“How are you holding up, Paula?”
“If there’s anything you need, just call.”
“Remember Paula; I would be glad to take care of the kids sometime if you just need to get away for some time to yourself…”
In essence, all the conversations were the same, just with different players. Some people came from Mom’s work, which kind of surprised me. In all my memory, no one from the hotel ever came by in the past. Maybe it was because she was always there. Even Mr. Bingham, the Mr. Bingham who owns the hotel, came to the house. All these years, I’d imagined him being an insufferable ogre who forced his staff to work long hours, keeping them away from their families in the pursuit of profits. In my mind, he’d been ugly and mean, selfish enough to destroy any home life his staff might have had. It made dealing with Mom’s absence and preoccupation with work easier to think of him that way.
The real Evan Bingham was as different from my conjured image as he could be. He was a tall, olive-skinned study in the kind of old-moneyed etiquette you see in old movies. He stood in our kitchen in a very nice-looking suit. His graying hair was expertly trimmed, and his green eyes were both striking and intelligent as they peered out from behind somewhat bushy brows. He insisted on meeting me and “the foster child,” and he greeted me with a polite nod, closing his eyes in doing so. The effect appeared to convey he felt humbled to meet us. He stretched out an arm to shake Derek’s hand, revealing a stiff, stark white cuff that was fastened with a gleaming gold cufflink. He looked at me intently, long enough for it to feel strange.
“She looks just like you, Paula,” he said with a smile.
That much was true. Nothing about me resembled my dad. I was all Mom, in looks anyway.
Mom thanked him as Derek and I began backing out of the room to make our escape. I heard Mr. Bingham offer her a week of paid bereavement leave, and he handed her a thick-looking envelope as we left the room.
It’s amazing how tiring human interaction could be when you were an introvert. The shallow conversation just for the sake of talking. The pretense. Actually, I wasn’t sure if I was a natural introvert or if I just became one as a survival strategy in this family. It was helpful not to need a typical sibling relationship when your only option was Derek. On the plus side, our pantry was full, and on the downside, I was exhausted. So much was sent to the house that my mom had me carry a lot of it to the basement. There were canned goods, gift baskets filled with meats, crackers, and cheese logs. By the weekend, the visits and deliveries had reduced into occasional phone calls and cards. My mother had decided it was time for her to go back to work.
“But don’t you have the week off?” I asked. “Mr. Bingham said—.”
She cut me off, saying something about not wanting to take advantage of his generosity when it wasn’t really necessary. She needed her job more than ever now that Dad was gone, she insisted. She left me to watch Derek, do the laundry, and get us ready to go back to school. By Sunday night, I managed to sleep.
I must have developed a mental block about going back to Carver high because I hadn’t set my alarm. I awoke with a jolt at the metal bang of a garbage truck compressing trash on the street by our house. I reached for my phone. Crap!
I jumped out of bed and grabbed my clothes and darted out of my room and into the Satan spawn’s lair. I shook his shoulder until he woke. “Derek! Get up now! We overslept.”
As he sat up, I pulled clothes from his closet and tossed them to him. “Get dressed as fast as you can.”
He rubbed his eyes and scowled at me.
“Do it, Derek! We have to hurry,” I yelled at him as I went to the bathroom and quickly brushed my teeth. I took off the long t-shirt I’d been wearing and put on a gray, oversized sweatshirt and black jeans. I fought with the tangles in my hair until I realized it was a losing battle. I fluffed my curls and spritzed them with some hairspray. I balanced myself against the vanity as I slipped my sneakers onto my feet. I took a final glance in the mirror and noticed the kid’s inhaler sat on the counter. I stuffed it into my pocket and went to check on him. Thankfully, he’d taken me seriously and was fully dressed and ready to go.
“Get your backpack. We’re going to miss the bus,” I told him.
