by AC Washer
“Almost there,” Deena mumbled as we drove through a street so densely lined with trees that I had a hard time seeing past to the houses behind them. Deena turned onto a long, winding driveway where large, leafy oaks and honeysuckles blocked the house from view until we rounded a curve. At this point, I’d half-expected to see some sort of lodge.
Instead, the white-trimmed, light blue house might have been ripped out of a Southern Living magazine—complete with a white picket fence. My guard went up. It was too perfect. From the fresh-cut grass to the carefully-placed porch flowers, it seemed to promise all of the things I never had. Things like sipping lemonade on the shaded porch or playing catch on the mowed lawn. Maybe even picking vegetables from the side garden with Mom while Grandma made apple pie in the kitchen—feel-good movie stuff like that. I didn’t trust it.
Deena cut the engine and gave me a reassuring smile.
It didn’t work. If anything, it made me more nervous.
For most of the car ride, I’d alternated between worrying about Caleb and trying not to barf. But now, I wished I’d taken a few minutes to figure out what to say when I met my foster mom. Deena had already told Ms. Reid the basics—I was a seventeen-year-old victim of domestic abuse just released from the hospital, and my dad beat my brother into a coma.
Deena might as well have taken a red sharpie and scribbled “major issues” across my forehead.
The driver door closed with a thud. Eight shoe clicks later, Deena stood in front of the porch, waving me forward.
None of this mattered—at least, that’s what I told myself. But every step toward the white front door seemed to matter a lot. Each step led me closer to the unknown and further from Caleb.
As I climbed the porch steps, my feet met solid, unyielding concrete.
Deena crowded me from behind, reaching around to ring the doorbell. She hovered close, bumping into the back of my shoulder. When I shifted to the side, she did too.
Deena didn’t have to corner me. I wasn’t stupid enough to try another escape again—at least, not without keys. And even then, I had too much to lose; Deena’d made it clear I’d run out of chances. Next time I did something “reckless,” I’d make sure I had awesome odds of it working. 70-30, at least.
Ms. Reid opened the door, her smile stretching across her face like a pair of never-worn skinny jeans.
Maybe by this point I was half expecting it, because I barely flinched when I saw the colorless outline that Ms. Reid’s body mostly overlapped. If anything, I was counting my blessings that my drugged-up brain decided to assign her the not-so-freaky hallucination. Her shadow’s pointed ears were obvious only because she’d drawn her hair up into a casual bun.The rest blended into her body, concealed by the dimming afternoon light. What bothered me more than the fact that I was still hallucinating were her glacial blue eyes. Their piercing gaze clashed with the relaxed maxi dress she wore—like she’d put on a costume that didn’t quite match her personality. Ms. Reid’s gaze lingered over my bruises and busted lips, her expression remaining a steady mask of politeness.
“Ms. Reid,” Deena said, reaching over me to shake her hand. “I’m Deena Pritchard. It’s so nice to meet you in person. This” —she waved toward me— “is Kella.”
Ms. Reid nodded at me. “Welcome home. Please, come in.” Ms. Reid’s voice had the slightest lilt to it—something foreign that didn’t quite belong in the apple pie and lemonade house. The disparity made me feel a little better knowing I wouldn’t be the only one failing to live up to the house’s silent expectations of an old-fashioned American family.
As we entered the foyer, some guy bounced down the stairs with yet another humanoid hallucination attached to him—something I told myself would be easy enough to ignore.
He looked to be a little younger than me, with a pale face and black hair. Freckles ran across the bridge of his nose and an over-large mouth twisted into a grin—the kind that made people want to smile back.
I didn’t.
My gaze swerved to Deena, her eyebrows raised just as high as mine were.
I’d asked Deena if there were other kids. “No.” She’d said it as if the idea of another kid around me was appalling. Then she laughed it off, saying she would have killed to have her own room in foster care. No other kids in her space. I was lucky.
“Is this a nephew?” Deena’s smile was a little uncertain.
