Chapter 3: Sunshine's Next Destination

Stuart's college response letters hung over him, like clouds blocking out the sun. But once upon a time, someone he was very close with saw one arrive with quite a different reaction.

January. 1996.

Thirteen years earlier, the city looked just the same as it had from the Little's kitchen window that afternoon.

Salt spattered streets, Icicles hanging off of every gutter and light post. And people. These were the staples.

The sidewalks of Manhattan were packed with businessmen, busy mothers, and tourists from all over the world, fumbling with their cameras. Aside from the limited capacity of the tech in the mid 1990s, everything was just the same.

And so was New York City, Public Orphanage, Number Three. One of the last of its kind in the country. Cold winds carrying snow gusts wrapped around the building until the walls inside were ice cold to the touch. Though nearly obsolete, thanks to the modern foster care system, the antique stone fortress continued to house more than a hundred young occupants from the cold world outside.

But as city orphanages were mostly extinct, this building served as a remarkable capsule of times gone by. Playroom's bookshelves, filled with Beverly Cleary instead of R.L. Stine. Wardrobes, mostly made up of hand me down, plaid uniforms, dating all the way back to the nineteen fifties. Wrought iron bunk beds that had been installed prior to the second world war. Steam framed the corners of every window, as early 20th century radiators strained to pump heat through the building. And every last file in the building, including adoption forms, even to this date were still filled out using a typewriter, rather than a computer.

In the girls' dormotories, a thin young woman of color sat all alone upon one of the bunks. Like the other girls that resided in this orphanage/boarding school combination facility, she wore a plaid jumper over a white collared blouse. However, the standard uniform just barely fit—the skirt ending above her kneecaps. The orphanage didn't keep many copies of uniforms for teenagers. She wore black leggings as well to cover her long legs.

Solara Weaver purposefully waited until the others left before sitting down on her bunk and retrieving the letter from her pillowcase. She wanted to be alone for this.

In her hands was a white envelope, postmarked to show that it had traveled all the way from across the country. She held it up to her nose, and for just a moment, she could swear she smelled palm trees and sandy beaches. A different world, a refuge from the depression of a city winter, and the reminder of her parents' loss. A life away from this gray stone prison that had stolen almost half of her youth.

She knew in her heart it would be a 'no.' She knew it was a far fetched hope as she slowly and carefully peeled away the seal of the envelope, savoring the moment. She was just happy to be allowed the moment of anticipation. Feeling the sun of the west coast on her skin, just for an instant.

So it took her a full minute to process what the letter inside actually said.

"Oh god," she breathed, looking down at the page. Her voice was muffled as she clasped a shaking hand over her mouth. "Oh god—"

But before the tears even reached her eyes, a tremendous crash from a nearby room sent her eyes flying to the door.

"OH!"

"I didn't do it!"

"Anybody hurt?"

Solara was on her buckled shoes immediately, the precious letter tossed onto the bed behind her. As she ran, she repeated the same phrase, but in a panicked tone. "Oh God, oh God, oh God…"

She flung open the door to the girl's dormitories and darted across the hall, to the source of the noise. Don't tell me it's what I think it was. Don't tell me…

She turned the squeaky, tarnished gold door knob, and threw herself into the art room. Inside was a scene of chaos. Such a crash was enough to turn another boring school day into one of excitement. Children were darting into the room from everywhere in the near vicinity to see what had made the noise. They mixed with the art students, with paint splattered smocks and clay-caked fingers, crowding around the back of the room.

What had made the noise was clear as day: A high shelf had collapsed, bringing down everything on top. Fake ferns and flowers that were years overdue for a dusting. Forgotten cups and brushes, paint still caked on. Mugs and ashtrays and all matter of unwanted artwork from students decades ago.

When the shelf fell, the weight took down the paint can shelf beneath that, and the one beneath that. Beneath the debris, the art room's clean brown floor was now a Jackson Pollock painting. The walls filled with vertical holes from where the mollys had failed, and fading horizontal paint marks.

