by Cassia Leo
He grabs the handle of my backpack and nods toward the stairs. “I’m Chris. I’ll take you to your room.”
I follow him up the stairs and down a hallway to the last door, which stands open, waiting for me. The house smells like a mixture of lavender and cupcakes. It’s kind of comforting, but I don’t want to get too comfortable here. Chris sets my backpack down on the floor in a plain bedroom with a teddy bear wallpaper border. I’m accustomed to sleeping in bedrooms decorated like a toddler’s playroom, so this is nothing new.
“My mom wouldn’t let me take that stupid border down,” he says, lifting his chin toward the ceiling as he digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He’s apologizing to me over a wallpaper border? Great. I can already tell this guy is going to get too friendly with me.
As he looks up at the wallpaper, I see a thin nose ring dangling from his septum.
“I don’t care about the wallpaper. I just want to go to sleep.”
His lip quirks up in confusion. “It’s three o’clock.”
“I haven’t slept. I got kicked out last night and I spent the night at the police station. I refuse to sleep in the presence of strangers.” It was no surprise to me when the cops took me back to the Walkers’ house and they didn’t want anything to do with me.
“Afraid someone will shank you in your sleep?” He smiles, so amused with himself, and I notice another piercing in his tongue. This guy thinks he’s so fucking cool.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I declare, crossing my arms over my chest—not that there’s much to hide.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I see the way you’re looking at me.”
“Yeah, all right. I guess I’ll let you sleep and maybe when you wake up you’ll chill the fuck out and realize that just because someone’s nice to you it doesn’t mean they want to fuck you.”
My eyes widen at these words. I want to tell him to get the fuck out, but I’m dumbfounded.
He sees my shock and his face softens. “Or you can come downstairs and hang out and maybe I’ll play you a song.”
Chapter Four
Chris
Forever Practicing
She doesn’t saying anything, but I can see that she’s interested. She’s probably never had anyone offer to play a song for her. Something about her is strange. As I step aside for her to leave the room ahead of me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere. Maybe we went to the same school at some point.
“Do you go to ADHS?” I ask as she descends the stairs.
“I went there for a couple months last year until I got moved to a home in Durham.”
Her voice sounds a little scratchy, like she’s been screaming at a concert or sporting event all day long. She’s probably just thirsty, or hungry judging by the way her T-shirt and jeans hang loosely.
“You want something to drink. We’ve got orange juice, Capri-Sun, milk, and water. And coffee, if you’re into that.” She steps down into the foyer and Tristan is back with a six-pack of Bud Light. “Put that away. My mom’s outside.”
“Fuck,” he whispers, tucking the six-pack behind one of the throw pillows on the blue sofa. “Who’s this?”
“Hey, everyone, this is Claire.” I look to her and she looks so uncomfortable. She’s looking everywhere but at my friends. “We should probably finish up tomorrow. My mom will be here in a minute.”
“Are you kicking us out?” Tristan says, the left side of his mouth turning up. He probably thinks I’m telling them to leave so I can try to hook up with Claire.
“Yeah, get the fuck out. We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow. But Rachel will be here, so don’t get any ideas.”
Tristan rolls his eyes and I lead Claire into the kitchen while they pack up their shit.
“You can grab anything you want. There’s nothing off limits.” She stands next to the breakfast bar staring at the fruit bowl on the counter. “My mom will probably ask you to make a list of stuff you need from the store; food, shampoo, all that girl stuff.”
She looks almost as surprised as she did when I told her I didn’t want to get in her panties.
“Anything I want?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don’t think you can put ponies on layaway at Walmart, but I’m sure she’d try if you put that on your list.” This gets a faint smile out of her. “My mom will be in here soon and she’ll probably want to cook something for you.”
Something about this makes her hang her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Look, no offense, but you look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“No offense?” She looks up at me. “Telling someone they look like they’re starving probably doesn’t sound that offensive, but it is.”
“Sorry. I just…. Well, you don’t have to eat, but my mom makes dinner every day whether you want to eat it or not.”
“Just a typical American family, huh?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what that means.” I open up the refrigerator and reach into the box of Capri-Sun to pull out a pouch for her. Shit. It’s the last one. “Here.” I place the drink on the breakfast bar in front of her. “We can hang out in the living room while my mom cooks. Unless you want to go to bed.”
“I thought you were going to play your guitar or something.”
I smile even though she looks dead serious. “Yeah, we’ll wait until these assholes leave.”
Jake is waiting just inside the front door as Tristan and Freddy haul their equipment across the living room. “See you later, man,” Jake says with a nod. “I’ll give Rachel that sheet music.”
“And the notes,” I reply and he nods. “See you tomorrow.”
“Peace out,” Freddy says and I nod at him and Tristan as they all leave.
I grab my guitar off the carpet and nod toward the sofa. “You can sit down. My mom will be in here soon.” I feel the need to keep reminding her of this so she doesn’t think I’m going to try anything. As much as my friends suggest this to me, I’m sure she’s encountered enough creeps in the foster homes she’s been in before this one.