Hi face lit up with alarm, and he darted into the kitchen. He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and rushed outside. I grabbed my jacket from a hook by the door and slipped it on as I picked up my own pack. Retrieving Derek’s his jacket from the floor near the kitchen table, I snatched a couple of breakfast bars from the pantry. Brisk fall air stung my cheeks as I headed out into the morning. I locked the door behind me and hurried out after him. His gait irregular, he hadn’t made it very far ahead.
“Heads up, dweeb!” I called as I tossed the protein bar at him. It hit him in the back of the head. He turned and grinned, looking at me as if he wasn’t sure what just happened.
“Your breakfast,” I explained and pointed at the foil package on the ground. He picked it up and tore into it as the last of the teenagers on our block climbed on board the bus just ahead.
“Hurry up!” I called to him.
Remembrance spread across his expression, and Derek sprinted toward the stop. Well, sprinting isn’t exactly the right word. He stumbled up the steps onto the bus and disappeared from my view. I sprinted after him and stepped inside.
Mr. Barton, the driver, gave us both an impatient glare. He was a big guy and didn’t have to work hard to appear intimidating. “You two are supposed to be here at the corner on time. If this happens again, I’m not waiting. Understand?”
“Sorry.” I felt smaller somehow as I nodded and stepped past him to find a seat. The only available spot was a few rows behind Derek, who’d sat down beside someone I recognized from his school. I handed him his jacket as I walked by. He took it and grinned.
I slid into my bench, pulled my phone from the outer pocket of my backpack, and scrolled through my Instagram feed. As usual, the din on the bus was loud and grating, so I retrieved my earbuds and plugged them into my phone to lose myself in Green Day. Slipping the buds into my ears, I slouched against the seatback. It felt good to make the world disappear for a while. I closed my eyes, mollified at the awareness that Derek would be getting off at his school soon, relieving me from my official guard duty for the next six hours.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been dozing in a surprisingly sound sleep when someone gave my shoulder a rough jostle. The bus lurched to a halt, tossing me forward into the seatback in front of me. I pulled the buds from my ears and looked around. A guy behind me nudged me and pointed toward the front of the bus.
Derek and another kid were on the aisle floor, pummeling each other with their fists. Mr. Barton was easing the bus to the side of the street. He engaged the brake, jumped from his seat, and stomped down the center pathway toward the boys.
“I said back off!” he yelled and gripped both teens by their collars and yanked them apart.
“What happened?” I asked the guy who’d nudged me. “Who started it?”
“Don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’ll teach you to listen!” Mr. Barton shouted at Derek. “Off the bus. Now!”
That’s what I was afraid of. I knew my foster brother probably threw the first punch. I looked out the window and saw we were still several blocks from his stop. I had to do something. Standing up and walking toward the scene, I held up my hand to get Mr. Barton’s attention. “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “You can’t put him off the bus here. He won’t know how to get to the school from this block.”
Mr. Barton’s face, already flushed, took on a deeper, more purplish tone. “That’s not my problem.” He steered Derek toward the front.
“Crap!” I grabbed my backpack and followed them to the doorway. “Wait. Please, Mr. Barton. Isn’t there something else you can do? Can’t he get detention or something? He doesn’t understand what he’s doing.”
“He’s old enough to know better,” Mr. Ba
rton countered.
“He may be a teenager, but he’s developmentally disabled,” I explained. “He doesn’t get it.”
The driver’s brow arched as if he suspected I was scamming him. “So, you’re trying to tell me he’s…”
“A retard!” the teen whom Derek had punched yelled out. He was sitting in his seat, holding what looked like a blood-spattered, wadded-up t-shirt against his nose. “He’s retarded.”
An urge to slap the kid surprised me. Focus Casey. I kept control of my emotions and turned my attention back to the driver. “Just look at him. He has no understanding of what he’s just done.”
Mr. Barton turned toward the demon spawn, and unfortunately, my foster brother decided it would be a good time to give that huge gap-toothed grin. Barton’s expression darkened, and his jaw stiffened. Obviously, he took Derek’s smile as disrespect.