The young woman made her way through the crowd. She was polite enough to pardon herself, though as scared as she was, they were lucky they even got that. "Excuse me! Sorry! I'm sorry! I need to get through!"

She pulled up a heavy iron shelf, resting teeter-totter style on an old paint can. Her eyes widened as she set it aside. "Oh no, oh no, oh no… Stuart…"

With the shelf out of the way, in the middle of rainbow glitter paint, ceramic chips and dust, lay the not so obvious culprit. The cause of the crash: A tiny white mouse.

Somehow, someway, her instinct had been spot on.

The haze of dust slowly cleared, and the mouse pushed himself up to sit. He opened his eyes, blinking at the space in front of him. He was short and slightly chubby with baby fat. But the custom made sweater vest he wore fit him rather nicely. Complete with a collar and tiny necktie, it was impossible to deny his place in the institution. He was most definitely a ward, and a student, on the same level as the humans—for every bit as ludicrous as some might have found it.

His frightened eyes found Solara like a child seeking a single face of an adult in a crowd. "Uh-oh…" his little, stunned voice piped up at last. His tiny pink nose wiggled as he sniffed around himself cautiously. And he looked relieved to touch the tip of his tail, unhurt and intact, sticking out of his uniform pants. The dust got caught in his nostrils, and he sneezed.

"Yeah, 'uh-oh!'" Solara replied. Relieved to see him alive, her frustration came to the surface. "Stuart, look at this mess!"

"Sorry—ouch!" Stuart clutched his left arm in his right hand. Along his forearm was a slice in the sleeve, bright red blood standing out against the blue fabric. He had tried to get to his feet, and only when his sleeve moved to irritate the wound did he was hurt. His head whipped downward, pulling his hand away, finding it covered in his own blood.

Seeing him about to cry, at last, the girl's features softened. "Oh… I guess it's not your fault." After brushing some dust off of his shoulder with her finger, she used it to raise his furry little chin upwards, to check his face and head for more injuries. "That shelf was probably overloaded anyway."

Behind them, the students converged in a mass of voices and confusion. As if held back by a force field, none of them dared to get more than a foot closer to Solara—as if fearing the rest of the art shelves would come crashing down. Nobody else announced they were hurt. But there was more trouble on the way.

Parting the crowds, two teachers entered the room. One of which was the heavyset art teacher, who'd left the children alone for five minutes to grab more glaze for the pots. Her honey colored curls seemed to stand on end, electrified, as she took in the mess. "Good heavens!"

Not long after, a younger, plump woman with a brown beehive hairdo made her way to the front of the crowd. "Quiet! Everybody, quiet! Now, what on earth happened here?"

Mrs. Keeper parted the wave of students at the shoulders, her old school pumps avoiding the broken clay bits as she crossed the floor. When she saw Solara leaning over a tiny white animal, she stopped and sighed dramatically. "Stuart." Her expression added the silent but accusatory 'I should've known'. "How many times have we told you not to climb these shelves?"

"I'm sorry!" He squeaked. Even with the other children silenced, he felt like he had to shout just to be heard.

At a young age, a mouse's voice had impressive range, and Stuart was no exception. Humans could usually hear and understand them clearly, even murmuring. Yet because he was so small, it felt at times like people pretended like they couldn't hear him unless they wanted to.

Still, Stuart could rely on one person to listen to him.

"You say you're sorry, but you keep doing these things!"

Solara picked the mouse up in her palm and clutched him protectively to her collar bone. "Mrs. Keeper, please! He didn't mean it! Give 'em a break!"

"He's lucky the weight of the shelf didn't break him," said the thin, middle aged math teacher, his classroom just next door. "I guess we should just be grateful for that."

"That's right," the art teacher said with a relieved nod. Though her face was still as red as her fake ruby costume necklace. "Accidents happen."

Mrs. Keeper sighed, and put her hands on her hips.

"My vase!"

