Kamala Ellison Love was beyond Dr. Shortman's paygrade.

Nobody would dare dispute his work thus far with her. He had made much progress in getting the girl behaviorally back on track. However between the story of Summer Love beginning to enter public knowledge and the image of Kamala's thousand-yard stare illumined only by the blaring red-and blue lights of the town's police and paramedics irrevocably etched into the memories of those at the scene, it was clear that any further help that Dr. Shortman could possibly provide as her therapist was only going to scratch the surface of her troubles.

Then again, what do you expect when you have to shoot your mother?

From the backseat of the police cruiser, Kamala watched as officers cuffed her histrionic mother's wrist to the stretcher before it got loaded onto the adjacent ambulance. She would go on to survive her far from fatal wounds (the first shot grazed her wrist while the second came to rest a little north of her right knee) and be tried in a court of law for murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, child abuse, and forgery. The verdict was guilty on all counts.

As the police escorted Summer out of the courtroom, Arnold watched as a small wave of relief came and went on Kamala's face. While she took comfort knowing her mother would pay dearly and no longer be a presence in her life, it didn't change the fact that her future was a nebulous void from here on out as a ward of the State. Even without her past behavioral issues, she knew the chances of getting adopted were miniscule to begin what with being on the cusp of adolescence. Throw in the possible chance of a potential guardianship seeker with exploitive intentions for adopting girls coming for her and the picture only got grimmer.

As if like lightning, a thought occurred to Arnold about how he could help.

(Three Months Later)

Savas Koukuzis was an early riser as it stood, but as the first cracks of dawn broke along the Spencer Beach coastline, he gave the tables a final wipe down and prepared the purple and orange fruit drink dispenser, two of the many final touches for a special get together his restaurant was to host.

Looking through the window, he could see Kamala outside leaning on the barrier overlooking the beach and drinking in that same sunrise. Since Savas offered to take her as the adoption process made its way through the system, she had been nothing short of an asset in assisting him with little tasks in the restaurant here and there, and were the circumstances different, he would gently but firmly remind her that there was still stuff to be done before she could go out and about.

"It's her last sunrise here." He whispers to himself. "Let her enjoy."

Rodney's bicycle speeds down the boardwalk, brazenly blowing past the giant sign forbidding such vehicles en route to its final destination. Once beside the blue and white awning, he comes to a stop and takes off his helmet before making his way towards Kamala as she breathes some final whiffs of the salty ocean air she'd known all her life."

"Morning there early bird." She says with a droll smile. "Nothing is going down until 8."

"Yeah, I figure I'd beat the rush…so, last official boardwalk sunrise as a Sand Flea?"

"Yep. Tomorrow's sunrise and all my sunrises hereafter will be in the city of Hillwood."

Rodney climbs on the ledge and seats himself near Kamala.

"It's odd when the boardwalk is quiet." He remarks.

"Yeah." Kamala says. "But for the first time in my life, I don't mind it being like this. In fact, as much as I'm out here and all that, I'm not going to miss the boardwalk as much as I thought I would. Don't get me wrong. My memories with you guys are irreplaceable, and when we visit again during the summer season I'll always feel at home among the hustle and bustle…but…it's not the source of respite I need it to be anymore."

Rodney gives his friend a perplexed look before Kamala continues. As she tries to articulate her feelings, the two of them spot a hermit crab scurrying near the steps where the boardwalk meets the shore to switch shells. Once comfortably in its new home, the creature continues its trek.

"See that crab there? I'm sure that old shell protected its crab from its fair share of danger and allowed it some shred of anonymity in an eat-or-be-eaten world. But the crab grows, and has to reassess its life in that particular covering. This bustling boardwalk served a similar purpose; I could dissolve into the faceless throng of thrill seekers, and comfort myself in the soundtrack of their inane chitchat. But now, I am Kamala, and I have no reason to want to hide anymore."

Rodney got up from the railing and bounded down the steps to retrieve the shell.

"I didn't have time to get you a moving away gift. I hope you-"

He didn't have to say anything further. As the shell made its way from his hand to hers, Kamala leans in and plants a kiss on Rodney's cheek.

"Aww, now isn't that ever so sweet?"