“No, my foster son,” Ms. Reid said, her tight smile clinging to her lips like spray paint.
“But…wait a second.” Deena set down her purse and flipped through a manila folder. She stopped, releasing a deep breath. “You must be…” She glanced up from the sheet. “Mickey.” Deena frowned, thumbing through a few more papers.
Wow—that was unfortunate. My name was ironic. Warrior. My mom should’ve named me something that meant “does-dumb-things-and-her-brother-almost-dies.” But Mickey… Well, it was hard not feeling bad for a kid whose parents named him after a cartoon mouse.
“Yep, that’s me,” he said, owning it.
I eyed him, his lanky frame at odds with his confident air.
Deena frowned at the paper with his name on it. When she looked up, her eyebrows seemed stuck together. “For some reason…” She glanced down at the paperwork again before looking back at Ms. Reid. “I was thinking you didn’t have other kids here. Kella’s a very” —she paused, searching for the right words— “special placement.”
Special. If that wasn’t eye-roll worthy, I didn’t know what was.
“She’ll require a lot of…” Deena glanced at me, her desire to talk about me behind my back practically rolling off her in waves. “…attention. She tends to act before she thinks—” Deena shot me a meaningful look, and any outrage I had about them talking about me like some sort of rescue animal was immediately tempered with a hefty dose of guilt. I mean, she wasn’t wrong. That was why I was in this mess in the first place.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Deena said. “She’s a good kid. But if you already have another teenager in the house, this might not be the best placement.”
My heart sped up even as I squished down the ache in my chest. Was Deena really going to pull me from this placement? I didn’t quite know what to feel about that. Part of me was relieved, because Ms. Reid seemed like an emotionless robot. But another part was in full panic mode. Where would I go if not here? Was she going to put me in residential after all? I’d rather be with the emotionless robot—there was more freedom.
“You needn’t be concerned,” Ms. Reid said. “Mickey’s a good kid—he might even be a good influence on her. I’m sure we can handle any challenges.”
Deena studied Mickey, her silence wrapping around me, driving me mad. “You know what?” Deena said at last. “Let me step outside for a second while I get a few things confirmed with my supervisor, all right?”
My heart dropped to the floor. No. She was going to put me in residential. After all, it was like she said—no one wanted a teen. At least no one but ice-eyed Ms. Reid.
Deena grabbed the door handle just as Ms. Reid stepped forward and touched her shoulder. Deena’s gaze swung over to hers and got…stuck.
“This is a good placement for Kella,” Ms. Reid said, not blinking once. “A foster brother will be just what she needs.”
Neither side looked away, as if they were in the middle of a face off. I shifted from foot to foot. Watching them stare at each other was getting a little awkward.
Deena finally nodded her head and said, “Well, Kella, it looks like you’ve got a nice place here.” I gaped at her. If I’d learned one thing about Deena, it was that she didn’t do sudden reversals. Not that I was complaining, but…
Deena added, “And having a brother for company’ll be nice, don’t you think?” She turned to smile at me, her eyes watery and over-bright.
I glared at her, not dignifying that last part with a response. A brother wasn’t like a pet fish. You didn’t buy a kid a new one when the old one died—or got hospitaliz
ed.
“Kella?” Mickey held out a hand. “Welcome home.”
There was that word again— home. Mickey’s mouth quirked up into an easy-going smile, but his green eyes bore into mine with an uncomfortable intensity—expectancy, even. I pretended I didn’t see his hand and mumbled a few filler words before turning away.
Deena and Ms. Reid kept talking, but I tuned them out as I examined the house. The stairs stood directly in front of me and to my left was a study. A coat of arms hung over the fireplace, and two mahogany bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound titles flanked either side. A couple powder-blue, gold-studded armchairs faced the fireplace, too prim for comfort.
The unmistakable sound of pills shifting in a bottle jerked my attention back to the conversation in front of me. “Kella can take one of these every eight hours if she’s in pain.”
