First Position by Melody Grace Page B

spinning
behind us as we dance under a smooth, blue sky.
    My shoulders rock with
a sob I swallow down, and another image appears; this one almost
meaningless in comparison to the last. I see the hallway of the mall
where I used to hang out in seventh grade with my “just Leah”
friends, Maura and Kaye. Low, popcorn ceiling, beige-brown carpet
with dark brown, triangular flecks; kiosks in the middle hawking
sparkly cell phone covers I was always wanting; sunlight pouring
through the glass ceiling, reflecting off Maura’s oily
forehead, making Kaye’s hair look just like fire.
    I open my eyes as I
whirl to face the wall to my right. It, like the three other, is
painted to depict a forest in autumn, but this wall also sports a
realistic painting of a cottage in a clearing. Its roof reaches to
where the wall runs into ceiling. Brush-painted grass stretches out
along the baseboard, underneath a porch painted so well it looks like
real wood boards. This is the witch’s house. If you look
closely, you can see it’s made of food, not brick and stone and
wood. If you look closely at the walls that sport just forest, you
can see a trail of pebbles, and the occasional breadcrumb.
    Mother painted it. She
painted all our rooms, or so she says.
    The witch’s house
goes away when I close my eyes, replaced by a still shot centered on
a sloppy, pink and white birthday cake. Three pink “5”s
sit crookedly atop it—one for Laura, one for Lana, one for me.
Settled around our polished oak dining table, my family is grinning
as they sing the birthday song. My mom and dad look over the three of
us with pride, Mom holding a camcorder, Dad waiting with a knife to
cut the cake. Laura’s mouth is open wide, and I know she’s
singing a little too loud; Lana’s hand is raised up to her ear,
probably because she’s tucking a strand of hair behind it.
That’s her thing. Or was.
    The memory of her
dainty fingers closing around a strand of silky white-blonde hair
hurts more than you might think. Those little things that make
someone who they are…I find that’s what I miss the most.
    I lunge across the
shaggy rug and throw myself onto the cot pushed against my room’s
windowless back wall. With my body spread over the filthy green sheet
and my face buried in between my arms, I give in to my need to cry.
    But it’s not enough.
    Crying never brought anything missing back.
    I jump off the bed and
run to the wall with the witch’s house painting. I flop down on
my belly and press my cheek against the rug, angling so I can see
through the little hole sawed into the grass-painted baseboard. The
room next door has walls painted with grass and leaves and trees,
just like mine. On the opposite side of my wall is a cottage that is
said to be identical to mine. I see a swatch of brown over to my
right: his cot, pushed against the back wall of his room.
    My torso shakes as I
hold my breath for just a second, then let out another sob. But I
don’t see him. I don’t hear him. No arm, no hand, no
face.
    No Hansel.
    I haven’t seen
his hazel eyes staring back at me, or heard his stories—fairy
tales he makes up just for me—in two whole days. I haven’t
heard him knock at night when he can’t sleep and wants me to
come sing to him.
    I’m worried about
him. So worried I can barely breathe.
    I’ve been here
for a long time, I’m pretty sure. Long enough my sheets have
spots where sweat stains have turned them hard and rubbery. Long
enough that the first bite mark I made in the corner of my wall is
almost two inches shorter than my current height. And in that time,
I’ve never not seen Hansel for more than three hours and
sixteen minutes. He’s never left his room for even three and a
half hours. I know that for sure, because I’ve never left my
room at all.
    I cry for Hansel for so
long I fall asleep there on the rug. I dream of Mother’s
girlish voice, the way she smells of stale cigarettes when she
reaches in to hand me plates, the