The children scoot away from each other at breakneck speed and look up bashfully to see a pair of women making their way out of their car. The one who spoke was a redheaded lady in overalls and a long-sleeved green and white t-shirt. Hand in hand, she walked with her companion; an equally attractive blonde lady in jean-patterned leggings and a purple/indigo tank top with white frilly lace on the bottom. Holding her hair back was a simple black headband.

"Kamala dearie." The blonde lady inquires. "You never told us you had a special little friend."

"Oh. I, Uh…I'm Rodney. Rodney Finn."

"Well hello Rodney, I'm Olga and this is my wife Lila. We're Kamala's new mothers."

"It's almost 8am. I'm ever so sure everyone's gathering at the restaurant now." Lila replied.

The four of them entered the restaurant where Mikayla, Nicholas, Evan, Peter and Paul greeted them with hearty applause and embraces. Over the threshold leading to the bathrooms, Adam and Calliope finished hanging up a banner with the words "Goodbye Kamala Pataki-Sawyer!" written in a Greek style font. Kamala's going away party lasted all through the morning and began to wind down by half past noon. As much as Arnold (Good Samaritan that he was) cut Mr. Koukuzis a check in advance to cover the cost for this affair, he still had a business to run and would be damned if he missed the lunch rush. Before long, Kamala seated herself the backseat after exchanging final goodbyes and a group photograph beside Olga and Lila's car. With silent bittersweet tears, she closed her eyes as the revving of the engine drowned out the chorus of farewells.

"Kamala…Wake up sweetie."

Having slept the entire drive to Hillwood, Kamala groggily rubs at her eyes and looks out the window to see an imposing three-story brownstone painted in a nice shade of lilac; a far cry from the cramped bungalow she had known all her life. Like a fish swimming curiously around a new aquarium, the girl flits about the house in disbelief once the three of them fully enter the establishment. She scuttles about the corridor peeking about each room in bewilderment; their kitchen with foodstuffs that came from an actual grocery store as well as modest china and utensils to eat from. Their orderly and modestly supplied den which doubled as a teaching space for music tutoring (as evidenced by the piano in the rear). The real centerpiece of the room however being Olga and Lila's wedding portrait on the steps of their home as wife and wife.

The real blow however came after Kamala bounded up the stairs and came upon a crocheted rag-doll style clown bearing the sign "Kamala's Room." The once rapid momentum she exhibited since passing the threshold came to an abrupt halt. Once upon a time, such a saccharine display would inspire feelings of rage to say the least, and while such urges swirled within her, they seemed cowed by a stronger sense of curiosity which won out when she decided to gently push the door open. The air of innocence weakened her to the core; blue wallpaper with little yellow hearts seemed to give off an inviting glow which pulled her further past the threshold. A beautifully carved wooden wardrobe stood to the left of the door facing a pink spray-painted foot locker monogrammed with the initials K.P.S. in contrasting Robin's Egg Blue. A little lamp hung from the ceiling beneath a comfortable twin sized bed. On the wall hung a mirror from which she could see the trembling reflection of Olga in the doorway followed by Lila ready to offer her comfort/a reality check.

"The last three families who owned the house had little girls." Olga began. "I…know the style is a little juvenile…but I hope that…for the time being…"

But Kamala had no time to listen to her new mother fuss over such pettiness. Flying across the room, she wraps her arms around Olga and nuzzles into her shoulder in hopes of having something to absorb the oncoming tears she is about to shed.

"It's fine." Kamala said while gesturing Lila to join in. "Thank you. Both of you, thank you."

(That Night)

9:45pm

While Olga and Lila slept like logs in the master bedroom, Kamala still found herself unable to fully doze off. Hanging over her head like a sword on fraying rope was a simple but powerful question:

Now What?

As much as childhood at Spencer Beach was a tarpit of trauma and abuse, it had been up to now the only sense of grounding she had in her decade and then some of existence. The world was only going to get bigger and stranger from this point forward. As much as her first circle of friends came about in adolescence, who was to say she could replicate the same rapports at PS 118? Throw in the fact that it would still be a while before she could feel confident in realizing that loving families, nice houses, and food that wasn't surplus/unsellable restaurant stock weren't just ethereal projections from her dreams; or a cruel joke that was going to be taken away from her at any moment.

