The track faintly vibrated under my feet and I swayed from foot to foot as I crossed over it, arms at my side and weighing down my balance. The vibration came harder and it jostled under my worn sneakers as if through sheer force of will it could for once and all make them come to pieces. Fat chance. If scaling the second floor ledge and a couple dozen barb wire fences wouldn't do it then I doubted a passenger train could. A whistle split my ears and the vibrations coursed up my legs and seized in my knees. Maybe a freight train. Or a monorail. It would have to be higher up for that though. And not in short stop Odessa, Texas. A roaring slammed down on top of me, wind dragging at my jeans and I jumped off to the side just as the train passed, a blur of red and brown whipping at my hair and tangling it over my face and between my fingers. Or maybe a Tram. But then again there was the difference between location and power. And the fact that I knew way too much about trains. The last cars passed and faded into a dot at the ending of the winding track and I turned from it and down the hill, sneakers crunching over the dying grass. The air was hazy with heat and I could hear cicadas just under the whistle of the train that was still fading. I dug my heels into the slope of hill to keep my grip and feeling the dirt getting through the cracks and into my socks with the back finally peeling free. And brought down by a gentle slope! A curse on both your sneakers. As if hearing the thought – or more likely my footsteps – Claire turned from where she was sitting halfway down the hill, dirt caked to her cheerleader uniform and putting question to the colours of it and its integrity as a whole. I stepped down beside her and sat down hard, the dirt as unforgiving in my shoes as on my ass and turned to follow her gaze up to where the sun was half hidden by the moon and turning everything dusty in its look. I draped my arms over my torn jeans and let the shortened nails skim over jean then knee then back to jean and the tiny threads holding it all together. Claire continued to stare at the sliver of light and I leaned over to rest my head on my shoulder and my knees pressing together to trap my fingers in between. She rested her head back against mine and adjusted it to sit more comfortably in the way we figured we best fit and the blonde fading naturally against my brunette. The moon passed and froze and a wind picked over my shoes and between my toes to chill the sweat you got used to after too long and hearing the cicadas again faded to the sound of me and Claire breathing and the train whistle still blowing mournfully in the distance.

"And then Carla had the nerve to tell me he's not breed worthy. Like he didn't win five all breed rallies; two regional's. Can you believe it?" Sandra's dinner buzz faded and I cautiously look up from my plate to see her expectedly watching me for a response. Mr. Muggles was also waiting and his beady eyes faded into the tufts of his fur like whenever he lost a couple strands he had them stuffed back in. Quickly I shook my head in agreement and her chatter resumed unabated, Mr. Muggles continuing to stare at me not satisfied and convinced of my turncoat as a traitor to dog breedings everywhere. Ugly dog but good substitute of a pom-pom if mine ever wore out. The chair slid out beside me as Claire sat down sliding the basket of rolls over to without me having to ask and I pulled one off the crumbled paper, winking at her in thanks. She smiled and lifted her glass to her lips, the unspoken ritual at the dinner table with the strict instructions of not interrupting Sandra during her dog breeding propaganda. Because Hellfire would rain if that went unheard.
"He still humps my leg when I watch TV," Lyle injected, turning the meat potato unmentionables on his fork and clearly as skeptical as the rest of us. Though we had the decency and practice not to mention it.
"All right. Enough about Mr. Muggles," Sandra finally surrendered, feeding the same unmentionables from her fingers to his greedy lips and glancing around at the three of us. "What did everyone else do today?"
"Doug and I say this Mexican guy," Lyle piped up taking advantage of the opening. "A homeless dude. On the way to school. We thought he was dead, but he wasn't." Courtesy to our dinner conversation that this was better than Mr. Muggles daily update. I turned my food lazily over on my plate and matching Claire's movements, her eyes downcast and her shoulders sagged as if the world weighed itself on her shoulders and stealing her appetite. She felt me watching her and lifted her eyes to meet mine and I smiled somewhat to encourage her own and always one to please she returned it though it didn't fully touch her eyes.
"So Jess. What about you? Anything exciting happen to you today?" Claire and I dropped our look and I returned it with Sandra's, Mr. Muggles again sampling from her fingers and his tongue looking like something between a cross of Alien and Care bear.
"My shoes finally gave out," I shrugged, the monumental achievement not as par as five breed rallies but still mundane enough to fit the rest of the dinner conversation. "I had to walk home barefoot."
"That's exciting," Lyle described sarcastically, eyebrows crooked and meat potato unmentionables still abandoned on the end of his fork.
"Well it's not dead maybe not dead Mexican guy ...," I answered back with my own sarcasm and Claire smirking at the sound of it, head bowed to her plate but the lines of her cheeks deepened.
"That's no good," Sandra surmised, ignoring the minor exchange and still feeding the Alien / Care bear unmentionable on her lap. "I'll have to run out to the store tomorrow and get you a new pair. Size six?" She looked up at me and I nodded, not overly hopeful on the style considering her choice of furry companion but trusting she loved me enough not to purchase something particularly mortifying. Shoes were shoes though and beggars can't be choosers.
