Free Etched in Sand by Regina Calcaterra

you?”
    “Camille—”
    “Gi, did you tell ?”
    “You weren’t here and I couldn’t let Cookie hurt them!”
    “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    Cookie’s beating didn’t make me cry, but losing Camille’s faith in me has. On the walk back to the house, it sinks in: This did not save my family. Instead, I have violated a pact among our siblings by telling the truth. I’ve separated us again, and worse, I have exposed Norman and Rosie not only to our mother, should she succeed in getting them back from foster care, but to whomever they’ll find in the home they’re sent to.
    I’m overwhelmed with guilt. When Camille shows up, we stand on the porch facing each other. Tears start flowing until I shake. Because of me, none of us are safe now. Rosie won’t survive if I’m not there to protect her; she’ll be the only “little slut” and “whore” Cookie will have left. She doesn’t stand a chance.
    The thought makes me cry harder, hating myself for my selfishness that will make my baby sister completely vulnerable. Camille and I put our arms around each other, both sobbing. “Do you think there’s any way for me to take it back?”
    She shakes her head. Says nothing. We both know there’s no going back. I’ve said too much.
    That night I do not sleep. I go to the couch where Rosie sleeps and watch her breathing. I cuddle and kiss and pray for her all night, knowing as daylight pushes into the room that I’ve crushed any chance of her being protected.
    Camille and I put the kids on the early bus in time for the school’s free breakfast. I take the late bus. Camille takes her post at home, waiting for the inevitable.
    It takes every ounce of concentration for me to get through school. I don’t eat my free lunch, nor do I notice whom I’ve sat next to in the cafeteria. I pay no attention in class, especially Mr. Brown’s, where I keep my head down and pretend to write in my notebook. I wonder if he was the one who sent social services to the house, and if they told him what I said.
    Three cars fill the driveway when I reach home: two gray sedans that I know belong to social services; in each, a man sits waiting behind the wheel. I hurry into the house. The third car is a familiar orange rust box.
    The front door of the house is standing open, and from the upstairs I hear the creak of a closet door followed by the slam of an empty drawer.
    My siblings are packing.
    In the kitchen I find Ms. Davis and another woman with my mother. Cookie doesn’t even look in my direction. “Why don’t you go upstairs and pack your stuff,” she says in a sickeningly singsong voice. This is the act she always puts on in front of the social workers. I race upstairs, aware of what’s about to take place.
    I find Camille in my room. When our eyes lock, I break again into angry tears. Working fast, I throw my clothes and two Jesus figurines in the green Hefty bag that I keep under my bed. Then I sit on the bed with my siblings. I embrace Rosie, who’s also sobbing. “It will be okay, baby, I promise. We’ll take care of you.” Camille consoles Norman through his heaving tears.
    When the four of us come downstairs with our belongings, the social workers lead us outside. They place Norman and Rosie in one car, Camille and me in another. A social worker’s cheap guarantee was all it took to lose mia bambina —my baby. What kind of big sister gives in so easily?
    As they start the cars and prepare to pull away, Cookie lumbers down the steps, pushing her hair back from her face. She’s breathless and pale, attempting to maintain her version of composure. At the bottom of the steps, she hoarsely calls after us: “Don’t worry, kids, I’ll get you back!” Other mothers whose children are being ripped from their homes might proclaim such a promise because they love their kids but I know: That’s not Cookie. “I’ll get you back!” she’s screaming through the car window, but not because she’s lost what