A new voice emerged from the crowd, making the teacher's head's spin. Another girl appeared, this one even thinner, and with a face as pale as the dried clay. She bent down before the pile of debris and picked up the shards of what remained of one of the ceramic crafts. "Agh! Seven weeks! It took two weeks just to paint it! Look what you did, Stuart!"

"I'm sorry Heather," Stuart whimpered. "I know you worked hard on that."

The new girl turned to the headmaster, the biggest pieces in her fingers. "Why do you let the baby run around if he's just going to knock stuff over and spy on everyone?"

"I don't spy," Stuart peeped. "And I'm not a baby…"

"Chill out, Heather," said Solara. "He's only six. He didn't mean for this to happen."

"Oh, sure," she replied, getting back to her feet. The new girl was almost as tall as Solara, though she was four years her junior. And it was quite apparent that this age difference did not intimidate her. Her heavy lashes framed a pair of blue eyes, like cut glass. "Here we go again! 'Oh, he's only six. He's only a mouse. He's lonely.' You always take the baby's side!"

"I'm not a baby!" Stuart squeaked. And it was hard to hide that he didn't appreciate Heather's other comments about him, either.

This time, Heather did acknowledge him. She spun around to face the little mouse, her long, brown ponytail snapping behind her like a whip. "Oh really? Well, guess what? If it squeaks and cries and makes messes and needs a mommy, guess what? It's a baby!"

"Children, enough!" Mrs. Keeper shouted, taking charge of the situation. "We're all rattled up. All that matters is that no one was seriously hurt. Now, Mr. Mansley," he told the younger teacher, "grab a broom from the closet. Harold," he told the second oldest ward present, a heavyset boy of about seventeen. "Get some rags from the sink and mop up what you can. Mrs. Frass," she said to the art teacher. "Please resume your class using the front of the room. And Solara," she paused to rub her temple. "If you wouldn't mind, take Stuart and take care of his injury, would you?"

"I'm on it. Ready, bud?" she turned to look at the boy in her palm.

Stuart didn't reply. Not like he had any say in the matter, pressed into her shoulder as he was. There were tears in his eyes, and he couldn't form words.

Something about Heather's last statement got to him. It bubbled up inside him, fueled by the adrenaline of the fall and the embarrassment of the accident. He didn't want Heather to have the satisfaction of having the last word.

He pushed Solara's hand away, climbed over her shoulder and shouted as loud as he could, the most hurtful string of words a first grader could think of. They rocketed from his mouth with full body force, making his tail stand on end. "I hate you!"

"Help me roll up your sleeve."

"Ow… ow!" The mouse cried, as he and Solara, using the tip of her fingernail, worked together until the sleeve was rolled above his elbow. It wasn't easy. Even with the rip, the sleeve was damp with blood, and every touch made the cut sting. Thankfully, the sleeve was loose, and could probably be mended with some stitches and a cleaning. Uniforms for Stuart were hard enough to make.

"How'd this happen, anyway?" the girl asked, finally. She reached under the countertop and retrieved one of the makeshift first-aid kits scattered around the asylum—a little antique lunchbox, with a picture of the sixties cartoon Underdog on the side. It was found wedged in the corner after a cleaning spree, most likely belonging to one of the previous wards, although the owner was unknown.

"I rolled over a broken teapot when I fell," the mouse explained. "Or… maybe it was a vase—maybe Heather's."

The lunchbox was unlocked, and Stuart watched Solara pluck out a fresh tube of antibiotic ointment, a small roll of gauze, and a package of handy wipes. "Well, no big loss." Before proceeding, she stopped at the countertop sink to wash her hands. The old pipes took forever to heat up, but at least the water that came out was clear. "That thing was ugly anyway."

Sentiment shared, the injured mouse managed a grin. He hadn't spied on anyone like Heather accused him of doing. But did remember how unfortunately sad the vase had looked when she set it on the shelf to dry, before being put in the kiln. "I wish I could make something. They let everybody play with the clay but me."

"That's because you're only six, buddy." She sat down on a stool and held out her washed hand, palm up. "Arm back, please."