"So what about you Claire? Do anything special today?" Sandra turned her attention to her daughter who glanced up in her seat and chewed the nonexistent food in her mouth, looking like she'd give anything to be invisible and fade into the background of dog breeding and hobo talk.
"I walked through fire and didn't get burned," she said in a rush, a deep breath ending her words and the rest of her sagging in her seat in relief of having said them. The table went quiet and I laid my fork over the side of my plate as quietly as I could to not make a sound and my heart rate suddenly too fast as I waited to hear what was next.
"What the Hell is that supposed to be?" Lyle demanded, brows furrowed and almost buried in his forehead and all the maturity of a fourteen year old found in that one sentence. "God you're so crazy sometimes."
"Lyle," Sandra chided, turning her attention back to Claire and the look of her frozen in her seat. "I think I know exactly what you mean. Oh, here I am talking dogs again and you go and say something really profound." Claire's shoulders sank and I could feel my own lift as I again picked up my fork and turned over the potato / meat to see if it was any more appealing on the other side ... nope. "We come up against all kinds of fires in our lives. And when we test ourselves and face those fears, we usually don't get burned. You are very wise sweetheart. Whatever it is you did, I'm proud of you. And so is Mr. Muggles." Her voice took on a high pitched baby talk tone and she turned affectionately to the ball of tufted fur in her arms. "He is just so proud of Claire. Aren't we? We're proud of Claire. Yes, we're so proud of Claire, aren't we? She's the best." Okay. Moment over.

The water echoed loudly in the curve bottom of the sink and Claire passed me a half soaked plate to dry and the wet edge of it curving a faint stain onto the front of my shirt. I wiped over the droplets with the checkered cloth in my other hand and set it on the pile of dishes that stood waiting to be stacked on my right hand side. My master piece.
"I was thinking we could go to the movies on Saturday," Sandra was saying from the other room, the water running almost drowning out the sound of her voice and Mr. Muggles expectedly sitting at my feet as if waiting for a special treat for his existence. Arrogant rat with fur. "Maybe we could try on some shoes at Gardendale. Jess can help me pick out a pair." I scooted Mr. Muggles away with my foot but he scurried back when the threat was abated and again settled on my toes, paw raised and pressed pleadingly to my ankle. Mooching, arrogant rat with fur.
"Sure," Claire agreed, raising her voice over the water and handing me a glass and my hand barely fitting inside to dry, cloth gathered at the top and like one of those decorative center pieces Sandra sometimes put out at thanksgiving.
"I love you mom," Claire suddenly said, her voice lowered as if only half certain of wanting to say it and what would inevitably come next.
"But?" Sandra asked, taking her up on the hint.
"No buts," Claire shrugged, handing me a soapy dish with dried potato still stuck on and my own skills coming into question as I tried scraping at it with a shortened fingernail. "I just wanted to tell you that." Sandra's footsteps came into the kitchen and Mr. Muggles rushed over to her side, hoping for a warmer reception and his tiny toenails skittering against the panelled floors.
"No, you think I'm trying to be your best friend again," Sandra guessed and leaning against the counter as I silently admitted defeat and re handed the dish to Claire to clean and my fingernails red and aching in the effort. "And I know you have Jess for that." I silently pumped my fist in recognition of my role.
"No, it's ... it's alright we can go to the movies together," Claire quickly said, sponge absent in her hand and soap dripping down her fingers. "It's no big deal."
"I just ... miss you. That's all. Both of you," Sandra admitted, suddenly sounding sad and my inner dinner monologue about her and Mr. Muggles now weighing heavily in my stomach. "I want to be your mom. I want to give you advice." Claire pulled the drain and switched on the garbage disposal, the sound of it humming quietly in the pipes. "But I don't want to push you away."
"I want advice I do," Claire insisted, wrestling with her ring and the red of it flashing in the kitchen light. "I won't push you away I promise." She pulled for extra effort and it twisted and popped off her finger, dropping to the bottom of the still damp sink and into the garbage disposal still humming smugly. Without hesitating she reached her hand in after it and the hum turned to grinding and her jaw tightening with pain. My stomach clenched at the sound and look and I brushed past her to the switch and quickly turned it off, bubbles from my touch collapsing on the frame. She gingerly pulled her arm out as Sandra resumed talking from the other room and blood dripping from her mangled fingers that as soon as I saw them righted themselves almost in confessed embarrassment and fading out the blood on her skin. I gagged in the back of my throat but nonetheless turned her hand into mine still holding the dish cloth and urging on the healing against the checkered back drop as if it were a stage and the curtain was about to rise.
" ... I wanted to be something more interesting then I am," Sandra finished, coming back into the kitchen and expectedly waiting for us as Claire hid her still reforming hand behind her back and I folded the towel so it hid the blood stains inside.
