Sitting in the office of my social worker, I can’t help but smile at him. Mr. Duval is sick of me. Sick of finding homes for me. Sick of me causing issues. Sick of me being a being a level two foster kid. Although this issue has at least bumped me to a level three. Underage sex is already a huge no, god forbid I get paid for it.
My foot taps on the carpet, that despite being colored, still feels clinical. The glass walls on his office leave me as an animal in a cage for all to see. The glass is for his and my safety, but being exposed feels worse than being closed in. I can barely keep my eyes open as I stare straight at his chair. A night spent in jail means a night of no sleep. A morning being picked up from jail by a pissed social worker means no breakfast, which means no coffee, which means I might pass out sitting up.
Mr. Duval walks in. I hear the click of the as it slides into place. His pace slow and measured as he walks to his desk. The sound of locked plastic wheels sliding across stiff carpet assaults my ears. As he sits across and stares at me, I study him. He’s a relatively tall man, around six foot two if I had to guess. His skin is tawny and his hair made up of tight black coils. His eyes a piercing hazel, which mostly appear green. A stark contrast to him that makes it almost impossible not to make eye contact.
Today his outfit consists of a navy suit, ill-fitting and wrinkled. The brand not shown, likely to hide his lack of wealth, despite wearing a suit as an attempt to show it. His tie today is a bright red, same color as things flavored artificial cherry. It contrasts to the rest of him horribly.
“So Raine, any reason you had to resort to the streets instead of calling me? I could have come and picked you up from that home.”
“So I could just leave the little guys to starve? You may still care for me slightly, but those kids’ social workers were tired. You know that as well as I do. Not to mention his youngest was blood, and why would I want him taken away from his dad, and shoved into an overworked system that would just put him in a house that would bruise and batter him?” My voice has a mix of sass and disbelief. Mr. Duval knows why. He knows who he works with. He himself, feels like he is turning into them. Turning into his co-workers who are too tired to protect the kids he''s assigned; too tired to fight for another kid.
He doesn’t give me a response. He instead he looks at his papers. “Do you remember your half brother?” Shock appears across my face. I haven’t spoke his name in years. I knew Mr. Duval knew about him, but I figured he forgot about him, since he found his bio-dad almost immediately after care came and got us. He’s nothing more than a footnote in my file. Or at least he shouldn’t be anything more than that.
I realize I haven’t responded when my shock wears off. “Of course I remember him. I can’t forget my own brother that easily.”
“Well, his parents meet the level three requirements and have recently become Certified Therapeutic Foster Parents.” He pauses, almost like he is waiting for a thank you or round of applause. Of course I give him none, and his face takes on a slight frown. “Your half brother lives with them, and they also have an adoptive kid around your age who has been with them the past 5 years. They are interested in taking you in, and because of your situation, despite the connection, the system is placing you with them.” He pauses before continuing. “The other kids at your old placement helped me gather your things, and no” he puts his hand up as I start to speak, “I cannot tell you if they will remain in that home or if they are being moved. You know better than that.”
He then goes on to explain what being level three will mean for me, and what being level three will mean if I am unable to stay with this placement, it means back to a group home. He sighs at my lack of reactions to his words. I don’t know why he expects me to be jumping for joy. My brother hated me because of our dad, and I hate him for hating me. Besides just because they took in my brother doesn’t mean he is having a good life, or that I will have one.
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I’m in the agencies car. It’s nice. I don’t know much about cars but I know this one is electric. The leather sticks to my thighs so I keep shifting, unpeeling my skin painfully from the seats. Mr. Duval drives with me and my my trash bag of things in the back. Yes, trash bag. Where would I get a suitcase from? Why would a family buy a suitcase for me to move, when I’m only moving because I’m no longer their responsibility. We turn into a nice neighborhood. So nice I don’t think even the nicest of my past placements could have afforded to live here. Around us there are white picket fences and houses with two to three visible floors. Large backyards likely holding pools, and gardens that are so green they are causing droughts in the other neighborhoods.
We pull up in front of a blue three story home. It has a doublewide garage, and a white wood front porch with a hanging bench. The lawn is perfectly mowed and the shrubs are perfectly trimmed. I can see a tree with a treehouse peeking from there backyard. The whole thing makes me feel out of place. Everything so meticulously designed to scream normal when I am not. The garage is open, another sign this neighborhood is not one for me. There is complete relaxation, without fear of being broken into or robbed. The tools and workbench, all expensive, just sitting out for anyone to take. Not to mention the two nice cars in the garage. It all screams the bank account numbers of which I will never see.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
We park on the curb and Mr. Duval is careful to follow the carefully placed footpath as not to trample their grass. I simply do not care to have the same pleasantries. Because of my subtle act of defiance however I end up at the front door first. I stand awkwardly, unsure of myself. The doorbell has a camera and two buttons. I assume one enables a microphone but I see no way to distinguish. Mr. Duval gives me a look as he comes from behind me, and then knocks on the door. I hear some shouts and a muffled sentence before I hear running and the door opens.
