Time and Space The drive to Titi''s house takes exactly eighteen minutes. I know because my current Rubik''s Cube solving time is about two minutes, and I solve my scratched-up, faded cube a grand total of nine times. I can feel Janet watching me in the rearview mirror, probably wondering if I''m okay, and I wish for the hundredth time that I could twist my way out of her too-clean car, line my life back up as easily as the sides of my cube, erase all the ways I messed up this weekend, so that instead of driving to the rich side of town, I''d be at my parents'' bright red food truck, and instead of a black bag of packed clothes at my feet, I''d be dishing up plates of yellow rice for my friends. Janet doesn''t actually care how I feel. She''s just here ''cause it''s her job. So even though she offers to carry my bag after we park, even though I''m sweating through my shirt and my glasses keep slipping off, I carefully put the cube in my sweatpant pocket, lift my bagged-up things with my own two hands, take a deep breath, ignoring Janet, and start walking by myself toward my aunt''s door and my weird weird new life. Did You Know? Most birds don''t recognize their family members after more than a year has passed. So it makes sense that I''m wearing my favorite owl shirt as I stare at a woman I don''t recognize, but that Janet assures me is my aunt.

Titi Silvia is a doctor, but one that looks like a model, like the doctors on those TV shows my mom won''t ever let me watch. And even though I usually try not to care about the clothes I wear or how they fit, I definitely care today as I feel her staring first at my hair and then at my wrinkled clothes, moving down to my socks and slides and then back up to my stomach, like everything about me is out of place, different from what she''d like. I don''t know how I''m supposed to greet her, this woman that is basically a stranger and who looks nothing like me, so I just shrug at her awkward hola, wait for her to tell me where to put my stuff, and then I leave her and Janet talking and hide in the office, aka my (temporary) new room. My Room That Is Not My Room Titi Silvia''s apartment is beautiful, but it almost doesn''t look real. It''s all white and clean and full of art that makes no sense, and I can tell my aunt''s really tried to turn her office into a bedroom for a kid, because there''s a big inflatable mattress in the middle and she''s added a princess blanket that is pretty babyish and way too pink, which she probably bought because she doesn''t know what sixth graders actually like to watch on TV. And if I was here for different reasons, I''d probably just laugh at the blanket and bounce on the inflatable bed, but the problem is, I''m supposed to actually live here. Titi Silvia already mentioned something about Ikea and furniture as I slid past her in the hall, and who wants a temporary place to act like a forever one? Especially when that place is with a rich perfect stranger who the social services people keep telling you over and over and over is "safer" than your parents is a "good" solution is someone you''re "extremely lucky" to have offered you a home. My Aunt That Is Not My Aunt I hear Janet leave and I pick up my cube again.

Not because I want to practice, but more ''cause I want to have an excuse not to talk if Titi Silvia decides to come in. I don''t care what Janet says. This is not where I want to be. Especially when my aunt does walk in (she doesn''t even knock!) and starts talking to me in soft Spanish like we''re not strangers and this is our shared language, like she''s always been around and this is a super-normal visit and not what it actually is. All I''ve ever heard about my titi is that she''d never lend Mom money when we needed it, never help Mom out when she was sick, and Dad always tells me to ask when I don''t know something, to not keep my questions inside, but even though I want to ask Titi why, why didn''t you help when we needed you? why did you wait until now to show up in my life? it''s hard to ask questions when you don''t want to know the answers anyway, hard to talk when your head feels like it''s inside a bubble and your body feels like shooting up into the air, harder, even, than listening to my aunt''s constant hola Laura, hola mi amor and so without looking up from my Rubik''s Cube, I just lie and say: no hablo español. Yo Sé The truth is, I do speak Spanish. A little bit. Just not the way Titi Silvia does.

Dad was born here and understands it better than he speaks it, so I only ever spoke it with Mom. And if I''m being honest, whatever we were saying was more of a mixed Spanglish than whatever it is that Titi talks. The food we sold at the food truck? I got you. Prices and customer service? Nobody''s ever complained. But Titi is fast-Spanishing awkward stuff about her recycling system and what my new school will be like, and it''s not that I don''t understand her. I do. But not as perfectly as I did Mom. Unpacking Titi Silvia leaves me by myself to unpack, but it''s not like I brought a bunch of stuff.

How do you prepare for the unpreparable? How do you fit your whole life in one bag? And how am I supposed to trust social services, trust Janet, when she won''t trust me back? Questions I''ve Asked Janet How long will I be with my aunt? What will happen to our trailer? What will happen to the things I don''t pack? When can I talk to Mom? When can I talk to Dad? What does kinship care mean? Why do I have a caseworker? What even is a caseworker? Do my parents know where I''m going? Who knows where I''m going? How long will I be with my aunt? Is this because I called 911? Is this my fault? Answers Janet Has Given Me Did You Know? Some birds hold funerals for the birds in their families that have passed away. Other birds will cry by empty nests for a long time hoping that the bird that died will wake up come back so they can all go on with their normal bird lives. I''m not a bird, but in case you can''t tell yet, I kinda wish I was. Their lives seem so much simpler so much easier to understand. My two-bedroom trailer is empty of people now, abandoned, and all because of me. And it feels like everyone just wants me to move on to be cool. But every time I think about me living with my aunt, think about my Crenwood neighbors gossiping about where we are, all I want to do is yell really really loud, shout at the world that this is not permanent this is not forever this was a mistake and my parents are getting better