She thinks we can do it. Be friends.

Maybe we can. I’m thinking it’s not going to be easy, but I didn’t want to say no. I mean, it seems like something is better than nothing.

And she’s right. I could use a friend right about now. Lately, my teammates don’t seem to know how to be around me off the field. It’s like Benny is there, between us, and they’re afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.

With Lauren, I feel comfortable. I think she knows there are two versions of me: the real me and the one everyone thinks is me.

And she doesn’t care.

For whatever reason, she understands.

TUESDAY

“Hi, Lauren.”

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“I’m all right. Busy.”

“Oh? What’s going on?”

“I’m organizing a big bake sale to help raise money for Benny and his family.”

She smiles. “That’s wonderful. When is it?”

“A week from Saturday. I have a flyer, if you’re interested.” I reach into my backpack and pull one out. She gets up from her chair and takes it from me.

“I’ll definitely try to stop by,” she says as she looks it over.

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Are you going to bake something?”

“Yeah. Not sure what.”

“Did you and your mom ever bake things together?”

I give a little grunt of indignation. I would have liked to, but I don’t say that. There was one time, in fourth grade, when the school had a bake sale to raise money for new instru-ments for the music room. I asked my mom if we could make something, and she said no. She didn’t have time. She said that a lot. She did give me a few dollars so I could buy something at the sale, though. I bought cupcakes and shared them with my babysitter, Mrs. Neely.

“No,” I tell her. “My mom wasn’t really the baking type.

My aunt Erica bakes a lot, though.”

“How’s it going, living with them? Everything all right?”

“Yes. They’re great. I just wish they’d trust me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard them talking one day. They don’t trust me to watch my cousins. After what happened. Or, well, what supposedly happened.”

“Hmm. Well, give it time.”

“I know. It’s okay. They’re good people, I know that. And I can’t really blame them, I guess.”

“You know, Lauren, I’d love to hear your side of the story. You’ve been so close to telling me a couple of times and then you stop. How come?”

I stare at the window. “I don’t know.”

It’s true. I don’t. At first, it was because I didn’t think it would do any good. Like, what’s the point, rehashing it all? But now, if she thinks it might help, how do I know for sure that it won’t?

“Are you afraid? Whatever you tell me is between us. You are safe here.”

I stare at the tree outside the window. I wish I were there, hidden in the branches, the sky waiting for me. I imagine what that feels like — to open your wings and let the wind take you up and away.

It must take a lot of trust.

I take a deep breath. “It was late. The baby, my half brother, wouldn’t stop crying. I thought he was sick. He felt warm, like he had a fever. I kept telling her we needed to get some infant Tylenol to help him feel better.”

“By ‘her,’ you mean, your mom?” she asks.

“Right. She said Matthew would be fine, if she could just get him to sleep. But she was drinking that night, and the more he cried, the angrier she got. She started shaking him and shaking him, yelling at him to stop.”

I look at Dr. Springer. “I was so scared. I’d never been as scared as I was that night. I tried to take him from her, but she wouldn’t let me. She locked herself in her bedroom with him. I really thought she was going to hurt him.” I gulp. “So I called 911 and asked them to send the police, because a baby was in danger. I gave our address, and then I hung up.

“When the police came, I was in the bathroom, throwing up, because I was so upset. So . . . afraid. My mom came into the bathroom when they started knocking. She started yelling at me, ‘What have you done? Don’t you know they’ll take him from me? Is that what you want? Do you want to go to foster care? Because it won’t just be him. It’ll be you too.’ ”

I lower my head, the memory so strong, I swear the air suddenly smells like the liquor that was on her breath. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“Lauren, you did the right thing.”

I shake my head. “I told her I’d fix it. I apologized and told her not to worry; I was going to fix it. So we went out there, and she held the baby, and one of the officers asked who called. I told him my mom was the one who called, because the baby had been crying and I got sick of it and started shaking him, and I wouldn’t give him to her. I told them I was sorry, I knew it was wrong, and I promised them it would never happen again.”

“So, you lied. To protect your mom.”

My eyes fill with tears. “Yes. And then . . .”

“It’s okay. Go on. What happened next?”

I bite my lip, tears streaming down my face now. I sniffle. “When the officer asked if my mom wanted to press charges, she said no, she just wanted me to get the message loud and clear that my behavior was unacceptable. After one of the officers gave me a stern talking-to, they left.”

“But that’s not the end of the story,” she says.

I shake my head again. “My mom said we needed a break. Me and her. Some time apart. She thought I could stay with my grandma for a while, but my grandma said no. So she called my uncle Josh. And they agreed to take me in. I didn’t fight her on it. In fact, I was as sweet as ever.” I look down at my hands. “I kept hoping she’d change her mind. I can’t believe I thought she’d change her mind.”

The tears won’t stop, but I don’t feel embarrassed. I just feel so . . . sad.

Dr. Springer walks over to me with the box of tissues. I pull out a bunch and try to wipe the sadness away. Instead, I just smear it around.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says as she sits back down. “I can see why that wouldn’t be easy to share. And why you’re having such terrible nightmares about your brother.”

I jerk my head in her direction. “Why?”

“Because you’re worried about him.” She makes a note in her file. “I think I’d like to have a social worker go and check on him. Would that be all right? Your mother doesn’t have to know the visit came about because of you.”

“She won’t hurt him,” I say quickly. “I promise she won’t.” It’s like I’m pleading with her to believe me. “It was just that one time, you know? Because she drank too much.”

“Do you think your brother is better off with your mother than somewhere else?” she asks.

“Yes. Maybe. I . . . I don’t know. Look, I know she wasn’t the best mom, and that growing up, I wished for her to be different in some ways. But she never hurt me. I have to believe he’s okay.”

“I know you do,” she says. “But I think checking on him is a good idea.”

The truth is, I’m afraid my mom will know. She’ll know it’s because of me that they’re checking. And then what?

Suddenly, there are too many scenarios playing out in my head. Did I make things better or worse by telling her the truth about what happened?

Something tells me I’m going to find out.

Lauren and her aunt Erica pulled things together quickly for the fund-raiser. They made flyers and put them all over town. An email chain was initiated, asking for donations to be dropped off early Saturday morning. The weekly news paper agreed to put  something on the front page about the event. And the best part is the city is allowing us to use the big parking lot space in the middle of downtown, where the Saturday Market is held in the summertime. A rental company is donating tables and canopies, so it’ll look super nice and there will be plenty of space for the food.