"But they let the other kids play with the play-dough!" Stuart argued, handing over his arm. "It's all because I'm a mouse." But as he said it, his tail flicked behind him with uncertainty.

"Is it?" she grinned.

He turned from her knowing gaze, sheepishly. "Or… maybe it's because of that one time I got stuck in a play-dough cup."

"For real, Stuart?" Solara hadn't even been aware of that story. She finished patting his wound with sterile wipes and giggled. "You are the biggest klutz in New York City."

"What's a… klutz?"

"It means you have a knack for getting yourself into trouble. Making messes..." She trailed off as she stuck a pair of tiny scissors in her mouth, while both her hands were busy, wrapping his arm in the gauze. "'Being a general nuisance.'" She borrowed a phrase from one of her required readings for English class, tongue sticking out.

"I can't help it. I'm bored, and no one will play with me. You're always busy, now. Exploring is all I can do."

"You could try and read more." She then lowered her arm to her lap and exhaled through her nose. "Well, hopefully, you'll outgrow it. Hard to imagine a guy who can climb walls could stay clumsy his whole life."

"It's okay," Stuart beamed up at her. "As long as you're here to take care of me, I don't care if I'm the biggest Klutz in the world."

She bit her lip, her smile faltering.

Sensitive as he was, he noticed the change immediately. "What?"

Suddenly, she had a hard time keeping eye contact with the mouse. "You know, Stuart, about that—"

Three rapid knocks cut her off. Both girl and mouse turned towards the open doorway to the right.

A clean shaven, older male student stood beneath the antique wooden threshold, holding a manilla envelope, shaking it playfully so that the paper contents rattled. "Delivery for a Ms. Solara Weaver," he said in a sing-song voice.

Stuart grinned. "Oh, hi Tom!"

Relieved to have a distraction, Solara stood up and headed to the doorway. "So you're a delivery boy, now?"

"Have to be, when you're getting so much mail these days," he said flirtatiously, leaning on the doorway, envelope high enough to where she'd have to jump to reach it. "I could become your personal mail man."

"Shush," the girl scolded him in whisper, jumping up to snatch the envelope. "Not so loud." She turned back to her tiny patient. "Just-just a minute, Stuart."

And the teenagers closed the door.

Standing just outside the room, they kept their voices as low as possible. "Sorry," she told him, speaking slow enough that her lips were readable. "It's just that his hearing is… incredible."

"Ah, yeah." He stuffed his hands into his khakis. "Mouse." Like Solara, he'd mostly outgrown the plaid uniforms available at the orphanage, just barely tucked into a collared shirt and sweater that matched Stuart's. "I heard you tried for Cali. Anything back, yet?"

"Not yet," she answered, choosing to lie. Holding off the truth didn't change it. Didn't affect her destiny. It just prolonged the heartbreak that would come when she issued it.

Tom finally handed the manilla envelope, but his eyes were on her face. Framed by a halo of tight little black curls, it was hard to look away. He wouldn't be seeing this face forever. "Would it be selfish to say I wish you didn't go?"

Solara couldn't look at him. "Yeah. It would."

The silence was suffocating. The classrooms nearby were quiet, in tests or silent study. In the highschooler's wing, it was much quieter. Dust particles floated in the air, exposed by the window down the hall. Natural daylight, even blocked by clouds, illuminated what the dim, antique square light fixtures above did not.

So caught up in the moment, she didn't realize how close she and Tom had become. It was only them.

"Tom," she breathed. "Don't… don't do this to me."

"I can't help it," he told her, the warmth of his breath on her cool cheeks. The middle of the hallway was chilly, but it was warmer, next to him. Their faces were so, so close. "It's just that it's hard to imagine this place without you..." And he reached forward and pulled a long curl back behind her shoulder, sending goosebumps flaring up along her unprotected arms. "I know it hurts. I know this place reminds you of what happened to them. But I wish you didn't have to go. I'm gonna hate California, for taking our sunshine away."

Solara's eyes widened. But before she could ask how he knew, Tom leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. Her gloss tasted like cucumber, cool and refreshing. His mouth like sugar—sweets he'd snuck in for the younger kids, but that he wasn't above sampling.