“Back to your seat,” the driver ordered me. “And you get off. Now!” he barked at Derek, who cowered under his glare and hurried of the bus.
I pushed forward, but the driver put out an arm to block me as Derek stepped off the vehicle. I lunged against his arm, trying to move past him, but he was too strong for me to budge.
“I told you to sit down!” he barked.
“I’ve got to go with him to make sure he gets to school!” I cried out. “Anything could happen to him.”
“Don’t you have parents?” he asked. “I’d suggest you give them a call.”
The question stung. I looked out the door at Derek, who was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk as he often did when there was an unexpected change in his routine. Mr. Barton’s angry face loomed above me, and he clearly wasn’t going to let me pass, but I had to do something.
“Okay, fine,” I grumbled.
Barton turned and walked toward the front. Satisfied he was focused on resuming the route, I seized the opportunity to run. I bolted toward the back of the bus and rushed the emergency exit. I pushed hard on the release lever and shoved my body against the cold steel door panel. It swung wide and banged back against the body of the bus.
“Hey! You can’t open that door!” Mr. Barton shouted. The bus bounced as he bounded down the aisle toward me.
“I think I just did!” I called out over my shoulder as I jumped off the back and dropped onto the pavement below. Shockwaves stunned my ankles from the impact, and I fell to my knees. It was a higher jump than I’d anticipated. Shaking it off, I recovered quickly and got to my feet.
“You’re going to be expelled for this,” the driver’s voice carried over the traffic noise.
Things are never so bad that they can’t get worse. Be thankful for what you have.
The absurdity of the situation struck me, and I laughed as I ran around the side of the bus to find Derek. He was still pacing on the sidewalk. His anxiety had erupted into tears which now streamed down his face. I grabbed his hand and pulled him with me. “Come on, Derek. We’ve got to get you to school.”
We walked at as fast a pace as Derek could manage, and by the time we reached the school, the outside doors were locked, and security guard directed us to the office. A line of about ten other teenagers, also apparently tardy, waited to get signed admissions slips that would enable them to enter their classrooms. I checked the time on my phone. I was in so much trouble.
“Look, I really need to go. You need to stay here and sign in, okay?” I searched his face for a sign that he understood and would comply. He had a small cut above his eye, and his cheek was flushed and beginning to swell. He would soon have a bruise. “I’m going to leave, and you need to stay here, okay?” Derek nodded, and I gave his arm a soft punch and turned to leave. I was halfway down the hall when I realized I didn’t know if the kid would be allowed back on the bus to get home.
“Crap.” I turned to go back to the office and nearly bumped into Derek. He’d been following me. “You were supposed to stay there,” I told him.
He looked at me like he had no idea what I meant. I guessed he was so dependent on his routines that he couldn’t follow my directions. It didn’t help that he’d had such a difficult morning, I guess.
“Come on,” I said and nudged him down the hall. When we arrived back in the office, a man who appeared to be in his fifties was handing out the last of the tardy slips. I tried not to appear as impatient as I felt as we waited until he finished with the other students.
“Yes?” he asked. “What do you need?”
“This is Derek Compton,” I began. “He’s late because our bus driver, Mr. Barton, kicked him off this morning, and we walked several blocks to get here.”
“And who are you?” He looked at me with a bored expression.
“I’m Casey Williams. Derek is my foster brother.”
The office worker gave the boy an appraising look. “What happened to your face?” he asked. “Have you been fighting?”
“Well, yes, there was a fight on the bus, but I’m not sure how it happened,” I answered.
“Miss Williams, I was addressing Mr. Compton,” the worker informed me.
I peered at the nameplate on the counter. “Are you Mr. Johnson?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, his voice bland.
“Derek has a disability and doesn’t communicate well.”
“Does he talk at all?”
Inside my head, I fought hard to keep my tone respectful. “Yes, but—."
