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  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bradley, Sabine.

  Title: Right on cue / Sabine Bradley.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2023. | Series: West 44

  YA verse

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781978596160 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781978596153

  (library bound) | ISBN 9781978596177 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: American poetry--21st century. | Poetry,

  Modern--21st century. | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS584.B733 2023 | DDC 811’.6--dc23

  First Edition

  Published in 2023 by

  Enslow Publishing LLC

  29 East 21st Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2023 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney

  Designer: Katelyn E. Reynolds

  Photo Credits: Cvr, p. 1 gnepphoto/Shutterstock.com.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS23W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-398-2504.

  To all of my mothers,

  and to my daughter.

  Movies Are Mostly Predictable

  That’s what I like about them. A lost hero is sure to be found. Uncertain hearts will, over time, let each other in. The storms are easy to predict. I can tell how things will end. No twist I can’t see coming. I like it that way.

  I’ve Never Been to New York

  I hear you could live there your whole life and never see the same face twice. I hear the city stays up yelling your name from the sidewalk. I hear every brick wall and park bench is a canvas.

  Worth

  I hear that’s the place to go if you want to be anyone worth remembering. Through art. Through some mural. Or even film.

  When I’m a Film Student in the Big City

  all of my friends will wear fuzzy berets. All of my weekends will be packed with invites to art shows. Private parties with the poshest people.

  I Will Look in the Mirror Every Morning

  And I will say to my reflection: Welcome to your new life. This is the home you have built around and for yourself. And you may take it with you anywhere.

  My Foster Parents Are Very Much in Love

  With each other. With their garden. With their friends. And family. And me. They are in love with the act of loving.

  Their Bond

  is like a time machine bringing them back to their youth. Sometimes I see them dancing around the house. Sometimes I see them holding each other. Frowning at some tragedy on the news.

  They’re Tender That Way

  Soft in their hearts and in their smiling cheeks. As college app season comes, they make sure to remind me how proud of me they already are.

  To Foster

  means to nurture. And they do such a careful job. I thank them. And I just hope they never change their minds.

  I’ve Been a Foster Kid

  for five years now and everyone knows it.

  The Other Kids in This Town Are Fine

  They skateboard or rollerblade on the weekend. They participate in charity fundraisers. Most of them know each other or know of each other. And to be fair, most of them know my name. I’ve been here since middle school. They offer a friendly wave when they walk by. But I can tell that none of them really know what to say to me. And that’s okay. I like my space.

  Still, Some People

  like to offer up their own families for me to borrow during the holidays. Or whenever else they feel charitable. They ask questions like: What are you doing for Mother’s Day, Alex? Would you like to spend Thanksgiving at my house? When will your foster parents finally adopt you?

  Elephant in the Room

  Sometimes they even ask about HER. (My mother.) When that happens, I just smile. Mutter something about this town being too small. Then walk away.

  HER

  I never call her by her name or what she is to me. She’s just HER. Or SHE. It’s simpler that way.

  If I Had to Describe HER

  Picture: A wild swan. A yard of thorny roses. A woman made of stained glass.

  My Mother Has a Beautiful Face

  All angles and sharp edges. HER hair is so thick, I would hide in it as a little girl. I believed it was the safest place in the world. In most of my memories, SHE is wearing a tight dress or leather jacket. Twirling around. Wine-glass stem gripped in HER long fingers.

  She Is a Goddess of Love

  Able to give it or take it away in the time it takes to empty a glass.

  Unlike Me

  SHE always had a lot of friends. Women with too much makeup. Men who smelled like tobacco. SHE would introduce me to them before dancing out the front door for the night. This is my daughter, Alex, SHE would say. Isn’t she pretty? Doesn’t she look just like me? Then SHE would disappear. Into a shiny car. Onto the back of a Harley. Away with a shirtless lover. When SHE got home, SHE would stink. Of bad fruit. Of a night spent on HER feet. SHE would stumble into my room. Wake me with HER cries. I’d wrap my hands in HER hair once again. Holding it behind HER as SHE hurled.

  I Love Mornings

  I love to drink tea. Watch the sun rise. I sit in the wicker chair on the back porch. The dancing colors of the sky at dawn make the beginning of each day feel like the opening scene of an adventure film. And I am the star, with my name spelled out in credits rolling in the clouds.

  Time to Go

  Mr. and Mrs. S have had the same car since forever. A rusty red wagon. It moans and groans when the key is turned. The seats are tan. Covered in stains. Burst lunch bags. Splashed coffee. Spilled nail polish. (From when their own daughters were my age.) A thick plaid blanket in the trunk. Just in case it gets cold and the heat won’t work. I know that Mr. and Mrs. S could afford to buy a new car. But they swear that nothing else would do to transport such special cargo. And they never give up on the things and people they love.

