The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing by C.K. Kelly Martin

Between the four of us we’ve perfected our drop dead stares, and it’s gotten so that most of the guys who would’ve been inclined to aggravate us with their comments don’t bother anymore because they don’t want to listen to us get mean. They leave us alone and we leave them alone.
    I know I’m not really a mean person at heart, though. I just don’t want to listen to people say nasty things about me or my friends. Mom let Devin say a lot of bad things to her last year, and I let Jacob say things I didn’t want to hear too, but I’ve learned my lesson. What bothers me about my mom is that it seems like she hasn’t learned anything; she’s just faded away. She pretends eBay and her Swarovski display are hobbies, but hobbies are what you do with your spare time.
    She’s already getting professional help but I think she needs a new therapist. After Devin left Mom, Dad, and I went to see Doctor Berkovich together and for most of the appointment the doctor didn’t even say anything, just listened to my mother explain about Devin not being well. My ears kept zooming in on the tick-tock of the clock, like it was going to hypnotize me, and then Doctor Berkovich looked into my eyes and asked whether I wanted Devin to come back. I stared at him like he had three heads as I told him yes.
    “There were lots of problems when Devin was around,” Doctor Berkovich declared. As if I didn’t realize. I didn’t want to go back to the therapist after that and neither did my dad. Mom still goes once a week but I can’t see that it’s helping her any; she’s the worst off of all of us.
    When I get home from school there’s a package with a return address in Delaware sitting in the mailbox for her. I think about getting rid of the evidence and pretending it never showed up. What would she do? What if I intercepted every package addressed to Tessa LeBlanc from now on? Would it bring my mother back from her hiding spot of choice or would it send her into a full-out breakdown?
    I set the package down on the kitchen table and blend myself a fruit smoothie. I’m still trying to be disciplined, so the yogurt is the low-fat kind. The good thing about feeling like crap was that I never had to be careful; now I crave things that I shouldn’t eat all the time. I don’t skip meals but it’s a struggle to keep them medium-small and to avoid snacking too much in between. A struggle that I’ve been winning. I’ve already lost three of the eight pounds I’d put back on. That only leaves another five to go.
    The smoothie helps tide me over to dinner, but I’m hungry again by the time I hear the front door swing open at five-thirty. “Hey, Mom,” I call, bounding into the front hall with her. She’s unzipping one of her leather boots and says hi back. Gloom bunches around her mouth like it hung around Mr. Cushman’s earlier, making me feel fresh guilt for both lacking science class drive and imagining snipping my mother’s lifeline.
    “Something came for you!” I add, turning to snatch the delivery from the kitchen. I rush over to my mother, feeling childish even as I do it — as though I’m looking for approval in the most obvious places — while she’s hanging her coat in the closet.
    Our hall closet still has Morgan’s and Devin’s old winter coats in it; making space for your own jacket is always a battle, and it takes Mom a minute to cram her coat in with the rest. Finally free, Mom holds out one hand to take the package and I think she’s got it in her grasp when I let go. Truly, I do. This isn’t a continuation of the withholding the package from her idea. I sincerely thought she had it and that I was free to let go. I thought I was doing a good thing.
    Wrong.
    The package thuds to the floor. I don’t hear anything shatter — there’s just the subtle thump of cardboard hitting tile floor — but Mom yelps.
    “Sorry,” I squeak. “I’m sure it’s in tons of bubble wrap anyway.” Someone wouldn’t send it