My guilt is still driving my actions. We are standing by the tramp, and Trevor is reading the back blurb on the DVD case, as if he hasn’t rented and watched it a million times.
“It’s Monday, remember?”
Trevor has a mysterious Monday commitment every week and refuses to tell me what it is. In the beginning, it was a problem because my previous experience with secrets withheld by boyfriends usually ended up in my being hurt. But now I know that whatever it is, it’s completely innocent, because that’s how Trevor works.
“Oh yeah. I forgot how much I hated Mondays.”
“When does it have to be back? We could do it tomorrow night.”
“It doesn’t have to be back. I bought it for you.”
“You did?” He smiles like a kid on Christmas who got a Red Ryder, then gives me a thank-you kiss, which is worth at least ten DVDs.
“I knew you loved me,” he says teasingly, then turns and jumps up on the tramp before I can say anything. He does an effortless back flip.
“Show-off,” I mutter, and he laughs.
“Come try it,” he says, pulling me up on the trampoline, setting the DVD on the padding along the edge.
“No way. I’ll probably land on my head and break my neck.”
“No you won’t. I won’t let you. I’ll spot you.”
Because I’m still riddled with guilt, I agree.
“Just get jumping really high, nice and smooth,” he coaches. “When you’re ready, just push backward, arms overhead, and I’ll help you.”
“Okay, but if I die, it’s on your head,” I grumble.
Trevor just laughs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. On my upward jump, I lean back, feeling his hands on my back and my belly, pushing my feet overhead, and then suddenly I’m landing on my feet. My eyes fly open in surprise, and I laugh. Trevor just grins at me.
“See, I told you that you could do it. Wanna try again?”
“No.” I drop to my butt. “Don’t want to tempt the fates.”
He drops next to me just as Todd comes rushing out the back door, followed closely by Carol.
“Sorry,” she says. “He saw your flip, and I couldn’t keep him inside.”
“That’s okay,” Trevor and I call at the same time, looking at each other and laughing. Carol just waves and goes back inside. Todd scrambles up onto the tramp and bowls me over with a laughing hug.
“Jen-Jen, awesome,” he cries.
“Okay, Todd,” Trevor says, pulling him off me and back against his own chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his brother. “We don’t want to squish Jen, do we, bro?”
“Can I ask her?” Todd is excited.
“Ask me what?” I say suspiciously, eyeing Trevor who still holds his brother in his arms.
“It’s Todd’s idea. He’s been waiting to ask you, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay.”
“Don’t want to what?” I ask.
Todd looks at Trevor over his shoulder, waiting for permission. Trevor sighs.
“Go ahead and ask, Todd.”
“Do you want to come bowl with us?” Todd is vibrating with anticipation.
“Bowl? As in, bowling?”
“It’s okay,” Trevor reassures me. “I told Todd you’re not exactly fond of—”
“I’d love to come. When?” I cut him off, and his brows shoot up in astonishment.
“Monday. We always bowl on Mondays,” Todd tells me, as if I should have known this.
“So, that’s what you do on your mysterious Mondays?”
“Not so mysterious. Just, you know, what we do.” Trevor shrugs. “We bowl on two different leagues, actually.”
“Leagues?” I scoff.
Trevor smiles with chagrin, though Todd is nodding happily, wrapped in his brothers arms.
“It keeps him active,” Trevor explains.
I look at him, trying to figure him out. “You were afraid I’d make fun of you—that’s why you didn’t tell me.”
He smiles. “Well, you kind of just did.”
Now it’s my turn to be chagrined.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. But if you’re on a league, how can I . . . ?”
“We just finished with our last league a couple of weeks ago. We have a couple more weeks till we start again, so this is just practice.”
“Practice makes perfect,” Todd intones, obviously parroting a phrase he’s been told.
“That’s right.” Trevor gives him a squeeze.
“Want to see my trick?” Todd asks me.
“Yes, I do,” I say, cutting Trevor off before he can say no for me as he started to.
Trevor and I scoot over to the edge on the padded area, and Trevor glances at me, as if to say I don’t need to do this.
“You’re a really good brother,” I tell him, kissing him lightly.
“Yucky! No kisses,” Todd says, bounce-stepping over to pull us apart. “Watch me!”
Trevor grins apologetically, and I smile back, wondering how quickly I can bring him down to my level so that I can really belong to him.
⊕⊗⊕
We walk into the bowling alley, the same one we’d been to together before, Bowling Haven. Everyone here seems to know them, saying hello and getting hugs from Todd.
Trevor and Todd actually have a locker that they rent for their bowling balls. Trevor gets me some shoes while I try to find the least disgusting house ball that I can. Without the distraction of my fosters and being glared at by Trevor’s mom and the cheerleader, I’m able to watch Trevor and Todd interact together. Whether Todd gets a strike or a gutter ball, he gets the same cheering and high-five from Trevor, and now from me since I’m on their team, as Todd says. He comes over, hand raised with every throw.