  On The Way to School

  We pass by HER house. It’s a single-floor ranch with a single tree in the yard. Have you spoken to her lately? Mrs. S asks me. I pause, shocked by the question. We drive the same way to school every day. But we never bring HER up.

  No!

  I manage to spit the word out. My trembling voice sounds like a sputtering engine. I don’t look up from my lap. Well. Don’t you want to invite her to graduation? I know that Mrs. S means well, but I ignore her question. I let it disappear into the sound of the red wagon’s wails as we drive on. Besides, it’s only fall. Graduation is months away.

  I’m Not on Any Teams

  Or in any clubs. But that’s not because I’m not good enough. I can run as fast as anyone in school. I’ve been playing chess with Mr. S for years. I could totally film the morning announcements. I just don’t have the school spirit. And honestly, I don’t really like teams.

  If There’s Anyone Who Understands Me

  it’s my art teacher, Ms. Owens. She was a foster kid, too. And she loves movies just like I do. We both think that shark films are underrated. And that musicals get way too much credit. Some of the other kids say she looks like a bird. A flamingo or parrot. Because she’s tall. Likes to paint her lips and eyelids all sorts of bright, beautiful colors. But I understand Ms. Owens. I understand that sometimes, you make your art out of what’s right in front of you.

  That Doesn’t Mean

  I could make movies out of my own life. I don’t want anyone to know my mess. I don’t want anyone to know about HER.

  Are You Excited to Go Away for College?

  Ms. Owens asks me while we eat lunch together in her classroom. It’s our daily ritual. I am eating leftover casserole. Ms. Owens is eating oatmeal. I shrug. I mean, sure. Ms. Owen tilts her oval head. She stirs her oats. Alex, it’s okay to look forward to things. I chuckle, uncomfortable with the sudden seriousness in her voice. I know that, I assure her. Then I change the subject.

  I Consider Myself A Realist

  Of course I’m excited when I think of graduation. Of course my belly somersaults when I think of that first important step: college. Of course I can’t wait to start chasing my biggest dream. But part of the application process is submitting a mini doc. That’s a short documentary. Just five to ten minutes long. And I’ve yet to even start.

  I Guess I’m Also a Procrastinator

  I put things off. Just as the summer began, Mr. and Mrs. S gave me a brand-new camera. Not like my old one. This one is weatherproof and expensive. This past summer was damp. There was a downpour almost every day. I spent months filming the rain as it fell on the cement. As it filled a muddy footprint. I just couldn’t figure out my subject.

  Now It’s Fall

  The chill in the air is hard to show on film. A whole season has come and gone. And I’ve got a whole lot of nothing. I hold my camera in my gloved hands and sigh.

  First Impressions Matter

  Whatever I end up filming, whatever I end up sending to strangers far away— it has to be magical. Hopeful. Memorable. There won’t be a face-to-face interview. If I want to be accepted to my school of choice, I have to send them a project that will make an impression for me. So of course I’m excited. But I’m also terrified of missing the mark.

  Family Outing

  Mrs. S picks me up from school. Pearl earrings peek out behind silver wisps of hair. Are we going somewhere? I ask. I know full well what the answer must be. Mrs. S only wears her pearls for family outings. We are. Mr. S and I thought we would go to Tizzy’s for dinner tonight. She glances over at me as she says this. Tizzy’s?! I practically yell.

  Our Last Visit

  Mrs. S keeps her eyes on the road this time. Oh Alex, I know our last visit wasn’t a good one. But that was a while ago. Isn’t it time to replace the bad memories?

  I Take My Time

  getting dressed for dinner. I am in no rush to go to Tizzy’s. It’s the most popular diner in town. The football team goes to Tizzy’s after practice. The pastor and her family go to Tizzy’s after church. The waitresses know everyone by name. It’s a loner’s nightmare. But there’s another reason I don’t want to go.

  When We Arrive

  I swear the song playing from behind the bar skips a beat. Our waitress has hot pink lipstick and a name tag that reads “Joy.” She bounces up to us. Smiles. Well, long time no see, family! I cling to my frown. Joy was working the last time we came. I can tell from her pity that she hasn’t forgotten.

  Of Course She Hasn’t

  forgotten the last time we came here to meet with HER for dinner. Of course she’s hasn’t forgotten how a public visitation quickly turned into a public disaster.

  What Happened

  SHE had shown up late, tripping over herself. SHE mumbled an apology. Lipstick on HER teeth. But I didn’t care about any of that. I only cared that I got to be near HER. I threw my arms around HER. Pulled HER to our booth. Ten minutes later, SHE was nodding off. Mom! I pulled at HER shirt. Mom, wake up! People are looking at us!

