I AM taller than I am. Taller than I can remember—I know that—but I am in that room with them.

“How stupid are you?” asks April. All her life her voice has had a deeper tone. It is smooth and sharp and the easiest to hear through seven feet of dirt, the base of the house, and oak hardwood floors.

“You’re fourteen.” Well, I imagine dark oak floors, but I know for sure the walls are the yellow of the leaves of quaking aspen. “You are fourteen,” she repeats furiously.

No matter how low I am, their voices are like a shot of espresso. Though my eyes hang heavily and my brain flirts with the idea of slumber, I cannot sleep again.

Kayla doesn’t answer her mother. I can hear she hasn’t moved, not even a twitch. She understands when to let her mother express. She understands. I understand, of course, that this moment was coming because I know how to be a good friend. I listen.

“I wanna,” Kayla whispers. “I wanna keep it.” Unlike her mother, she has no bass to her voice, but I have good ears.

Good enough ears to feel and see and smell and taste. I am in the room with them and—

CLAP.

It is hollow and rough. My heart carries a beat to my head. I want to move. April has never hit Kayla before. April doesn’t want to be anything like her mother. And that is when the footsteps started.

“I’m sorry,” April says. Just like me, Kayla is a stomper no matter her mood. As she moves swiftly from the couch and into the hall, her steps lighten up. She shut her bedroom door gently and locks it.

Kayla, I want to say, come out and talk to us. You are not in trouble. I can hear the pressure of her hand against her nose as she gathers her sniffles—it sounded like ripping paper. April is still in the living room and her leg bounces rapidly. Wind flows in and out of her. It’s alright, I’d say, she’ll be such a good mom. But April needs more convincing, the little people always do.

April’s mom was the first of her family to roar me awake. She was the loudest woman I have ever heard, and I loved her for it.

April makes her way to her daughter's door.

“You wanna be grown?” She rattles with anger and her stance is firm. April makes the doorknob sound loose, makes it rattle, as she demands Kayla to let her in. It reminds me of the anger I once had. When the little people convinced me I was dangerous; when they convinced me to sleep quietly so they could build this town over my body. They knew I was kind. They knew how much I loved to wake up looking up at the sky through the yellow of quaking aspen leaves.

“You think you're grown? Kayla, answer me.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she bit.

C’mon April, she sounds just like you. You know that right? April always talks about the calluses on her hands from working in the factory. Being a single mother is not easy. So, I imagine inviting her to slip her thick-skinned hand into mine.

“Kayla, I don’t want you to get hurt. I just—”

“You slapped me.”

This house was the last house built by the little people. It was a reward for staying down and a punishment for waking up. I don’t know how they knew. I was quiet and still and let pavements be paved and houses be homed. I don’t know how I knew, but it was no longer my choice to stay down. This house was the last construction and they built it right over my ear. I do not sleep consistently; now I understand why little people are who they become and sometimes I sleep for years because I understand. I belong to this family because I know them like no one else.

“I’m sorry— but, Kay, how are you going to have a baby? You're fourteen.” April's thumbs caress her own arms back and forth and it’s the closest sound to waves— I think.

You’ll help.

“I’ll learn.”

“Let me in and tell me everything. Now.”

That “now” had support beams underneath it holding up a home. I know she isn't here, but it sounds just like April’s mother. “Now,” she would bellow, and April used to step up so carefully to her. Constantly, I confuse them. April knew as a daughter how to step into the role of a mother. She knew how to stay down for her and let her get everything out. She was kind that way and so is Kayla.

Kayla lets her in, and they sit on the bed. April asks questions about the father and learns their one-year anniversary is this Saturday. I don’t know this boy and neither does April. Kayla spoke of another person: a version of herself that exists outside of this house. A person I don’t know, that I will never know if she won’t come home. This boy is two years older. His name is Henry and he’s on the soccer team. They were “like best friends before they dated,” and they only had sex once. It was his first time too.

“He loves me more than anyone,” she says.

I hurry, we love you more—

“I love you more than anyone,” says April. “I'm your mother.”

And no— Kayla didn’t tell him yet. She doesn’t know how. She doesn’t want to bring him here. Why don’t you want to bring him here? Here is your home. How will he know you if he doesn’t know your home?