She sits on the side of the sofa where Tristan tucked the six-pack of beer behind the pillow. I hope he took it in one of his cases. I don’t want to have to sneak that shit into the garbage.
I take a seat on the recliner and lay the guitar in my lap. “What do you want to hear?”
She shrugs. “I don’t care.”
“Do you mind if I play something I’ve been trying to practice? It will probably sound like shit.”
“By all means, play your shitty song.”
I laugh and she smiles; a tight-lipped smile, like she’s trying not to. “Now I don’t want to play it because it’s definitely not a shitty song. I just haven’t learned to play it well yet.”
“Just play the song.”
The way she says this makes my heart race, and suddenly I’m nervous. I’m never nervous about performing a song unless it’s an audition, which I’ve only been on two of those. Crap. I’m going to fuck up this song. I know it.
I draw in a deep breath and position the guitar in my lap. Curling my fingers around the fret board, I decide to play this one without a guitar pick.
As soon as I begin plucking the strings, the nerves subside and I give myself up to the song. I’ve been practicing “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel since last week. Every time I’ve played it up to now, I’ve messed up on the bridge. I’m notorious for messing up the bridge of every new song I play. But this time I don’t mess up and I find myself grinning uncontrollably as I sing the last line.
I hold my hand down on the strings to stop the lingering reverberation and I finally look up from the guitar. My mom is standing next to the sofa where Claire is seated and they’re both staring at me, unblinking. I wait a moment for one of them to say something and I’m not surprised when it’s my mom who speaks first.
“Didn’t you just start playing that last week?”
I nod and look back down a
t my guitar as that nervous feeling returns. I sense an embarrassing comment coming from my mom about how proud she is of me or how talented I am. I don’t want to look up and see Claire’s reaction to this comment.
“That was beautiful,” my mom continues, and I sigh with relief. “What do you two want for dinner?”
I look at Claire and I’m surprised to find she’s crying. “Are you okay?”
My mom looks down at her and covers her mouth. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask you how you’re feeling.”
Claire shakes her head as she hides her face. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re just tired. That’s all. You can have dinner with us or you can go straight to bed. Whatever you want to do. The bedroom’s all ready for you.” She turns to me with a severe look. “It’s ready, isn’t it, Chris?”
I nod as I get up from the recliner and set down the guitar. “I got it ready this morning as soon as you called.”
My mom kneels down next to the sofa and gently lays her hand on Claire’s knee. “Sweetie. You don’t have to stay down here if you feel more comfortable upstairs. I can bring your dinner up there later.”
Claire pulls her hands away from her face and wipes at the tears that are still streaming. “It’s okay. I’ll eat down here. Thank you.”
“For what?”
Claire looks taken aback by this question, then she shrugs. “For being nice.”
Chapter Five
Claire
Forever Awkward
My first week with Jackie and Chris Knight is the least awkward first week I’ve ever had in a foster home. Jackie and I spent Sunday, the day after I arrived, running all over town to make sure I have everything I need. Then she took me to Athens Drive High School on Monday to get me registered and I began classes on Tuesday.
Walking into a new school is always nerve wracking, but walking through those front gates with Chris on Tuesday morning made everything less awkward. He has so many friends and most of them are just as nice as he is. They greeted me like I was one of them. Which is why I didn’t hesitate when Chris asked if I wanted to sit with them in the cafeteria for lunch.
Rachel and I are the only girls in the group, but she didn’t look too relieved to have another girl join them. But Chris was pretty good at diffusing the awkward questions that are inevitable in my situation. When his friend Tristan asked if I was going back to my parents soon, Chris answered for me. “She’s going to be with us for a while.”
A couple of days later, when Rachel asked if I had any siblings, Chris’s reply made me blush. It was just a simple no, but the way he looked so uncomfortable with her question gave me butterflies. I may be totally wrong, but I feel as if his response was meant for me.
And the way they talk about music, especially Chris, is awe-inspiring. I’ve never heard kids my age talk about the future the way they do. I’ve heard some of my foster siblings talk about college and getting jobs, but the way they talk about music is not at all like that. It’s like a calling for all of them—even Tristan who seems to have fallen into playing the bass sort of by accident.
The only thing I didn’t like about hanging out with Chris and his friends this week was how temporary it all felt. Jake and Rachel are graduating in three weeks. And I’m getting a strong feeling that Chris wants to drop out of high school after this school year ends. If I manage not to get myself kicked out of the Knight house by the end of the summer, will his friends still consider me “one of them” if he’s gone?
When I come down from my bedroom on Saturday morning, Jackie has gone to work at the bakery, as usual. She usually leaves for work around four a.m. and returns sometime between four and seven p.m. Chris and I take the bus to school every morning, though he claims he’s going to get a motorcycle on his birthday in four weeks so we can get around while his mom is gone. The thought of being that close to him, straddling a motorcycle and wrapping my arms around his waist, makes me nervous. But it seems like no big deal to him.
