One for the Murphys: Chapters 1–12

I think back to sitting in that hospital bed, bunching the blankets up in my fists, asking her if they were going to send me to an orphanage.

I think of the Little Mermaid mural near the nurse’s station.

We drive up to a house the color of dirt. Tall, thin trees surround it, like guards on watch. There is a “66” on the mailbox. A palindrome.

I’ve read books and seen movies. I know what foster parents are like.

I remember the blinding pain surging through my body and then feeling nothing at all.

She holds out her hand. “Hello, Carley. How nice to meet you. I’m Julie Murphy.”
I can’t reach back. Even the name feels fake. Too perky. I wonder why she’s happy to meet me.

While Mrs. MacAvoy blathers on, Mrs. Murphy focuses on the bruises on my arms; her look of pity crawls inside of me.

The one in her arms is about four, I guess. He wears a plastic fireman’s hat, little fire hydrant boxers, and bright yellow rain boots. A great blackmail picture when the kid’s about sixteen.

On the wall over the bed, there’s a red wooden sign that reads be someone’s hero in white letters, and I consider the cruel irony of sleeping under this phrase.

The digital clock reads 2:34 a.m.; I like the consecutive numbers.

We glued the vase back together, but it was misshapen and couldn’t hold water anymore.

I so wish I’d been able to see her before leaving the hospital. I think back to my last night there—just twenty-four hours ago. About how I tried to sneak out of my room and find my mother in intensive care.

I struggle to decipher a foreign language.

Mr. Murphy comes toward me, faster than I would like. He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Carley,” he says, but his face says that I’m here to infect his family with malaria.

I almost feel sorry for her. She’s so pathetic.

So while Mrs. Murphy is distracted by Michael Eric stuffing his entire sandwich in his mouth at once, I mess everything up, turning the cans around and upside down.

I scramble across the yard, looking back to see if Mrs. Murphy is at the door.

And just as the pain makes my chest feel like it will explode, there’s no pain at all. Just a blur of things. Cold wind. An orchard. The sound of dried leaves tumbling across the ground. My parched mouth.

Officially, this is my fourth day in captivity. I have started keeping the tally on the back of that dumb hero sign.

Officially, this is my fourth day in captivity. I have started keeping the tally on the back of that dumb hero sign.

I remember how she’d hand me a flashlight, hoist me into the bins, and then make requests for sizes and specific colors like I was sitting in there with a doting saleslady and a catalog.

I remember how she’d hand me a flashlight, hoist me into the bins, and then make requests for sizes and specific colors like I was sitting in there with a doting saleslady and a catalog.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Murphy asks.
“These aren’t warm enough. I want more.” I want to see her reaction, see her go berserk.

“Why don’t we go down to Antarctica and shove some poor unsuspecting penguin into a cannon. Tell him that because nature gave him wings, he’s meant to fly. We’ll launch the sucker, and when he lands in a broken, mangled heap...we’ll ask Mr. Penguin if he’s better off. If it’s done him some good. What do ya say?”

Then I hear her coming. I scurry back through the living room, through the back hallway, and into the family room. When she comes back into the kitchen, I am lounging on the couch, but my heart bangs like a drum.

I feel guilty about the restaurant and I’d like to tell her how sorry I am, but I’m afraid if I stick my hand out, it’ll be lopped off.

“Which superhero is your favorite?”
“Super Poopy Man!” He laughs hysterically.

“Boys,” Mrs. Murphy says, coming to the edge of the carpet. “That’s enough. Let’s not spiral into oblivion here.”

I grab the first thing I see—a big rubber beetle—and proclaim, “I am”—I look down at my shoes—“I am Super High Tops Girl! I’ve captured the magic bug. With a power such as this, soon I will rule the world!” I end with crazy maniacal laughter, stick the bug under my arm, and rush past them.

Adam yells, “Get her! She must not escape! We must get the magic bug or the world will meet its doom!”

Mr. Murphy seems surprised. His gaze lingers longer than is comfortable. “I guess you’ve won him over, huh?” he asks.

She leans in. “You don’t know what simp means, do you?”
I lean back.
“As in simpleton?” she asks. “Or is that too long of a word for you?” She laughs.

She shifts her weight and then motions toward me. “Nice getup. Why, you're a real trailblazer.”

She slams her locker door and storms away, ranting about whatever it was she’d forgotten.

“Quiet down, ye villainous milk-livered minnows!” Sir Ruben’s voice is deep.