  HER Head

  snapped upright. SHE hissed through yellowing teeth. Well, I’m SO sorry to embarrass you, Alex. You know, you care too much what people think. That’s always been your problem. SHE leaned in close to my face. Spitting the words. Holding eye contact. SHE pulled a travel-size bottle of whiskey from inside HER shirt.

  Protectively

  Mrs. S grabbed my wrist. Gentle but firm. She told me it was time to leave. That my mother wasn’t feeling well. That’s right, Margie! SHE shouted. Take her away! Turn her against her OWN MOTHER! Fistfuls of baked ziti flew from HER hands. They hit our backs as we left. I haven’t seen HER nor the walls of this diner since.

  Yet Here We Are

  Back at Tizzy’s for the first time since the visit. Mrs. S folds her hands and takes a deep breath. Your mother called today.

  Apparently, SHE Is Sick

  And according to Mr. and Mrs. S, it’s different this time. It’s not the kind of sickness that SHE could cure with a bowl of cheesy grits and a shot of bourbon whiskey. It’s not the sickness that once flooded HER with such wild sadness that SHE lay flat, sobbing in the road until the neighbors could help me drag HER into our house. No, this time it’s not like that. This sickness is not like that. It’s even meaner. More determined. More stubborn than even SHE has ever been.

  The Voicemail SHE Left for Me

  Hello my princess. It’s felt like forever away from you. I haven’t been feeling well lately. The doctors say— well, the doctors say I might never feel better, baby girl. They say my body has grown tired of keeping up with me. Soon it will slow me down for good. I know I’ve left you disappointed, time and time again. But if you can forgive me. Enough to come to the house for dinner. So I can talk to you in person. Maybe we can figure out how to make things right. Together.

  At First I Feel Nothing At All

  Like the first few seconds after waking up from a strange dream. I hardly notice my own hands as I carefully place the phone back on the table. The room around me doesn’t feel quite real. It’s too foggy. Too distant. I can no longer tell where my feet touch the floor. Mrs. S reaches gently for my hand. Mr. S gives me a glass of water.

  Always the Drama

  Why is she telling me this? I want to know. She’s being dramatic, right? It’s not like she’s going to die. Mr. and Mrs. S look at each other. But they don’t answer me.

  What Is Owed

  How much is lost between us in the time we spend apart? I come to this question over and over. And over and over. After so many visits gone wrong, like the last one at Tizzy’s, I stopped seeing HER altogether. Of course I would still come across HER in my dreams. I’d see HER pacing outside of the grocery store every so often. But I’ve pushed the dreams from my mind. I’ve ignored all the phone calls. Dodged the hugs outside of the grocery store. Yet now, because of one phone call, I must decide how badly I want to hide.

  What If

  it’s just some plan of HERS to get me under HER thumb yet again? It’s not difficult to imagine. HER, crying diseased wolf. SHE loves to be thought of. SHE loves to be worried about. How can I be sure this sickness isn’t just another way for HER to creep back into my mind … and back into my life?

  Monster

  But what if it is true? What if all the liquor and tar inside of HER has turned into a horrible, undefeatable monster?

  Will I Leave

  my anger, my resentments, my memories at the door with my shoes? Will I find a way to smile while wiping the fever-sweat from HER forehead? And even if I do, will it heal HER? Will it heal us?

  Fair

  It’s completely fair to feel confused by this, Mrs. S says to me. My eyebrows shift into question marks. But don’t you think that you owe it to yourself to see if anything has changed? To see what can be saved between the two of you? This could be a chance to move forward before you leave for college. Before you look back. And all the time is gone.

  Growing Up Means

  making hard choices. Growing up means knowing at the end of the day, when the sun goes down, and the chilled air leaves dew on the grass, you only have yourself to face.

  I Decide

  to take the leap of faith. I land at HER front door. Or rather, Mr. and Mrs. S drive me there in their rusty red wagon. I could walk the short distance to HER house. But I accept the support that Mr. and Mrs. S offer. You can call us at any point. We will come back for you right away, Mrs. S says. I try to grin at them. I chuckle dryly. It’s only one dinner. How bad can it be? Neither of them chuckle back.

  My Finger Barely Touches the Doorbell

  I pause to breathe. It’s been about two years since the Tizzy’s incident. Two years since I gave up hope in HER altogether. The wind blows a cluster of fallen leaves around and around. Fears swirl inside my mind. Will SHE mention all the missed calls? Will SHE still smell like spoiled fruit and dancing?

 

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