Chapter 1

What We Leave Behind

Life was full of choices—even when none led anywhere good.

Kiki sat at a wobbly metal-and-wood school desk, the rough surface scratched beneath her fingertips, carved with initials and fading doodles from years past. She stared through water-streaked classroom windows smeared with grimy fingerprints and the ghost of rain that had fallen days ago. Outside, the July sun hammered the cracked pavement, heat rising in shimmering waves that blurred the edges of everything like a mirage.

Inside, the air hung thick and heavy—laden with the sour sweat of a crowded room, the sharp chemical sting of Tide detergent mixed with bleach, and the faint rotting scent of spoiled fruit tucked behind a battered trash can in the corner. A battered oscillating box fan rattled unevenly, slicing the stillness into erratic beats, like a heartbeat she couldn’t catch.

Was there even a good choice left for her?

Her options lay bare: foster care, or living with an aunt she’d never met—a woman whose name was whispered so rarely it felt like a secret code. Kiki hadn’t even known Aunt Latifa existed. Then her mother had tossed a crumpled paper bus ticket onto the scarred tabletop—an old perforated stub with faded ink, barely legible—like it meant nothing. No explanation. No eye contact. Just cold, final silence.

But the decision had already been made—quietly, without her.

She’d overheard the sharp voices through the thin plaster walls, words slicing through the stale air like jagged glass shards. Her mother’s boyfriend, sharp and annoyed, voice cracked with anger: “I didn’t sign up for this. I’m not taking care of her.”

And her mother, quieter, almost tired: “Then she’ll go.”

Kiki’s life had been haunted by a parade of her mother’s boyfriends. None wanted a family—they just wanted a girlfriend. Thomas might have been the worst of all. She still remembered the jagged snap of his voice screaming, “I didn’t sign up for kids.”

He told her mother she could have him—or the damn kid.

Her mother chose him. Not her.

No fight. No hesitation. Just a decision.

Aunt Clare came by the next day—two brown paper grocery bags rustling with unknown contents, emblazoned with the faded logo of the local A&P store. Her eyes slid past Kiki like she was invisible. She and her mother whispered behind a closed door, muffled voices carried on the stale, detergent-thick air. When they emerged, the matter was settled.

Kiki hadn’t chosen Aunt Latifa. Aunt Clare had made the call, crossing a name off a list like it was no more than a grocery errand.

She’d thought about running. Just grabbing her worn spiral sketchpad, whatever little could fit in her pockets, and disappearing. Sleeping on a cold park bench, the rough wooden slats digging into her skin. Hiding out on the rattling train, the clang of steel wheels and distant whistle echoing in her ears. Vanishing into the crowd.

But where would she even go? Old friends were ghosts now—moved away, turned cold, or gone silent. No couch waiting. No light left burning. No one to hide her, even if she begged.

She wasn’t brave enough to run. Just desperate enough to want to.

So she stayed. Not because she wanted to, but because there was no other door to open.

It wasn’t just her mother. The whole family had turned their backs. No one said the words, but the silence shouted them all.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, salty tears burning the scratchy skin. Her fingers trembled as she looked again at the faded bus ticket, trying to picture the life ahead. If her mother couldn’t love her, how could a stranger?

Am I truly that unlovable? The thought echoed, cruel and persistent, like cold fingers crawling down her spine. It taunted her, reminding her no one ever stayed.

She traced the stiff edge of the ticket, staring out at the world she was about to leave. Some called it community housing. Others, the projects. All Kiki knew was cracked concrete, broken fences sagging under rust, and scattered trash—empty soda cans, brittle newspapers with yellowed pages—that had always marked the place as hers. It wasn’t the life she dreamed of, but it was the only one she’d ever known.

A pang twisted deep in her stomach, tight and sour as bile, as she thought of the daily struggle—dodging bullies on the walk home, the too-long stares of neighbors who saw everything but said nothing. After today, it would all be memory. Everything she owned now fit into two green, vinyl suitcases, each heavier than it looked, the worn handles biting into her palms.

Alex stood behind her, a quiet weight in the stale room, heavy with unspoken words. What could she say to make this better? Nothing. There was no sentence strong enough to erase what their mother had done.

She remembered the night their mother came home drunk and wild-eyed, dragging chaos behind her like a storm cloud. Alex had vanished into someone’s bed that night—anyone’s. A refuge. A way out. But Kiki had stayed, stuck in the wreckage, the smell of spilled whiskey and stale cigarette smoke still thick in the air.

With a heavy heart, Alex whispered, “People think bein’ strong means never cryin’. Nah, it’s about lettin’ those tears fall when you need to, then pickin’ yourself up and carryin’ on.”

Kiki shuffled the crumpled papers on her desk, the rough edges scraping like broken promises, eyes downcast. “She’s not sending you away,” Kiki muttered, her voice brittle and thin as dry leaves.

Alex was always the favorite.

Last Christmas said it all—Alex got a Sony Walkman and a stack of mixtapes, wrapped in shiny paper and tied with bright ribbons. Kiki got socks and a sweater two sizes too big, the fabric itchy against her skin.