She pulled away, spellstruck. Stunned. And all the same… frustrated. It happened here? Her first kiss? This crucial step towards becoming a real adult? And it happened here?

Cliche as it was, Solara had come to imagine her first kiss would happen under palm trees, and the California sun. Sand and a warm breeze in her hair, looking into the eyes of a dazzling stranger. An accomplished woman, worthy of an accomplished man.

Not here, cold and underdressed, with neosporin on her fingers, covered in clay dust. In tights and a dusty, plaid jumper, just a few feet from her science class.

Not here. With Tom…

Troublemaking, detention-skipping, candy sneaking, long bangs, green eyed, snarky, notorious Tom. Tom, who everyone knew had eyes for her, since the day she'd arrived. Tom, who's path of life was winding in a direction only God could predict.

He reached into the pocket of his pants and fished out a small red and white candy, in a clear wrapping. "Gave away the rest to the kindergarteners. But I thought Stuart would want the last one."

Solara took the grandma candy and raised her brow. "Starbrites?" she spoke at last. "That's the best you could do?"

"No money for chocolate today," he shrugged. "Spent it all on something more important."

She wanted to ask him what he meant, but figured it wasn't her business. Especially not while she was in the process of rejecting his advance. "Well, if you had Mary-Janes, I'd give it to him. Stuart doesn't like mints."

She tried to hand it back to him, but he pushed her fingers closed over her palm. "He should stop being so picky," Tom said flatly. And for once, his mischievous smile had abated.

Without another word, the boy walked away, back down the hallway. Leaving Solara, and her mystery envelope.

She had tried to make it black and white, so that it was easier for her to make her decision. The further away from this city, the better. But now, it was suddenly very difficult to ignore that even leaving the entrapment of NYC, the chains of winter, and all the memories, meant leaving behind a part of herself. What remained of her family, her childhood. Her brother.

Dammit, Tom, for giving her doubts. What right have he?

And yet, no matter how much she denied it, she'd miss him, too.

She blinked away her tears and stuffed the candy near the ankle of her sock—for lack of pockets—before she re-entered the room.

Thankfully, they'd spoken quietly enough that even Stuart hadn't picked it up. "What did Tom want?"

"Oh, same old shenanigans. Just trying to get me in trouble." She shrugged, avoiding his eyes again. "I'm a favorite." And before she could stop, she found herself needing to elaborate. "I mean! Honors kids all are."

"Solara Weaver," Stuart sighed, remembering how the older boy had said it. "Your full name is pretty. I wish I had a full name."

"You will, Stuart." She came back to the counter and set down the envelope far to her right, in a safe place. "Someday."

As much as he wanted to believe, the young mouse was beginning to doubt Solara's promise of 'someday'. He shook his head. "Mice don't get last names. I'm lucky I even have a first name."

Feeling it was time to change the subject, Solara snipped and secured the loose gauze on his arm with tape. She pulled her hands away to admire her handiwork. "Alright, and… presto! Clean as a whistle, and wrapped like a sandwich. How's it feel?"

"Alright." Stuart looked at his bandaged arm, but his mind was already elsewhere. "How come Heather doesn't like me?"

"It's not that she doesn't like you." She avoided his guilt-inducing eyes by picking up the gauze and bandages from the table, and collecting them back into the lunchbox. "She just don't understand you."

"But you do," Stuart argued.

"Well, I got a little brother, just like you." She clipped the box shut and kicked her feet up onto the stool. Impromptu nursing duty over, she buried her chin in her knees as she fixed her gaze on the window. "He'd be eight years old now, actually."

"You never told me about him." Stuart pulled himself onto the edge of the lunchbox. Even this was a bit of a struggle, still only two inches tall, but once he had a secure seat, he leaned forward eagerly. "Where's he?"

"We split up after the accident. He got put into the foster care system, and I came here. Oh, don't worry," she said as she noticed his concern. "He's in good hands. I know he's safe. And I'll meet up with him again. Someday."