“—Then he can answer my question,” Mr. Johnson concluded. “Have you been fighting, young man?” he asked.
Derek nodded and unfortunately, also smiled.
Mr. Johnson shook his head and looked at me. “I’m sorry, but if your brother’s been fighting, we can’t let him into class until after he sees the assistant principal.”
“Okay,” I answered. “Then can you just keep him here? I am also late for school, and I have to walk to Carver.”
“Someone will need to see that he gets home if he’s off the bus,” Mr. Johnson Continued.
“Okay, sure. I’ll give you my number, and if there’s a problem, let me know,” I offered. “I’ll ask Mom to pick him up.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll just call your mother,” Mr. Johnson insisted.
“Well,” I stammered. “She works long hours, and sometimes it’s hard to reach her. You might need my number as a backup.” I took the form Mr. Johnson handed me and filled it in with my contact information. “You may want to ask Derek’s special ed. teacher, Miss Snelling, to help you with him. He just does better with people he knows.”
Mr. Johnson nodded as I handed him the completed form. I instructed Derek to stay with Mr. Johnson and assured him Miss Snelling would be with him soon. He smiled at the mention of his teacher’s name and nodded when I made him promise to wait for her. I told him I was leaving and turned to go when he lobbed his chubby arms around me and gave me a hug. “Love you,” he said.
I looked at his face and couldn’t speak. This wasn’t something I was accustomed to hearing, and yet Derek had said it to me twice in the last few days. In an odd way, it felt more sincere than the occasional “love yous” I heard from my mother and aunt Janine. I wasn’t certain I’d ever heard it from my dad. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I would cry. Instead, I hugged him back. As I stepped away, I crossed my chest with my hands, signing “love” in sign language, and I pointed to him and smiled. He waved as I walked away.
Chapter 2
By the time I reached the high school, I’d missed my first class, and we were ten minutes into my second. Carver High was an inner-city school, and the twelve-foot, chain-link walls surrounding it had been constructed to keep pushers and pimps on the outside. I ran the length of the barrier and darted in the front gate. I ran up the stairs, entered the building and hurried to the office. The principal was out doing observations in classrooms, and the school nurse, Verna Hoffstedder, was the only staff member available to check me in. Her office was right next door to the Principal Sutton’s, and she was busily walking back and forth
between the two. She alternated between managing disciplinary issues and medical ones. She knew me reasonably well from my work in the office, and she seemed to like me. I’d landed a co-op position this year, and I helped with records, and I’d spent a few days helping her stock her supply cabinets during the first month of this school year. It was a relief to see a friendly face.
“What are you doing here, Casey?” she asked. “You’re not scheduled to work today. Are you feeling sick?”
It was nice that she cared. “Thanks, Mrs. Hoffstedder. No, I’m fine. I’m just tardy.”
“What happened, honey? Did you miss the bus?”
I didn’t feel like explaining everything that happened, so I just gave a resigned kind of look. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, I know you don’t make a habit of it. We may be able to let this one slide.” The nurse checked her watch. “Woah! You’re really late,” she commented. “I’m sorry Casey, but you’re more than an hour late. I can’t excuse this one.”
“It’s okay,” I told her. “I expected there would be some kind of consequence.” Maybe she could let me work it off. “Do you think I could do extra work on my co-op job? Kind of like public service?”
Mrs. Hoffstedder frowned. “No, I’m sorry. It will have to be detention. That’s the rule.”
“Oh, but I can’t stay after school. I might have to go to the junior high to stay with my brother until Mom can pick us up.”
Her eyebrows scrunched in a visual query. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Well, I don’t. He’s my foster brother, and he, um, got kicked off the bus.”
Mrs. Hoffstedder’s mouth puckered into a tiny circle. “Oh? How old is he?”
“He’s sixteen.”
She looked even more confused. “So why isn’t he here?”
Viral Series (Book 1): Viral Dawn [Extended Edition] Page 3