“You always were the favorite. She wants you.”

Kiki stared at the cracked floorboards, a lump rising in her throat, hot and heavy. “She’s always loved you.”

Alex watched her trace a crack in the window frame, careful and quiet like she was afraid it might shatter.

“I know. You carry the weight of it.”

Kiki tapped her fingers against the worn desk, nails clicking on the scratched surface. “I am the burden.” She didn’t look up, tapping again like she was trying to find a crack deep enough to fall through.

Her thoughts drifted into the imagined fields and forests of her sketchbook. Through the window, she pictured a world where dreams lived—someplace far from here, where the air smelled of pine and wildflowers, and the sun warmed skin without burning it.

Alex sat on the edge of the metal bed, its springs creaking beneath her, aching to say something right. “You ain't the burden. You carry the weight of it,” she said, wiping a tear from Kiki’s cheek with a thumb rough from work. “This ain’t our last goodbye.”

Kiki didn’t respond. The promise felt as fragile as the fan still chopping the stale air. As she looked at Alex, a cold dread settled in, biting at her insides like a frost she couldn’t shake. What were they without this place? Without each other?

Alex’s gaze landed on a picture on the desk—a rough sketch fading at the edges. “Some days it’s a struggle just to get outta bed. But you gotta remember: you can face the storm, then force yourself to dance in the rain.” Her voice was soft but firm, like a lifeline.

Her thoughts drifted to their aunt. What kind of woman does a whole family erase?

Pointing to the picture, she tried to sound hopeful. “Ya might find the fields and sunshine you’ve been drawing. You’ll be livin’ where they call farm country.”

Kiki’s expression darkened, a shadow crossing her face. She remembered a school trip to a pioneer village—heat, flies buzzing in her ears, the sharp, earthy smell of animals.

“I don’t want to be a farmer.”

Alex’s heart ached as Kiki rolled up the paper, the soft crackle of folding echoing in the still room. Fourteen was too young to box away your dreams. Too young to be sent off alone.

They sat in silence until Alex checked her watch—a bulky digital Casio with a faint red LED glow. The walk to the station would feel like a funeral, but she couldn’t let Kiki go alone.

“You gotta go,” she whispered.

As Kiki zipped her suitcase, the rough zipper scraping over worn vinyl, Alex hesitated. “You know, Mom might’ve hated her, but Aunt Clare used to say she had the biggest heart of them all. Said she just made one mistake she couldn’t take back.”

Kiki didn’t respond, but the words stuck—strange, impossible to ignore.

Alex watched her, hoping she'd find peace. But deep down, a darker fear gnawed at her: what if this painful chapter turned out to be the brightest one Kiki ever got?

Later, after the heavy front door clicked shut with a clang and her sister’s footsteps faded on the cracked linoleum floor, the house sank into a heavy silence.

On the desk, half-tucked beneath a crumpled envelope, Alex found a folded piece of lined notebook paper—wide-ruled, with the margin punched by a dull metal binder ring. She opened it slowly, the rustle sounding loud in the quiet.

A self-portrait—pencil lines, careful but unsure. Kiki had drawn herself standing alone in a wide field, the sun oversized above her like it was about to fall. Her hair curled wild and free. Her eyes were wide. Searching.

At the bottom, in uneven handwriting: Don’t forget me.

Alex pressed the drawing to her chest, the paper cool and fragile against her skin. Her throat tightened, a lump caught like a stone.

“I won’t,” she whispered. “I swear I won’t.”

The silence that followed was thicker than grief.

Alex was gone. And so was Kiki.

The cracked sidewalks stretched quiet beneath Kiki’s worn shoes, her footsteps echoing faintly. She walked to the bus station alone—no goodbye at the curb. No hand to hold. Just the slow, clattering drag of suitcase wheels scraping over broken concrete, the sound sharp and hollow in the heavy heat.

No one stopped her. No one waved.

At the station, she took a seat on a chipped green enamel bench, the flaking paint rough against her bare legs. Her back was stiff, breath shallow in the relentless July sun.

The shade offered little relief; the heat clung to her skin like a wet wool blanket.

She unzipped the front pouch of her faded backpack and pulled out her spiral-bound sketchpad and a dull yellow Dixon Ticonderoga pencil, its wood smooth but worn from use.

There were no photos of her and Alex together—not one. Her mother never thought to take any. Maybe she didn’t want evidence Kiki was ever part of the family. Maybe she wanted to erase both of them.

Kiki stared at the blank page, then slowly began to draw.

Two girls. One taller, one smaller. Standing side by side in front of a crooked apartment window. Kiki made sure to give Alex a smile—not a big one, just the soft kind she gave when pretending not to cry.

She shaded in the curls, the slope of her sister’s shoulders. Drew herself next to her—watching, almost touching, not quite.

She didn’t want to forget her.

Not her laugh. Not her voice.

Not the way she held her together when their mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

If Mom wanted to erase her from her life, fine.

Kiki didn’t want to remember her mother’s face anyway.

But she’d remember Alex.

She didn’t know where the bus would take her.

But she knew who she was drawing for.

And maybe—for now—that was enough.