In front of me stands who I assume is Laila Mathers, Sunny’s biological mom. Just behind her is Charles Mathers, Sunny’s stepdad. I eye them up carefully. Laila has all the feature’s Sunny has that made it clear he wasn’t my mothers. They share bright blond hair and clear blue eyes. They both have flat thin eyebrows and thick eyelashes. But she also is quite thin. Not the kind of thin that makes someone worry, but the kind where you can see if they flexed their muscles, you would see every single one in full definition. There is a wide smile on her face, which the smile lines show, is a consistent expression of hers.
Mr. Mathers stands behind her. He is surprisingly shorter than I was imagining. He is still taller than his wife, but not by more than half a foot, which is saying something, as she seems to be my height, which is roughly 5′3. He has a slight stubble which I imagine feels like Velcro. His hair is neatly cut, in the exact way you expect a male math teachers to be. Slightly to the side, completely flat. The same cut middle school boys also have. He wears a green and white stripped polo that hugs his dad bad around his waist. His glasses are thick black rectangles which blend into his black hair at the temples.
“Hello Mr. Duval. Hello Raine. We are so glad to have you here.” The cheer in Mrs. Mathers voice sounds genuine, which makes me feel bad for hating how it sounds. She steps aside with her husband to motion for us to enter. Mr. Mathers’ eyes widen at the trash bag I carry over my should and moves to grab it. I instinctually shy away and try to get it away from his reach before realizing myself and gently handing it to him. I know my reaction was big enough for all the adults to have seen it, but they don’t comment on it. Instead Mr. Mathers offers to take the bag to my room and walks off with Mr. Duval.
Mrs. Mathers walks me over to the living room. It looks straight out of a home design magazine with matching furniture sets, and a color scheme that lacks any personality, all shades of beige, white and gray, the stone fireplace being the only real character in the room. The only thing not belonging in an interior design magazine are the two boys on the couch. Although they don’t quite look like boys.
Though I haven’t seen my brother in seven and a half years, it is clear to me which one of them is Sunny. His hair is still golden as ever, although now he appears to be hitting the gym and snorting protein powder. He wears dark wash jeans and a casual dark red tee-shirt. He also wears black socks and slippers, which feels redundant of being inside your own home but I say nothing.
Next to him is someone who seems familiar but I can’t place where from. At least that is until I hear his name as Mrs. Mathers gets both boys attention.
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Mr. Duval walks me up to a house of strangers. After my dad died I was supposed to stay with my aunt and uncle. I wanted to go with my brother but he said I couldn’t which made me sad.
My aunt and uncle didn’t like me very much. The liked flour though. Or that’s what they called it. I think they liked me worse after eating flour.
Mr. Duval says this is a nice house. He says the people here aren’t like my aunt and uncle. He says I can call him if they are. I don’t know if I believe him, but I don’t have many choices.
He knocks on the door and a little boy answers. Well not little. He is bigger than me, but he’s not a grown up so that makes him little. He shuts the door and soon a woman stands in front of it. She has on really long sleeves and pants. She doesn’t have shoes on. Screaming comes from behind the door, but it sounds more like kids playing than kids hurting so I don’t say anything.
Mr. Duval and the lady walk away, leaving me behind. The boy from before approaches me.
“Follow me. I’ll show you the beds.” I give a small nod and follow. We walk past all kinds of things on the floor. Toys scattered along with papers. I think I also see a shot giver. Shots scare me. They hurt.
Once we get to the beds the boy asks me how long I have been in care. I tell him I just got put in. He sighs deeply.
“I’m going to tell you everything you need to know.
1. These parents get paid. They can afford to feed you, so if they don’t, it’s because they are bad.
2. Half of the parents are on drugs. Don’t try to get removed just because of drugs. If they feed and clothe you, and as long as they don’t hit you, you can put up with some smoking.
3. That worker will get tired. They all do. Don’t demand to much or they will get tired before you can get somewhere good.
4. Do not tell them about being sad. It won’t end well. They won’t help your sadness. They will call you crazy and you won’t be able to live in homes anymore
He doesn’t explain where you live if you don’t have a home, but I don’t ask.
5. Don’t aggravate them. Better to do all the chores and be a maid, than to be a punching bag.
6. Let go of your hopes. Your now a leaf in the wind. You’ll be lucky to survive. Almost no one actually becomes more when it’s all over.
Even though he is my age he seems very upset. He seems angry. I’m surprised he is even talking to me. Nonetheless I try to continue talking. I reiterate his rules and show I understand. I ask him a million questions about himself. He gives short answers but he still gives them to me, so I count it as a win. A billion questions later I realize I haven’t asked the most important one.
“What’s your name? Mines Raine.”
“Micah.”
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