All the Impossible Things Read online

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  For Donna—who, in so many ways, made this story possible. And for Sophia—who dances our whole family into life.

  Bumblebees are impossible.

  They break the rules of physics. Their tiny wings should not be able to carry their fat little bodies through the air.

  The truth is, a bumblebee’s wings work differently than people realize. For a long time, everyone thought their wings flapped up and down, like a bird’s. But they don’t. Their wings actually flap forward and back, really, really fast. So fast that a bumblebee creates its very own tornado. And that tornado picks up the bumblebee and carries it from one place to the next.

  Which, if you think about it, doesn’t seem impossible at all.

  Chapter

  1

  The wind came from her mother.

  Some moms pass along their freckles or their laugh or their flat feet. Red’s mother shared air currents and chaos. Clouds that twisted between earth and sky like a wet rag being wrung out.

  But Red kept the wind under her skin.

  She had to.

  The more she swallowed down her own storms, however, the angrier the sky above her became.

  Though the day had started clear and crisp, the sky was now dark with rain clouds that churned above the quiet Denver neighborhood. One minute, leaves were crunching under the feet of schoolchildren. Jack-o’-lanterns smiled from porch steps, their faces so freshly carved that their skin was not yet spongy or speckled with mold. The next minute, the air hissed and whistled, and every leaf was sucked up up up, twirling and spinning. Carved pumpkins rolled and bounced and shattered, their pulpy flesh smearing like paint against the sidewalks.

  In a small living room that smelled of air freshener and dirty socks, Red stood, her thoughts as deep and dark and full of holes as the pockets of her coat.

  She did not look at the swollen-faced woman who constantly referred to herself as “The Mom.”

  The Mom said, “It’s not easy being The Mom to three boys, you know.”

  To three boys. But not to Red.

  The Mom looked at Red, then at her own hands. Her fingernails were a bright slash of yellow. Red’s hair tickled her cheeks like tears, but her eyes were dry. Outside, the storm swelled as Red held her breath. No no no.

  The Mom glanced out the window toward the thrashing trees. Her eyes darted back to Red, then to Ms. Anders, Red’s social worker. “It just isn’t a good time to bring a foster child into the family.”

  Red released her breath a little, then pressed her trembling lips together. The wind howled and The Mom flinched.

  Ms. Anders put a hand on Red’s shoulder. “Of course,” she said. Her voice was as taut and charged as an electric wire. “All set, Red?”

  Red nodded. All her belongings fit into an orange backpack that—thanks to The Mom’s three boys—smelled like peanut butter and dog vomit. Still, a smelly backpack was better than the plastic bag she used to carry.

  “We are so sorry about this, like I said before.” The Mom’s eyes were a little too close together, making her whole face look pinched. “It’s The Mom’s responsibility to protect her children. Sometimes things just aren’t a good fit.”

  A familiar ache started between Red’s ribs, but then anger, sharp and slick, snaked through her, burying the hurt. Across the room, the pages of an open magazine lifted, flapped, and fluttered. Red clenched her fists in her pockets.

  No no no. She couldn’t let her wind out, no matter how much it boiled beneath her skin.

  A crash of thunder split the air and The Mom yelped.

  Ms. Anders pursed her black-cherry lips, her fingers tightening on Red’s shoulder ever so slightly. “Come on, Red.”

  Red hiked up her backpack and stepped from the house without looking back. Her caseworker let the screen door slam as she exited. She didn’t acknowledge the gray-green clouds that had bruised the clear blue of the morning sky. Ms. Anders yanked open the rear door of her sedan. The fabric of her skirt was a snapping flag around her knees.

  Red climbed into the familiar car. As always, there was a package of peach gummy candy on the seat for her. Affection for her caseworker flickered in her stomach.

  The Mom opened the screen door, leaned out. “We really did try!”

