Counting Backwards Read Online Free

from childhood that is just a square of faded material now. My grandmother sewed it for me when I was little, and I’ve kept it all this time. Its scent of home is swiftly fading, replaced by the institutional nothing smell of Sunny Meadows. I lie there and try to think of a better place, a safe place. I remember my grandmother’s porch in the nighttime, where we slept during the summer because it was too hot indoors. I can almost hear the rise and fall of her voice as she spun tales of our people: Panther—God’s favored one, and the Terrible Twins, Thunder and Lightning, and my favorite character, Rabbit, who usedhis cunning and wit to outsmart the bigger animals who were always trying to eat him. I want to conjure up the night sounds on the reservation—the hoot of a barred owl, the buzzing of cicadas, yard dogs baying at the moon—but the only sounds here are the air conditioner cutting off and on and the crinkling of the plastic mattress liner beneath me. Even worse is the sad realization that I’ve forgotten more than I can remember.
    Then I hear faint music . . . a guitar. I sit up in bed and glance around the room, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. I slide out of bed and search the room for a speaker or a radio but find none. In the hallway all is quiet, save for the snores of the other girls.
    Back in my room I trace the music to its source, the floor. No, an air vent in the floor. I drop down to my knees and put my ear to the vent, where I can hear it better; the music drifts up through the metal duct like a ghostly lullaby.
    I hear a man’s voice, quick and severe, and the music’s gone, leaving behind only the hum of the air conditioner. I kneel there a moment longer. Maybe I imagined it.
    I pull my pillow off the bed and drop it next to the vent. I lie back and stare up at the moonlight filtering through the foggy window. In a groggy, half-dream state I watch the square of window turn from black to blue to pink and finally the white dawn of a new day. Shortly after there’s a loud,jarring buzzer, and the safety comes by to make sure I’m up and getting ready for breakfast downstairs in thirty minutes.
    Monday morning. My first day at another new school. My mom had this pep talk whenever I’d be getting ready for my first day at a new school: Just think of all the new friends you’re going to make, Taylor. All those people who can’t wait to meet you. . . .
    It worked when I was young, but by middle school, I got tired of making friends and having to leave them behind every time we moved because we couldn’t pay the rent or my mom decided it was time to move on. If you don’t get attached in the first place, there’s no one to say good-bye to. My freshman year of high school I started hanging out with this group of guys who were already out of school. They were in a band—Choleric Kindness. I was kind of like their kid sister or groupie, showing up at the warehouse where they practiced. They never seemed to mind me being there, and the music and the constant stream of people coming in and out made it so I never had to talk too much about myself.
    They’re probably wondering what happened to me. I haven’t seen them since before I tried to run away.
    I open my closet, bypassing the pleated navy skirts and going straight for the pants. The starched fabric is itchy against my skin and smells like industrial laundry detergent. The shirt collar feels too tight around my throat, so I undothe top two buttons—it’s a little better. I run a comb through my frazzled hair and try weaving it into a French braid, but it comes out loose and lopsided, so I unravel it and throw it into a regular old braid, then line up along the hallway with the other girls. The safety calls roll, and I learn that Brandi is the name of the girl in the room across from mine. She gives me a dirty look when my name is called.
    Down in the dining room there’s a continental breakfast waiting. The food looks