"You are interesting," Claire promised, her other hand reaching behind and turning off the water so the rush of it stopped. "You breed show dogs. Whose mom does that?" I nodded in solemn agreement, biting back a nervous laugh.
"No, I wanted to hitchhike across Europe," Sandra continued, not taking the hint and folding and refolding her fingers together in her struggle not to relapse into doggy bragging. "Study art. Fall in love with some poetry quoting Frenchman." She chuckled slightly, briefly losing herself in the forbidden thought. "Not that your father isn't wonderful. But my point is that you should know who you are and know that it's enough. 'Cause who you are is special. Both of you." She affectionately touched her fingers under my chin and I despite myself smiled, more touched then I wanted to let on.
"About that ...," Claire hesitated, the faint drip of blood on the floor fading and the tiny splotches almost invisible against the darkened coat. "There's something that I need to say. Something I never talked about 'cause I thought it would upset you and dad."
"Sweetheart, you can say anything to us you know that," Sandra promised, fingers laced and at her chest as I turned to set the cloth back on the counter and assuring myself that her hand was again healed.
"I think I'm old enough for you to tell me who my real parents are," Claire quietly answered, tears almost in her voice and her eyes downcast as if ashamed to have to say it but not wanting to take it back. Sandra looked at her for a moment before carefully stepping forward and pulling her into her arms and tenderly holding her against her chest.
"Of course you are," she assured and meeting my eyes over Claire's shoulders in the silent confirmation that I already knew. I did. I always did. The front door opened and closed with a series of footsteps loud in between.
"Honey! I'm home," Mr Bennet called from the front door and Sandra tearfully pulled away from Claire and lightly touched her shoulders as if afraid to touch her.
"Your father," she confirmed and turned away and into the hallway, wiping her nose as she did and her hair frizzy in the light. Claire's shoulders gave and she turned back to me with a relieved gasp, the sound of licking interrupting the moment and the two of us looking down to see Mr. Muggles eagerly licking up the fallen blood.
"Ah God," I exclaimed, moving him away with my foot and him simply moving around it to resume, Claire kneeling at my feet and pushing him away with her hands and wiping up the spilt blood with the cloth from the counter. Mr. Muggles snorted with displeasure and haughtily scurried into the next room, toes proudly scratching on the wood. Nah, not good enough to be a rat.
"I can see why you hate him," Claire laughed somewhat, standing and wiping her hands on the cloth and the bloodstains smeared between the red and blue. I laughed with her and took her hand, turning it over in my own and not even certain if I had the right one the shape of them again identical with not even a trace of blood left to indicate where it had been mangled.
"Jess here?" Mr. Bennet asked from the next room and Claire and I put on our best matching smiles and walked side by side from the kitchen and into the awaiting hallway.
"Hi, daddy," Claire called as her steps increased past mine and she held her arms out to him as he turned from the coat rack and entangled his own through hers.
"Hey baby," he smiled and rested his head against hers and softly rocking her as I stopped several feet from where they stood and hanging my arms down at my sides. They pulled apart with the smile now less forced on her face and his attention now turned towards me.
"I don't get a hug?" He asked, knees bent somewhat in the accommodation of my size and his eyes somewhat hurt that he had to ask before I gave. I forced my own smile back to my lips and stepped closer and linked my arms around his back so the fine lines of his suit crackled against my face. He lowered his arms around me and held me for a short moment as I silently counted down the seconds for it to be over and finally cautiously stepped away.

I dropped my knapsack onto the floor and kicked it to its spot against the bed post and where my quilt lay half collapsed on the floor. I bent and gathered the soft edges of it and heaved it back onto my bed where it crunched against the books and papers I had scattered over my bed and mom long ago gave up on getting me to clean. Besides who didn't love sounding like a mariachi band whenever they rolled over at night? I dropped onto the mattress and pulled off my peeling shoes and dirt sprinkling the carpet from their remains and a promise of a new pair making them seem more mangled then they actually were. Brought down by a gentle slope. Not on par with the pair last summer lost to a half hearted attempt at track but less exciting then the year before it when Claire and I went swimming and forgot where we left our clothes. I tossed them to the corner of the room, narrowly missing the garbage can and again stood, pulling my shirt up and over my head and to the array of coloured clothes scattered over my floor. I let my shoulders drop and my head roll as the tension seized in my neck and relented down my spine. I felt it fade and replaced with a sudden cool touch through my muscles and to my toes and fingers, my hair briefly standing on end and my skin prickled as it sunk back in. I close my eyes and let it adjust like a second skin I hadn't yet shed and piece by piece again refitting until it felt my own again and opened my eyes. I turned to the mirror half covered in clothes on the wall and illuminating my stuffed bed and coloured walls that Claire and I filled with inside jokes and nicknames and my floor that was never cleaned and my bag fallen face first to it and finally myself – absent from the reflection.