As quietly as a mouse, Kamala rises herself up and makes her way to the second door in her room; a humble closet with a trapdoor which when opened revealed an ascending set of steps.

The Pataki-Sawyer attic was nothing spectacular all in all. In fact, other than assorted Christmas decorations and a small collection of trophies, it was rather empty all things considered.

A sudden breeze blows through the space, dislodging a manila envelope laying on the beams. It floats through the air coming to rest at the base of an immense trophy from the city-wide spelling bee. A monogram of the letters H.G.P. had been furiously scrawled upon the face of the covering with black marker. Once back in her room, Kamala opens the envelope and discovers a marble covered notebook and an irreparably mutilated paper doll almost identical to the one on her doorway. In piecing the corrupted craft together, she found her quandary of who H.G.P. was partially answered.

"Aunt Helga's Room." She whispers while opening the journal.

By now, Helga Pataki's role in linking the bloodlines of her adoptive mother Olga to her former psychologist was nothing new. Nonetheless, Kamala found herself taken aback by the portrait of her Aunt back in the day; the pigtails that spit in the eye of gravity, the pink jumper and white tee combo that launched her 15 minutes of fashion world fame, the scowl only pulled off by someone enduring a lifetime of mental abuse, and (of course) the iconic pink bow.

With only the feeble light of her phone to illumine the room, Kamala began to read Helga's musings. To say the contents of Helga's journal spoke to her didn't begin to cover it; the girl's soul shook with just how eerily similar Helga's situation was back then to hers' in the present; here too was a girl on the cusp of puberty reeling in the knowledge that everything she'd ever known in life (sucky and turbulent though it may be) had been stripped away because one parent was too stubborn to move past what made them feel important and the other was too cowed to put up any real resistance.

Yet while it began as a screed of righteous fury against her family for being the collection of neglectful and self-absorbed basket cases they were, teenage Helga's manifesto suddenly took a turn for the pensive. The major motif she seemed to reflect on was how the disguise wears you after a while; a revelation that came after giving into her hateful impulses and tearing to shreds the innocent craft harlequin whose only crime was happily greeting one and all to a place that no longer existed.

In the doll's silent smile, Helga could hear the betrayed voice a Germanic caregiver reminding her of the consequences that came with pushing people away.

In her own heart, Helga could feel the temper of her father for whom she professed nothing sort of vitriol.

In her darkest imagination, Helga could see her classmates circling like hungry vultures waiting for her last shred of braggadocio to expire.

By the final page, Kamala could feel sleep slowly beginning to conquer her; her eyelids seemed to get heavier and heavier with each blink until they came together for the last time until morning. Her body reflexively gravitated backwards before coming to rest on the comfortable pillows. And in the ultimate act of taking her Aunt's words to heart, she cuddled the journal close to her chest, reflecting on those last musings before fully surrendering to sleep.

It's almost dawn now. If I had the power to stop the sun from rising, I would have done so a long time ago; knowing that each day would be a new argument with Bob, a new hole for Miriam to crawl out of, a new benchmark from Olga that I know I'd never live up to. But I don't. Where my power lies really is (if you'll forgive the choice of words) taking life one day at a time.

My burden is a heavy burden, and it can only come apart just as it had been constructed; piece by piece. I'm not going to come to school next week skip-a-dee-doin' in the halls and crapping rainbows and sprinkles where I please. Nor will I hold my breath waiting for that super theatrical moment where my one action and one action alone will turn my tough blustery exterior to ashes. But I got to start somewhere, maybe with Phoebe; she's been my rock through life and more than anyone knows what I'm all about. She seems to be chummy lately with Gerald, and somewhere in my withered raisin of a heart I wish them luck because its things like that which make me want to be better. That a tomorrow will come where I won't have to gaze longingly at my locket or worry about how my capability to love someone (on any level) can be misconstrued as weakness.

So, goodnight room. Whatever the future my hold for me, be it good or be it worse, my only hope now is that you play host to a happier and better adjusted child. Someone who can truly appreciate the aura of innocence and security you evoke. Where the yellow and blue hearts won't have to mask a heart corrupted and soiled as mine.

The End