  Red hugged her knees to her chest, tucking the candy into her coat pocket. Fat, angry raindrops left dark spots on Ms. Anders’s gray blazer as she ran around to the driver’s side. She shook her short, tightly curled hair, and Red could smell powdery hair product under the sharp, cold scent of the wind.

  Ms. Anders pulled out of the driveway and leaned forward to look up through the windshield. The wipers moved frantically against the glass. She clucked her tongue.

  Red pushed away a clump of hair that was stuck to her damp forehead. Her storm still thrummed in her bones, whirled between her ribs and toes and ears, as familiar as her own breath. It wanted out, wanted to join the angry sky. She couldn’t let it.

  “This weather,” Ms. Anders said. “Someone’s gonna get hurt.” She shook her head at the shame of it.

  Red wanted to say, Someone’s already been hurt.

  Instead, she said nothing. She just leaned her head against the window and watched the sky have its say.

  Chapter

  2

  “I have a new family for you.” Ms. Anders spoke above the clatter of rain. “They’re excited to meet you.” She squinted at the sky. “Hopefully this storm peters out before we get farther east. Storms are usually worse east of the city.”

  Red drew slow, deep breaths and counted to ten, like her therapist, Dr. Teddy, had taught her to do. The wind buzzing in her veins slowly quieted as she watched the new-build neighborhoods unravel into business complexes and strip malls and parking garages. The longer they drove, the more the weather cleared. The angry clouds squeezed out their last tears and began to settle into fading swirls of violet and gold as the sun dipped toward the line of mountains along the western horizon behind them. Red ate her peach candies, which were so sweet they turned sour on her tongue.

  “This will be good,” Ms. Anders said.

  Red met her eyes in the rearview mirror, which Ms. Anders always kept cockeyed so she could see the back seat. From the mirror, a small crystal angel dangled on a pink ribbon, bobbing and swaying with the rhythm of the car.

  “The Grooves are very kind people,” Ms. Anders said.

  Red said nothing.

  “You’ll like them.”

  Red said nothing.

  “They’ll be a good fit. You’ll see.”

  A good fit. Impossible. Nobody could be a good fit. Nobody except her mother. Red felt the pulse of the wind in her heart. Three hundred ninety-seven days, she reminded herself. Three hundred ninety-seven days until her mom got out. Three hundred ninety-seven days until Red would be a good fit.

  She could feel her caseworker’s stare, but ignored it. Once, whe
n Red had to be removed from a family in the middle of the night, Ms. Anders had arrived so fast, it was as if she’d been waiting around the corner. Her hair was standing up in jagged peaks, and her shoes were mismatched. The buttons of her shirt weren’t aligned with the holes, making her blouse bunch and gap in the front like crooked teeth. But she was there. She’d held Red’s hand and carried her plastic bag of clothes. That was the first time there had been a package of peach gummies on the back seat of the car.

  That night, Ms. Anders had said quietly but firmly: “You’ve got edges and corners and curves to your soul, Red. We all do. But yours are special. Hear me? It might take some time, but someday, you’re gonna find the folks who fit just right. You’ll see.”

  That was almost three years ago. Red was only nine then, and didn’t yet understand that kids were like shoes. They could be kicked off, left behind, returned when they didn’t quite fit.

  She’d be twelve in five months. She understood a lot more now.

  Something flashed ahead. She blinked. A giant turtle stood by the side of the road. It was almost as tall as a stop sign, and had a grin packed with square white teeth. A black-and-white animal stood on top of its green shell. A … goat?

  Ms. Anders slowed and turned onto a dirt road, giving Red a better view of the enormous reptile and its companion. At the top of the strange pyramid, above the goat’s back, words were painted in big purple letters.

  “Turn here for the Groovy Petting Zoo,” Ms. Anders read aloud, then chuckled.

  Red twisted around in her seat, eyes glued to the sign as they passed, the sound of her caseworker’s laughter stirring something in her she couldn’t quite identify.