I would never admit it to anyone, even under torture, but I’m having fun. I admire the way Trevor is with his brother, younger in age but older in every other way.
I wish I had an older brother like Trevor. Maybe then I wouldn’t be where I am, wouldn’t need to bring Trevor down to my level because maybe I would be at his.
15. The Money Is Mine
It has been brought to my attention that this room doesn’t particularly suit you.”
I’m sitting in my room, looking at yet another picture that has been added to the mirror frame. This one is also from the camping trip, only it’s me standing next to Sue, peeling potatoes, with the biker-chick look going, and looking oddly happy. I didn’t think I ever looked happy.
“Are you doing this?” I turn to look at Sue.
“Doing what?” Her response is too casual to be forced, and she doesn’t even glance at the pictures. I decide it’s probably not her putting them up.
“Never mind. What were you saying?”
She sits on the edge of my bed and runs a hand across the white, frilly bedspread, almost longingly. Kind of strange, I think.
“I decorated this room to look how I’d always wanted my room to look when I was a girl. I suppose it never occurred to me that whoever lived here might want to decorate it in her own style.” She looks at me. “It really doesn’t suit you at all, does it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, a little confused at this strange conversation.
“Of course it matters. This is your home. This is your room. It should be a place that is welcoming to you, a place that’s yours, filled with your own belongings.”
“Well,” I say, trying to ignore more of those stupid warm fuzzies that try to surface at her words, “you probably didn’t expect someone like me to turn up on your doorstep.”
“No, I guess I didn’t,” she admits, and I’m still trying to decide if her words should offend me when she adds, “but I’m sure glad you did.”
I’m completely stunned by her words because she sounds so genuine.
“What if it had been a boy who’d come here?”
“It would probably have been as uncomfortable for him in here as it has been for you.”
I laugh but look around the room.
“It�
�s not so bad,” I tell her.
“But not so good either.” She smiles at me. “Don’t you have things of your own that you’d like to have up in here? I don’t know, posters or pictures or something?”
“I don’t have too much,” I admit. “When you move around as much as I do, you learn to travel light.”
A pained look crosses her face at my words, and she reaches across the empty space to place her hand over mine.
“Then it’s time to start accumulating. This weekend I want to take you shopping, let you pick out some things to put in here to make it your own.”
I scrutinize her, wondering what game she’s playing. I’ve learned that nothing is free; everything has a cost. What is her cost though?
“What if I don’t stay here much longer?” I ask.
She blinks at this, looking a little hurt.
“You don’t like it here?”
I sigh and roll my eyes.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. But . . . you know, a foster family isn’t a real family. It’s not permanent. I’ll be eighteen in a few months. I guess the state will keep paying you as long as I’m still in high school, but graduation is less than a year away. If, you know . . . if you wanted to keep me that long, anyway.”
She cocks her head and studies me silently. This makes me uncomfortable, and I squirm a little.
“Do you think we took you in for the money?”
“Well, what else is there? I mean, it’s not like you knew me, right?”
“No, we didn’t. But it was never about money. It was about giving someone a home and family.”
Ah, of course. The do-good side of it all.
“I want to show you something,” she says suddenly, standing up. “Come with me.”
She doesn’t wait but walks out of my room. I’m a little hesitant after the weird exchange we’ve just had, but curiosity gets the better of me, so I follow her.
She goes down the stairs and into the den. I’ve never really been in this room, other than poking my head in once out of curiosity. It seems like a pretty boring place to be, nothing for me here, so I’ve never had reason to wander in.
Sue walks over to the desk and pulls open a drawer. She pulls out a little blue book and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask, looking at it as if it might be poisonous.
“Open it,” she says, crossing her arms and watching me.
I open the cover, and on the first page printed in neat block letters is
jennifer’s savings.
I look at Sue, and she makes a motion with her fingers to tell me to keep going. I turn to the next page and see what looks like a checkbook register, with dates and numbers, tallying up at the bottom of the page.
“I don’t get it.” I hold the thing toward her, waiting for an explanation.
“We should have told you about this before, I suppose. We wanted it to be a graduation gift. Each month we do receive a check from the state, and it gets deposited directly into this account. As well as money we ourselves put into it each month.”
I stare at her blankly.
“It’s yours,” she says.
I pull the book back toward me and flip through some more of the pages. The sum continues to grow on each page, and my pulse picks up the pace a little. There has to be a heavy price for this, but I just can’t figure out what it is.
“Why? What do you want from me?” My voice comes out slightly strangled sounding.
“Sweetie, we don’t want anything. The money is yours. You can do anything with it you want. We’ve always had savings accounts for our kids for when they go to college. Of course, we’ll pay for your college tuition and books, same as we did for Jeff and Tamara.”
I raise a brow at the thought of me going to college but decide to skip that conversation just now. I hug the book to my chest as if Sue will suddenly snatch it away.
“It’s mine?” I ask skeptically.
“Yes.”
“I could go to the bank right now and take all of the money out?”
