CHAPTER 2: THE PERFECT HOUSE
Our house on Bennett Street was the kind of house people slowed down to look at.
White siding.
Red front door.
Blue hydrangeas under the windows.
A porch swing nobody ever sat on.
Every spring, Mom repainted the mailbox.
Every spring, she said the same thing.
“People notice these things.”
Mom noticed everything.
Fingerprints on the refrigerator.
Shoes turned the wrong way by the stairs.
Crumbs beneath the toaster.
A crooked pillow on the couch.
A wrinkle in my dress.
She noticed all of it.
What she didn’t notice was when I stopped singing in the bathtub.
Or when I started sleeping with Bunny under my chin because I was afraid to be alone.
Or when I learned to listen to the sound of her footsteps so I could tell what kind of mood she was in before she opened the door.
My mother’s name was Deborah Monroe.
She taught eighth-grade English.
Everybody loved Mrs. Monroe.
At school events, other parents hugged her.
At church, old women touched her arm and told her she was “such a strong mother.”
She wore pearl earrings and soft-colored sweaters.
She baked lemon bars for fundraisers.
She remembered birthdays.
She knew how to smile without showing too many teeth.
People said she had raised two girls “with grace.”
Grace was one of Mom’s favorite words.
“Handle disappointment with grace.”
“Speak with grace.”
“Accept correction with grace.”
I used to think grace meant being quiet when something hurt.
Jessica understood grace better than I did.
Jessica was sixteen.
She was beautiful in the way Mom approved of.
Straight blonde hair.
Clear skin.
Long legs.
White sneakers that always looked new.
She was on student council.
She had a lot of friends.
She knew how to laugh at the right time.
Mom called her mature.
Responsible.
Easy.
I was none of those things.
At least, that was what Mom said.
One Tuesday morning, I spilled milk.
Not a whole glass.
Just a little.
It tipped when I reached for the cereal.
The milk ran across the table and dripped onto the floor.
I froze.
Mom looked at me.
She didn’t yell.
That was worse.
“Caitlyn.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Seven years old.”
“I know.”
“Seven.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How many times do I have to tell you to pay attention?”
Jessica kept eating.
“Maybe twenty,” she said.
Mom almost smiled.
I looked at the floor.
“I can clean it.”
“You should have thought of that before you spilled it.”
I grabbed paper towels.
My hands shook.
Then Jessica knocked her spoon onto the floor.
Mom picked it up for her.
“Long night?”
Jessica nodded.
“Chemistry test.”
“You’ve been under so much pressure lately.”
I remember staring at Jessica’s spoon in Mom’s hand.
It was such a small thing.
But children notice small things.
Maybe more than adults realize.
Jessica could drop something because she was tired.
I dropped things because something was wrong with me.
That difference followed me everywhere.
A few weeks later, Jessica took Bunny.
Bunny was gray with one floppy ear.
I had slept with him since I was three.
Dad bought him before he died.
I barely remembered Dad.
Mostly photographs.
A deep laugh I wasn’t sure was real.
A hand lifting me toward a Christmas tree.
Mom didn’t like talking about him.
Jessica remembered more.
Sometimes she used that against me.
“You don’t even remember Dad,” she once said.
“I do.”
“You remember pictures.”
“I remember him.”
She smiled.
“Sure.”
That afternoon, Bunny was sitting on Jessica’s bed.
I stood in her doorway.
“Give him back.”
Jessica looked up from her phone.
“Give what back?”
“Bunny.”
She picked him up by one ear.
“This thing?”
“Yes.”
“He’s disgusting.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“He smells.”
“He smells like my room.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed.
I rushed toward her.
Jessica stood and held Bunny above my head.
“Please.”
“Say it nicer.”
“Please, Jessica.”
“Nicer.”
“Please give him back.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s mine.”
Her smile disappeared.
That was something I learned about Jessica.
She liked begging.
She did not like ownership.
Anything I loved became more interesting to her when I called it mine.
She walked into the hallway.
“Jessica.”
She held Bunny over the railing.
My stomach twisted.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Please.”
She dropped him.
I screamed.
Bunny hit the stairs and rolled down.
I ran.
When I picked him up, one ear had torn at the seam.
White stuffing pushed out.
I started crying.
Jessica came down slowly.
“Oh my God. It’s a toy.”
“You broke him!”
Mom appeared from the kitchen.
“What is all this noise?”
“Jessica threw Bunny.”
Jessica’s face changed instantly.
“She threw him at me.”
I stared at her.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“No!”
Mom looked at me.
“Caitlyn.”
“I didn’t!”
“Stop.”
“But she—”
“I said stop.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
Jessica crossed her arms.
“I was just sitting there.”
Mom touched her shoulder.
Then she looked at Bunny.
“You are too old to have tantrums over stuffed animals.”
“He was from Dad.”
The room changed.
Mom’s expression hardened.
“Go to your room.”
I hugged Bunny.
“Mom—”
“Now.”
That night, I found a Band-Aid in the bathroom.
I pressed it over Bunny’s torn ear.
It didn’t hold very well.
I tried another one.
Then I climbed into bed.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to him.
His black button eyes stared back.
“I’m sorry nobody believed you.”
I didn’t know it then.
But I wasn’t really talking to Bunny.
The next day, my teacher saw him.
Ms. Maya Carter had curly brown hair and bright red sneakers.
She kept jars of colored pencils on every table and played quiet music during drawing time.
She never shouted.
Even when kids were loud.
She would just say, “I can wait.”
And somehow everybody stopped.
At recess, she noticed Bunny sticking out of my backpack.
“What happened to his ear?”
I looked down.
“I fell.”
Ms. Carter was quiet.
Then she sat beside me.
“Caitlyn.”
I looked at her.
“Bunny didn’t fall.”
My whole body went still.
May you like
For the first time, an adult had noticed that my answer did not match the question.
And I had no idea what to do.