  After a few miles, their sedan turned down another dirt road. This one was a driveway and was flanked by a row of skinny trees. Yellowing leaves skittered and danced along the thin, white branches. The end of the tree tunnel framed a two-story house with at least six different colors of paint. To one side, there was a rambling garden. Drooping sunflowers hung their huge, wilting heads against the top of a white fence. Near the gate sat an old bathtub bursting with the bright globes of marigolds. The sun was slinking behind the horizon now, and tongues of pink clouds licked the sky.

  The startling joyfulness of the place made the feeling Red hadn’t been able to identify fizz to life in her chest again. Hope.

  “It’s like something out of a storybook,” Ms. Anders said. She put the car in park and turned around. Her smile made Red’s stomach spin a pirouette. “Like I said, I think they might be a great fit.”

  Red swallowed her tiny bubbles of hope and looked away. A gust of wind peppered the side of the car with dirt.

  The front door opened and a pack of dogs tumbled from the house, careening toward the car in an avalanche. Their tails whipped back and forth, causing their butts to waggle in unison, like synchronized doggie dancers. A man followed the dogs, whistling for them, but they barely glanced at him before returning their attention to the car.

  Ms. Anders climbed out. Red stayed put.

  Over the yelping and snuffling, Red could hear Ms. Anders greet the stranger. He shook her hand with both of his, nearly lifting her off her feet in his enthusiasm. His smile was wide and bright, and he wore a dusty baseball cap that said, I Like Big Mutts.

  Three of the four dogs gathered around the two adults, while one enormous pile of black fur remained at the car, staring eagerly at Red through the window. Its tail moved in a slow, easy wave, and its rosy tongue dangled out of its mouth. There was a black freckle right in the middle of its pink surface. The dog looked friendly. As friendly as a drooling black mass of fur could look, actually. But she wasn’t quite ready to open the door and meet the beast face-to-face.

  Just then, a woman emerged from the fairy-tale house, warm blossoms of pink on her otherwise pale cheeks. She was somehow both normal and remarkable all at once. Her curly hair billowed from her head like the gold and silver clouds of a sunrise. Her eyes paused on Ms. Anders and the man with his mutts, but they were seeking something else, and kept moving until they found it.

  Red’s heart tumbled around in her chest more wildly than the dogs had tumbled toward the car.

  The woman’s eyes were shining directly on her.

  Chapter

  3

  Red held her breath. Only Gamma had ever looked at Red the way the lady with sunrise hair was looking at her. It was a look like, You’re here. Like, I see you there. Like, You aren’t too old or quiet or broken at all.

  Ms. Anders opened Red’s door, and cold evening air rushed up to kiss Red’s cheeks. “Come on, Red. Come meet the Grooves.”

  Red looked away from the sunrise-hair lady and slid out of the car. The giant black dog pressed its nose against her thigh in greeting. The other dogs bounced and jostled and snuffled her. She gently pushed their heads aside. It was like swimming through a river of fur and tongue and drool.

  Ms. Anders ushered Red over to the man. He was tall. So tall that Red was sure he could reach up and pluck stars from the sky if he wanted to. Maybe he’d snatched some clouds at sunrise once and given them to his wife for hair. Red snuck a glance at the woman—Mrs. Groove—as she shook the enormous hand of Mr. Groove.

  “This is Ruby Byrd,” Ms. Anders said, her hands on Red’s shoulders.

  Mr. Groove was beaming. “I can’t tell you how happy we are to have you, Ruby! When Ms. Anders called to see if we wanted to meet you—Down, Frodo! Stop that!—we were just—Brontë! Get down!”

  He shooed two floppy-eared labs away, but the border collie took their place, sniffing Red’s shoes.

  “Honey, could you get these mongrels away?” he asked.

  Mrs. Groove, who had come up alongside him, snapped her fingers once. The dogs, every single one of them, turned to face her and sat down.

  “Porch,” she directed. All of them obeyed, except for the black furbeast. It stayed by Mrs. Groove’s side, tongue lolling as she scratched its dark ears.