I squeezed my lids tight for a few seconds. The looney pills. No worries, I wouldn’t need them for much longer. When I opened my eyes again, I peered down the hallway to the right of the stairs. There was a kitchen. With a land line.
I nibbled on my lip. There looked to be a closet around the corner. Maybe the phone cord stretched far enough that I could talk to Caleb in private. Not that I’d get the chance to find out soon, though. From the way Deena was talking, he could be in a coma for weeks—or even months.
When I heard my name, I jerked my head up.
Deena and Ms. Reid were looking at me expectantly.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah?”
“Ms. Reid asked if you would like to unpack your things before dinner.”
“Oh.” What things? The only clothes I had were the ones on my back, and I only had those because I’d kept a change of clothes at my brother’s old apartment for emergencies.
As if answering my unspoken question, Deena held out a backpack I hadn’t noticed before.
“This has some basics,” she said with a small smile. “There’s clothes to change into after you get yourself showered.”
I nodded and took the pack, my arms jerking up since I wasn’t expecting it to be so light.
Now that Deena was leaving, I didn’t want her to go. I stood there, wondering what to say. Or do.
Deena seemed to get how I was feeling. Stepping closer, she rubbed my shoulder with her hand. “Hang in there, girl. You got this.”
I snorted. “No, I don’t. It’s got me.”
“Things won’t be so bad. Just give them time.” Deena turned the door handle.
“Deena?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry. For earlier.”
She shook her head. “Hon, I told you—I get it. Just try to…think before you act next time, okay? You have a great place here.” Her gaze swept the house before landing back on me.
I heard her loud and clear. Don’t screw up.
Deena shut the door behind her.
Ms. Reid’s gaze shifted to me, her skinny-jean smile getting more broken in. “I’ll show you to your room.” I followed her upstairs, my feet sinking into the gray carpet.
“Here’s your bathroom.” She gestured toward a door opened just enough to make out a blue marbled shower curtain with matching blue bath rugs. “And this is your bedroom,” she said, opening the door for me. Inside was a blank canvas. Nothing hung on the white walls. Not a single thing cluttered up the white bed, dresser, or desk. The only colorful item in the room was the blue and yellow patchwork blanket on the bed.
Blue and yellow were my favorite colors.
I took a few steps inside, not quite sure what to say to my foster mom. I’m not crazy, I promise? That’s exactly what a crazy person would say. A lump formed in my throat. I swallowed it down and turned around, rubbing my hands along the sides of my jeans.
“How do you like it?” she asked. “Is the bedspread okay?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded, satisfied. “There’s some paperwork to do.This is an inventory form for everything you brought with you. You can fill this out while you’re unpacking. You don’t have a phone, do you?” she asked as she handed me a paper and pen.
I shook my head. “Broken,” I said as I looked down at the form. I was glad to have something to do other than standing in an empty room, stumbling through what to say to a stranger who now had complete control over my life—unless Deena found my mom, anyway. But that would be a miracle. I’d been trying for years with no luck.
“Dinner will be ready soon. You can come downstairs whenever you’re unpacked and showered.”
I touched my hair, remembering what happened to my last meal. “I’m not that hungry right now,” I said.
“Well, when you are, you know where the kitchen is.” Ms. Reid went to leave but paused at the door. “I don’t think you were paying attention to our earlier conversation, but Ms. Pritchard mentioned you’ve had to miss a week of school in addition to other absences. We feel that beginning school as soon as possible would be best for you.”
She paused, waiting for an answer.
“Okay,” I said, not feeling okay at all. I’d barely gotten here, and now they wanted me to jump into a new life right after getting swept out of the last one. But it was my first fifteen minutes here, so it was probably a good idea to play along—at least while Deena was close enough to turn around, drag me back into the van, and drop me off at the nearest residential facility.
“Your caseworker mentioned that your bag has clothes you can wear to school tomorrow. After you’re dressed, you can meet us downstairs for breakfast at 7:15. You and Mickey will leave for the bus at around 7:30, so that should give you enough time to eat.”
