I saw scribbled in red ink on the first blank page: You sure have a lot of secrets, CASEY!!!!!!

For months I’ve been reminding myself how hard it is to be sixteen, and that for me to move in was a drastic change; maybe she feels supplanted as the reigning queen bee now that her mom lives somewhere else. That’s the story I tell myself, anyway, to explain the hostility spreading like mold over our relationship. When I was just someone her father was seeing, we had fun shopping and drinking lattes together. But the weekend I moved in, she picked a dramatic fight over my inadequate laundry skills.

Each day since then has been more of a struggle not to see her mother in that haughty raised eyebrow and upturned lip.

I shake my hands out before I begin.

Dear Michael,

I know I’m a coward for doing this in writing . . .

I seal the letter in an envelope and put it on top of his dresser, where he empties his pocket change every day, changing from khaki pants into sweats or jeans. He’ll see it as soon as he’s home from work.

There’s a picture on top of this dresser. It’s of me. I’m wearing a baseball cap and