Stuart watched her shrug, as if the fact that she hadn't seen her brother in almost six years was equal to the disappointment of a rainy day. The little mouse followed her gaze to the foggy skyline behind the glass. Even with ears and whiskers and a tail, his intelligence was undeniable. His rich brown eyes alone carried tomes of emotion and thoughts too difficult for even a first grader's vocabulary.

He wanted a last name. He longed for identity. Even if most of Solara's family was gone, she still knew where she had come from before coming here. Stuart did not. "I wonder if I have a brother somewhere."

"It's possible. We don't know what happened to your folks. Maybe they're still out there."

"That's right!" he said, excitedly, kicking his feet with new energy. "You were here when I came here! Do you remember…?"

"What happened, you mean? Well, I don't really know. I just got here a few months earlier. I went up to Mrs. Keeper with a question, and she had something in her hands. A little, baby mouse, couldn't be more than a few months old, wrapped in a pink blanket. I asked who she was, and Mrs. Keeper was like—"

"It's a boy," Stuart replied, self consciously. He already knew about that detail. "And his name—"

"Is Stuart," the girl finished, with a shrug. "And that's all we know."

He thought in silence, his lips pursed, as he had his first big moment of insight. Kick kick, his heels hit the tin lunchbox. Bang bang. "Your brother got adopted when he got fostered," he said at last. "Didn't he?"

Solara was surprised he'd figured it out. "Yeah," she nodded. "He did."

Stuart looked hurt for her, his ears drooping low. "Why didn't you?"

"I was too old," she said. "Nobody wants a twelve year old, or," she held her arms out, feeling a pang of guilt of the letter sitting on her bed. "Someone old enough for college."

"I'd want you," the little mouse said fiercely. "I don't care how old you get. You're special to me. And I don't think I could get any better."

"Just be patient, little dude. Watch: Someday you'll have a family. And a mom, and a dad, and a last name. Heh, maybe even a brother, too. Or," she shrugged her left shoulder. "A sister."

"But I wish you were my family," Stuart lamented. "You take care of me. And I'm not sure what I could do, but I'd take care of you, however I can."

Her brow creased with worry. For being shown so little love in his young life thus far, the mouse had an unprecedented amount of it to give away. All the more tragic how he was continuously passed over by adopting couples.

All the more reason for her shame to paramount. "That… that means a lot to me, Stuart. Thank you…"

And having run out of words that were honest, but did not threaten to burst his bubble of security, no more was said on the matter.

She'd have to tell him eventually.

Just not now.

Nauseous with guilt, Solara only just remembered to take the manilla envelope with her before she deposited little Stuart in the playroom. She set him down next to the soft toys and stuffed animals and small books, where he'd be safe. Bored. But safe.

As soon as she found another moment alone, she remembered it, and gave it a look over. Did she manage to get into more than one of her favorite schools?

But turning it over to read the front, she realized the envelope had no return address, no stamp. And though the recipient's name was her own, where it should read the address of the orphanage, in its place was a tiny print message:

For Sunshine's Next Destination

The girl barely made it back into the dormitories before she tore it open. At first, it seemed obvious that using a big manilla envelope was meant to throw her off. To look business related. But once she had it open, she realized how wrong she was.

There were two photographs. One, a glossy image of their class picture—a row of teenagers in the same hand me down plaid uniforms against a sad, antique wooden wall, the names of more than a dozen students in fine print at the bottom. The other, an extra large postcard. It was made for tourists, almost big enough to be a poster, with the backside featuring a high resolution image of New York's Skyline. Blue eons above fading into a pink horizon. Buildings dotted in hundreds of little neon light windows, each one distinguishable from each other, in front of steel rod harbors and sparkling waters. And the Brooklyn bridge that united one side with another, like a pair of arms.

A reminder that the ugly, gray city that waits outside the windows was just as beautiful in the spring as she used to see it.

Solara pulled the Starbrite out of her bobby sock, realizing who it was really for. And what Tom had spent his candy money on. And weeped.