After another pause, Ms. Reid said, “We’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Okay,” I said, waiting until the door closed before sitting down on the plush carpet. I took as deep a breath as I dared and released it in one big whoosh. A large clock above the door ticked, a flat sound that marked the passing seconds.
I didn’t keep track of how long I stayed like that, listening to the clock tick, but filling my mind with the steady beat brought a calm I never got in the hospital. The nurses were always barging in, making notes, replacing IVs, asking about pain. No real door that would stay shut for as long as I wanted. And when I was alone in the hospital, there was no clock ticking—no steady sound I could latch onto so my thoughts wouldn’t wander.
I rolled onto my back, folding my arms folded behind my head so my smelly hair wouldn’t touch the carpet.
Tick tock, tick tock.
The steady rhythm lulled me to sleep, stray thoughts of Caleb sneaking in, swirling around in a muddled mess. But as soon I closed my eyes, my mind cleared with the sharp abruptness of shattering glass, jerking me…awake?
I looked around, but I was no longer in my bedroom. Instead, I seemed to be in a space that was neither light nor dark—kind of a dusk. All around me was emptiness framed by a sort of white fog, making it impossible to see anything beyond the length of a large living room. I squinted my eyes, turning in a slow circle.
I couldn’t be the only one here; dreams didn’t stick you into solitary confinement. Well, at least they never had before. And in any case, I found myself fully expecting someone to be here. Even as I circled around and only saw the haziness around me, that expectation stayed rooted, certain.
Something—someone—moved on the floor, shifting. I jumped back in surprise when I finally noticed the prone figure lying not even five feet in front of me, camouflaged by the haze to where his dark form blended into the floor.
This had to be a dream.
As I edged closer to the person on the floor, anticipation built in me. I knew, knew, it was Caleb—just like I knew I wasn’t alone here. There it was: the shape of his shoulders, the fall of his rough black hair. But he was on the floor, so either he was hurt or…
I swallowed and crouched down, hoping that this wasn’t some messed up dream sequence where he jerked toward me covered in blood. That would suck.
But when I leaned over to peer i
nto his face, it was calm. His chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. Sleeping. The relief unbalanced me, and I fell onto the floor—if you could call the hazy blank grayness a floor. It felt solid enough, anyway.
Scrambling closer to Caleb, I put a hand on his shoulder and hesitated. I shook my head. This was a dream. Me shaking him awake wasn’t going to hurt him.
I found myself only nudging him anyway. And then a little harder. Before long, I brought both of my hands on either side of his shoulders and shook him as hard as I could, which wasn’t very. Shaking someone lying on the floor was surprisingly difficult to do.
I blew my hair out of my face and stood, glaring at him. Maybe if I kicked him in the shoulder.
But even the thought dredged up a large dose of guilt. I ground my teeth in frustration. I needed this. I needed to talk to Caleb even if it was only the dream version of him.
And it was just a dream. The real Caleb wouldn’t feel a thing.
I drew in a breath, steeling myself, but only ended up delivering a wimpy soft kick in the shoulder.
Nothing.
I kicked him again, putting a little more force behind it.
Caleb grunted, but nothing more than that. Well, I’d try it one more time.
Just as I swing my foot back to deliver another, slightly harder kick, his hand snaked out and yanked my other foot out from under me. My breath whooshed out of my lungs as I crashed onto the flat of my back. But my bruised ribs didn’t seize up in agony. Dreams had their perks.
“Ow,” I said.
“Right back at you,” Caleb said, turning toward me with a mock scowl on his face. But he couldn’t hold it for long before he broke out into a grin that filled me with equal parts relief and comfort. I was home.
My brother was pale, grey-eyed, and dark-haired and, in my dream at least, free of the tubes and machines that beeped and blared alarms when absolutely nothing was wrong. But even so, Caleb’s bruise remained, painting his cheekbone with splotches of green and yellow—healing much faster than the dark purple ones covering my face.
“Only you would try waking someone up by kicking them,” he said, nudging me as he sat up.