“Yes, of course. Look.” She holds out her hand, and reluctantly I hand it to her. She opens it to the first page again and points.
jennifer jones or sue grant
“That means that money can be deposited or withdrawn by either of us,” she explains, handing it back to me. “So, yes, you can go take it out, all of it. Today, if you wanted. The account number is listed right there.”
“I could put this book in my room, then tomorrow go to the bank and take it all?” I question her again, still sure that there has to be a catch.
“Sure. If you want to keep the book, it’s yours. I’ll just let you know each time I make a deposit and you can keep track of it yourself.”
“Why would you do this?”
“Because we think of you as our daughter now.”
Her statement is simple, to the point—it cuts me to the core.
“I have a mom,” I say defiantly. A flash of pain crosses her eyes.
“I know that. I’m not trying to replace her.”
“But you’re giving me all of this money, and you want me to change my room.” I hear the suspicion in my voice, but I can’t help it.
Sue heaves a sigh, and it’s the same sound I’ve heard other mothers make when they’re dealing with their own teens, exasperated but not angry.
“There are no strings here, Jen. No one is trying to . . . I don’t know, hurt you or make a fool of you, or whatever it is that you suspect. We’re just trying to be—”
“Nice?” My word slices into her, full of derision. She doesn’t say anything, just watches me. I suddenly feel overwhelmed, and I turn from her steady gaze and flee back to the frilly room that has never really bothered me before. Now it feels alien, strange.
I slam the door and collapse on the bed.
I open the little book again, looking at the final tally, which is more money than I’ve ever even seen in my life. Of course, I think, if I can go to the bank at any time and withdraw all of the money, then so can she. After my strange little performance she’s probably already regretting having told me and is deciding I’m not really worth it after all. I decide there’s no time like the present to test her words.
I jump back off the bed and race down the stairs, grateful to see that she’s still here. She calls my name as I run past her and out the front door. She has the advantage of a car, so I have to be quick.
The bank isn’t very far from the house. Nervously, I walk up to the counter and shove the book across to the teller, who looks at me oddly.
“I want to withdraw this money,” I tell her, trying to sound convincing but mostly sounding nervous.
“Do you have your ID?” she asks, bored.
I pull my rarely used driver’s license out, and she looks at it carefully, glancing up at me as if to see that my face and the face on the license are one and the same, comparing the name on it to my name in the book.
“How much do you want?”
“All of it.”
She looks at me more closely, the narrowing of her eyes very minute—I probably would have missed it if I hadn’t seen the same expression on so many other faces throughout my life.
“Did you want to close the account then?”
“Uh, no.” I don’t think I want to close it, not sure I even have that authority.
“There’s a twenty-five dollar minimum that needs to be kept in the account to keep it open,” she says, and I can practically hear her roll her eyes.
“Okay, that’s fine,” I try not to feel like the thief that I’m sure I am. Sue said it was mine.
“How do you want it?” the teller asks.
I’m not sure what she means, so I shrug. She sighs and begins counting the money out, laying it across the counter as she goes so I can see that she isn’t ripping me off. Then she slides it into a big stack and places it in an envelope.
“Thanks,” I say uncertainly. This has been too easy. Something isn’t right.
> “Have a nice day,” she intones.
As I walk out of the bank, I eye the security guard warily, certain that he’s going to tackle me and force me to give the money back. He doesn’t even look my way, and suddenly I’m out in the open, with an envelope stuffed full of more money than I could have ever imagined in my hands.
I return home, sneaking up to my room. I bury the envelope in my sock drawer, quietly closing it as if someone might hear and come storming in to steal it away. Then I realize that’s the first place they will look, and I quickly retrieve it.
I open my closet and pull out my little box. This is where I keep everything that’s important to me—it’s the one thing I do take from house to house. I place the envelope in the box and then shove it back into the closet, burying it beneath a pile of dirty clothes. I hope no one gets curious enough to search it. With a guilty heart, I climb under my covers.
16. A Thief Confesses
What’s with you this week?” Trevor asks. We’re in my room, me lying across the bed and Trevor sitting on the floor near me.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been kind of . . . snippy,” he says.
“Snippy?” I mock. “What are you, my grandma?”
“See what I mean?” He looks up at me. “Is something wrong?”
I glance guiltily at my closet. Neither Sue nor Pat has said anything about the pilfered money. Tomorrow I’m supposed to go shopping with Sue to “remodel” my room, as she says. I wonder if that is when she’ll bring the money up, telling me to pay for the purchases myself.
“Okay, I’m going to let you in on a secret,” I tell him. “But only because I feel really guilty, and if I don’t tell someone, I’m going to explode.”
I pull the box from my closet and open it. I can see Trevor glance curiously at the contents, but in his ever-polite way, he doesn’t ask. He just waits. I pull the envelope out and hand it to him, dropping down to the floor next to him. When he looks inside, his eyes go so wide I worry that they might pop out of his head.
“That’s a lot of money,” he says, just in case I didn’t already know. Then he looks at me suspiciously. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s mine,” I tell him defiantly. Typically trusting, he relaxes.
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