Chris is sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of something yellow that may be scrambled eggs and a glass of something white. Mr. Miyagi, his ten-year-old Shiba Inu, is sitting at his feet panting as he waits patiently for Chris to slip him a treat. Chris grimaces as he brings a spoonful of the yellow food to his mouth.
“What are you eating?” I ask, wondering if maybe Jackie left us some breakfast to heat up before she left. She does that often.
He swallows the food and shakes his head at me. “The worst scrambled eggs I’ve ever had. They taste like ass.”
“You know what ass tastes like?” My eyes widen as I realize what I just said and he laughs. “I mean, did you make them?”
“Yeah, I tried to make them the way I saw my mom make them, but I think I might have forgotten a step.”
I step closer to the table to peer down into his bowl and I try not to laugh. “I think you forgot the step where you cook the eggs. Those scrambled eggs are practically raw. That’s disgusting.”
He narrows his eyes at me, looking slightly offended. “Can you make better scrambled eggs than this?” I don’t answer right away and he answers for me. “I didn’t think so.”
I chuckle as I grab his bowl of eggs. “I’ll make you some real scrambled eggs. It’s one of the few things I know how to make. What are you drinking?”
He grabs his glass off the table and follows me into the kitchen. “It’s a banana protein shake. It’s not so bad.”
I place his bowl in the sink then head for the refrigerator to get the carton of eggs. “A protein shake and eggs? Are you trying to build muscle?”
He’s silent for a moment. When I look at him, he looks like he’s calculating a response. “Why? Do you think I need to build muscle?”
I laugh as I set the carton of eggs on the counter and reach into the cupboard beneath the counter for a large bowl. “No, I’m just curious. That looks like a body builder’s breakfast.”
“You know a lot of body builders?”
“No, but I’ve had some foster siblings who were into that.”
He stands next to me as I crack the eggs into the bowl, taking each discarded shell and tossing it into the garbage for me. His arm and hand keeps brushing against mine and I have to keep taking deep breaths every time he turns away to calm my nerves.
“Have you ever…?” He shakes his head as he seems to decide not to finish this question.
“Have I ever what?”
“Nothing. Do you need the salt or something?”
I don’t press him for an answer. I finish making us some scrambled eggs and we eat in relative silence until he asks me something that catches me totally off-guard.
“Do you miss your mom?” I clench my jaw and stare into my bowl as I try to think of an appropriate response. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. I just…. My dad left when I was six and…. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Just forget I asked.”
I nod my head and when I look up from the bowl he’s looking straight at me. “Yeah. I miss my mom.”
He smiles at this answer, but something about his smile makes me feel like I’ve shared too much with him. I quickly wipe at the tears that begin to fall, then I bolt up from the table to take my bowl to the sink.
“I have to clean up.”
He quickly stands up after me and follows me into the kitchen. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll clean up. You cooked.”
He catches up to me at the sink and squeezes in next to me so he can do the dishes. As soon as his arm grazes mine, the tears come faster.
“Hey,” he says, grabbing my elbows so he can turn me toward him. “My mom always says that the easiest, cheapest gift you can give someone is a hug.” He holds out his arms and beckons me. “Come here.”
I stare at him for a moment, then I let out a deep sigh and allow him to take me into his arms. My arms feel awkward at my sides, so I slowly raise them and wrap them around his waist. I feel him let out a breath, as if he were wai
ting for that, then I cry. I cry on his shoulder for so long, I know he must think there’s something deeply wrong with me. But he doesn’t mention it. In fact, he just encourages me, telling me every so often to let it go and that it’s okay to feel this way.
And I believe him.
Chapter Six
Chris
Forever Curious
Normally, Tristan accompanies me to all my tattoo sessions. This time, I decide to take Claire. Tristan would have to ask his grandma to drop him off here first. My tattoo artist, Shayla, lives just half a mile away from our house. It’s 1:30 p.m. Today was an early day at school and they let us out at 12:45. Claire and I can walk the mile to her house and be back in time before my mom gets home from work tonight. I hope we’ll be back by then.
“Your mom won’t be mad about you getting a tattoo?” Claire asks as we set off away from the house toward the main road.
“She won’t be mad if she doesn’t find out.”
The fourth Wednesday of May is warm and sunny with the occasional breeze that blows Claire’s blonde ponytail into her eyes every so often. I find myself stealing glances at the spot on her neck where her hairline melts into her nape. It looks so soft. And the way the sun radiates off of every inch of her makes me wish I could touch her glowing skin.
“How many tattoos do you have?”
“I only have four tattoos, so far, but each one is special to me.” I push up the sleeve on my left arm to show her the electric guitar that’s wrapped in a bar of music from one of my favorite songs, “Little Wing” by Jimi Hendrix. Then I hold out my left forearm for her to see the antique stopwatch tattoo with the hands stopped at 3:15 p.m., the time it was when my father left. “You’ve already seen this one. Then there’s this one on the back of my neck.” I show her the Chinese characters on the back of my neck that spell out, What we think, we become. “I have one more on my chest.”