The Night The Moon Hid

 

BACKSTORY: This piece was a bit difficult to write. Care for a backstory? My two younger brothers and I were taken from our mom due to her addiction and were placed in foster care with a white family until we were ALL later adopted. Beautiful, right? They took all 3 of us in. Anywho, the foster home was cool. I had my own room, and they had an infinite number of toys in the basement toy room. Crazy how I honestly can’t remember everything I did last night (thanks, slow ass thyroid), but I remember this particular night like it happened 5 minutes ago. I had on a pink long-sleeve night gown. It was chilly outside. I believe it was the end of summer or the beginning of fall.

We were all in the living room watching TV. Foster dad had fallen asleep, and their son’s friend held my hand and led me to the bathroom. The rest is…well, just read the story.

Because even the moon knew better than to participate. 

She was a measly 6.

Snaggle-toothed and still losing teeth. Still believing God was a princess and the Tooth Fairy was a bum ‘cause he’d take her teeth and leave quarters.

But that year, she learned something new:

Monsters don’t live under your bed or hide in the closet. They’re tall, musty, lived in the room next door, and asked if you want candy first.

Jersey had just gotten “picked.”

That’s what they called it. Like she was a couch or the newest video game. Or a fast food order.

New temporary home.

New room.

New rules, like:

• “Stay in the basement and play until we call you upstairs.”

• “You’re getting your hair cut like your brothers so it’s easier to deal with.”

• “Don’t scream unless you want to get kicked out and go back to CPS.”

Her foster mom was the kind of woman who was quiet and let her husband do what he wanted. She had a “Blessed & Stressed” mentality, and maybe having foster kids helped her manage her sanity. Maybe she had a good heart, but she wasn’t aware...enough.

Her foster brother was sixteen-ish.

A quiet rebel.

No readable face. It hid behind the inflammation and acne scars.

His best friend?

Fake nice. The kind of boy who said please and thank you, and fell for little black girls. He laughed at things that weren’t funny, and visited more than what was natural.

One night, they played a game.

It started with a bag of lollipops and ended with a silence that felt like concrete.

Jersey didn’t understand all the rules, but she was excited to pick her favorite flavor.

The game was played in the bathroom, at night. When her foster dad was passed out drunk in his lounge chair. TV on an 80s sitcom. Everyone else was asleep.

Her foster brother kept watch outside the door. The best friend sat on the toilet.

“We’re going to have fun.” She was nervous, until he pulled out a bag of lollipops and smiled.

The moon peeked through the window curtain. It illuminated her brown eyes and bronzed skin, then hid behind the clouds.

She smiled and reached for the grape one. He handed her butterscotch instead. Because apparently, trauma tastes like grandmas and bad decisions.

He let her taste it while he removed his clothing.

“Is it good?” She nods, smiling.

Her foster brother whispers through he door. “Man, hurry up.”

He took the lollipop from her. Gave himself some “extra flavor.” “See, now it’ll taste the same, right?”

She nods. He brings her in closer, and plays tag with the lollipop.

It doesn’t take long. “Sweet kisses from a sweet little girl.” He gets dressed and leaves. Her foster brother comes in.

“Here’s your favorite blanky. Lay down.” This part of the game wasn’t as fun.

Afterward, he cleaned up like it was a crime scene.

Quietly. Neatly. Unsuspecting.

They were very considerate predators.

He handed her her blanket, patted her head, and said, “Night night.”

Like it was bedtime. Well, it was but…

Like everything was just fine.

Like her body wasn’t hosting a brewing storm too big to name.

She slept in the basement that night. Stared at the butterfly stickers that were stuck on the wall like cheap promises. Maybe another little girl lived there before her. Maybe she put up the pretty stickers.

She wondered if that little girl also got “picked” to play their game.

Probably so.

The moon peeked through the small basement window. Peeking as if it might report what it saw.

It changed its mind and slipped behind the clouds like a guilty pastor at a strip club.

The second half of the game wasn’t fun. It hurt. Jersey didn’t cry.

She was strong. Besides, crying was for those who had witnesses.

She stared at the ceiling and made a wish.

Not for hugs. But for saving.

She wished for release.

Filled with rage.

The kind that flips tables. The kid that writes books.

The kind that stands in a crowded room and says, “Actually, God was there. And He’s mad, too. So why didn’t he do anything?”

And in her little girl whisper, she prayed: “Tonight, the monsters won.”

Jersey took notes in her heart. Notes for a test she would fail for years to come. A test that would cripple her faith year after year while it planted seeds of rejection, fear, and abandonment.

One day, she’d tell the story.

Not for pity. Not for clout.

But for the other little black girls out there.

Girls with butterfly stickers stuck on their walls. With silent rage in their hearts, silent screams in their throats.

And this time, the moon will watch and not hide.

And this time, it will illuminate the truth, and someone would believe her.

This time, she’ll be saved.