  “My,” Ms. Anders said. “They’re well trained!”

  Mr. Groove shook his head and threw up his hands. “They only do that for Celine. I’m the vet, but she’s the boss.”

  His wife was still smiling at Red. It brought a tickling wind to Red’s skin. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Ruby.” Mrs. Groove’s voice was deeper than Red expected.

  “I go by Red.” She clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, struggling against the swell of nervous wind in her chest.

  “Red?” Mr. Groove asked. She could tell what he was thinking: But her hair is brown. “Red. Okay.”

  But Mrs. Groove’s eyes hadn’t left Red’s face. “Welcome,” she said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  The sky was darkening as the sun disappeared behind the distant mountains, and a sudden gust of autumn air pushed against Red, driving her toward Mrs. Groove. She resisted, took a step back. Ms. Anders made a quiet tik with her tongue against her teeth and patted Red between the shoulders. The touch felt like, It’s okay. Like, Remember your manners.

  Red tried. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  The giant black dog whined, its tail wagging and its tongue hanging long and pink from the side of its mouth. Stepping forward again, Red dropped to her knees and lifted her hands to the massive dog’s head. Its hot breath smelled of maple syrup.

  Mrs. Groove crouched so she was at Red’s eye level. “This is Gandalf.” She wiggled the dog’s drooping lips with her fingertip. A line of drool swung back and forth from Gandalf’s jowls like the little crystal angel in Ms. Anders’s car.

  “I wanted to name her Beauty,” Mr. Groove said, kneeling beside them. “As in Black Beauty? But Celine was set on Gandalf, despite the fact she’s not gray or white. And she’s a girl, of course.”

  Mrs. Groove touched her nose to Gandalf’s. “But she’s magic.”

  “So is Hermione. That’s a girl’s name,” Mr. Groove said.

  Celine laughed. “I said she was magic. I never
claimed she was brilliant.”

  At their words, the bubbles of hope sparkled again in Red’s heart. “Hermione, like in Harry Potter?” she whispered.

  Mrs. Groove nodded, just as Ms. Anders cleared her throat.

  “Uh … should we go inside?” Ms. Anders asked. “Get Red settled?”

  “Right!” Mr. Groove clapped his hands once and stood. Gandalf looked up at him, smiling her dog smile.

  Mrs. Groove stood and dusted her knees. “Are you ready?”

  Red stood, too, mimicking Mrs. Groove’s knee-dusting.

  Her caseworker and new foster father started toward the house. Mr. Groove took Red’s backpack with him. Gandalf surprised Red with a slobbery tongue on her cheek before gamboling after them.

  “She sneak-attacks with love,” Mrs. Groove said.

  Red wiped her face and they walked together.

  “You go by Red?” Mrs. Groove asked.

  Red frowned. “It’s what my mom calls me.”

  Mrs. Groove paused on the top porch step. “I see. Red, it is. You can call me Celine.”

  A lot of foster parents wanted Red to call them Mr. or Ms. Whatever. Some even wanted a combination of Mom or Dad with their first name. Mom Judy. Dad Frank. Red hated it. None of them were her mom.

  They never would be.

  Still, she’d never been invited to call a foster parent by their first name alone. She bit her lip, sneaking a look at her newest foster mother.

  Celine smiled and held the front door open. “Welcome home.”

  Chapter

  4

  The inside of the house was just as bright and mismatched as the outside. Mr. Groove—“Call me Jackson, kiddo,” he said—led them into a crowded but comfortable living room. The walls had ornate wallpaper covered in gold birds hanging from tangled branches. A sagging denim couch was framed by a leather recliner and an antique rocking chair. Two differently patterned rugs splashed across the hardwood floor, each accented with clumps of dog hair. There were plants on shelves and tabletops, pillows embroidered with inspirational quotes, and stacks of magazines and books overflowing the bookcases. A pile of firewood next to the hearth filled the room with the sweetness of pine.