I remember when April fell in love like this. She brought that boy home all the time, the one who made her promises. They were sweet together. I knew everything about how they worked so I knew that they were right for each other. I was there. I was there in that room with them. Laughing at each other's jokes, playing Game Boy, and talking until 2 am. April said things she had never said to anyone but us. She trusted him. And she trusted us. I think she was fourteen then too.

Why don’t you want to bring him here? Kayla’s room has to be the most beautiful in the house. It is, after all, her favorite place. She’s in there most of the time. I imagine the ceiling is painted a deep dark blue with luminous twinkling stars spread across. Henry would fall in love and want to stay. This house is hers as much as it is her mother's.

“You can't have this baby,” April says. She cracks her knuckles nervously. “You don’t know how he’ll react. People change. It won’t be the same for you as it will be for him. You have to carry it. Not just the baby, but everything else that comes with being a young mom. He can just walk away and get to be himself. You have to know that, Kayla. It's not easy for people like us.”

“I’ll leave then.”

“What?” What?

Kayla bounces off the bed, walks to her closet door, and picks something up. I hear her shuffle into her coat and put her boots on.

“Kay, where are you going?” The anger in April’s voice left a long time ago. She speaks gently and tip-toes after her daughter. But, she needs to run. She needs to do more. More than her mother who watched her from the window. Do not watch Kayla from the window, please, please, please.

They are outside now, and the snow muffles everything.

“I’m leaving— you think I’ll be a bad— I'll be a better mom than you!”

No, no, no. Come back. They move farther away.

“Kay— whatever— you— MY DAUGHTER!”

I try to keep my heart steady. I try to keep my eyes closed as they leave me. I want to tense up, I want to grind my teeth, and I want to cry after them. All I can do is find a memory to live in.

I hear a young April giggling.

“I do think you’re pretty,” he said.

“You think a lot of things, don’t you?”

The two laugh.

“Honest.”

And then they were quiet.

There were a million-and-two pictures I could paint with their silence. That silence was so right then, it was calm and comforting. There was energy and stars, a sky full of stars. Now, oak and quaking aspen trees surround me. This silence carries my body into a dream where I dance, and my voice hums. I can move freely and find a family watching. Someone as tall as me who look like sisters: Kayla and April. It’s you. “It’s us, we see you,” they’d say. That silence was joy and freedom and I want it back. I’m so tired, but it has to be okay again.

April was fourteen once. She was a daughter once. And she was pushed away from home, from me. It isn't fair. She should understand that to be protected isn't to be hidden. I hear the crunching of snow fade in. Four feet. The girls sit on the couch.

“You don’t let me do anything,” Kayla whispers.

April sniffles.

“You don’t let me go to the mall, or hang out with my friends, you're so afraid of me turning out like you and I did.”

“I’m trying to make you into a—”

“I am a good person, I’m my own person, Ma. I’m not you. You have all these expectations for me. I just want someone to be there for me.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I love you more than anything.”

“So, help me!”

I am taller than I am, I know that, but I am in that room with them. I see Kayla with her orange, like sunsets, eyes and salmon pink braids. Her skin is midnight blue, and her freckles are like mine or that of a snake lily. I see April with the lily of the valley hanging where ears should be and hair so long because they are leaves of a willow tree. I assume she ties it up because I never hear it drag behind her. They are the most beautiful people to know, and I hope they feel me grabbing, squeezing, their hands. We’ll figure it out together. I promise we’re a family.

“When I was your age, I didn't know how to please my mom. She was vicious when she needed to be, and she kicked me out. I was so happy, but I missed her ‘cause she was all I had ever known. It was so complicated, but I didn’t know how to be a daughter. Frankly, she didn’t know how to be a mother. I didn’t want to make you feel that way and somehow, I did,” says April. ”You trying to run away with a boy who doesn’t even know you're coming is really crazy. But I pushed you there, huh?”

“I’m scared,” Kayla says.

“Me too, but we’ll figure it out. I don’t want you to question if I am on your side because I am, Kay. No. Matter. What.”

They thumped together and the silence fell like snow. And there I slept.