by Dani Wyatt
She tugs her lips to the side in an attempt to squash her smile. In her job, it’s important to stay in character. Just as quickly as I pick up on the rare curve of her lips, I see the same look that Dimitri gave me.
Pity and relief.
People pity me either because they know my past or because they can see the evidence of it on my face.
People feel relieved because whatever has happened to me, hasn’t happened to them.
I notice the way kids stare and adults look away. By now, it’s just an observation. I used to get pissed, now I understand.
I get it.
I catch a reflection in the glass that runs along the mile-long hallway outside the courtroom doors. I tower above most people. My hair isn’t unruly, but it does need a cut. Due to budgetary restrictions, a trip to the barber will have to wait.
The wall of glass is on my right, the heavy doors along my left. I hear the sniffles of a girl before I see her. I look down where she stands next to a bored looking woman with a thick file in her hands.
God damn, how hard would it be just to talk to her? Comfort her? Distract her from whatever bullshit is waiting for her today.
She’s probably six years old. I can’t help but notice she has a huge, unkempt knot in her dirty, blonde hair. She’s wearing a ponytail, a messy one, but no one bothered to brush her fucking hair before she came to court. Really?
On top of that, her socks don’t match, and she’s wearing green sweatpants with a cartoon image of The Hulk on one pant leg. Her oversized, yellow t-shirt hangs off one shoulder, and I can see the jut of her collarbones through her pale skin.
Jesus, my heart breaks looking at her.
Sorry kiddo, life ain’t fair. Get a good armor going.
I try to smile at her, but she won’t meet my eye. I want to scoop her up and tell her I get it. I understand. You can’t trust anyone. Especially the adults.
A blast of cool air hits me as I open the doors to Judge Horace Carmichael's courtroom. I give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, and I knit my brow straining to see as I step inside.
From behind, Louis’s voice greets me.
“Early as usual.” He has a voice that needs to be on the radio.
I like Louis. He’s the only — and I do mean only — person I’ve met in this bureaucracy that even hints at still retaining some humanity.
And a sense of humor.
That is not easy.
Louis’s barrel chest and dark stare would be intimidating attached to anyone else. He’s a monolith, towering over me by a good three inches. He must get his hair buzzed every day, because, in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen it noticeably longer or shorter. A few more silver hairs replace black each year, but that’s the only change I’ve been able to detect.
“Yep. So, everything good? You think we’re good?” I despise the insecurity in my voice.
“Well, you know I’m always honest.” He gives me a reassuring smile. “Yes, I think we’re good. Could it still go sideways? Sure, there’s always that chance.”
“Fuck.” My hands go up and over my head, rubbing back and forth, gaining momentum. I can’t believe we could come this far and have it all fall apart.
I’m not going back. They can hang me by my balls; I’m not going. I will not live another day in another foster home.
“Hey.” Louis senses my rising ire, and he knows that will not work in my favor in front of the judge. “Breathe. I have a good feeling, okay? We’ve got all your bills, school records, recommendations — all the proof you’ve been knocking it out of the park on your own. You are the most organized almost-eighteen-year-old I’ve ever met.” He laughs, but I can still hear that halt of doubt in his voice.
I’m making a sound like a pressure relief valve on a steam engine when Louis lands a solid hand on my shoulder. My neck is twitching like a motherfucker.
After almost a year of taking care of myself under the watchful eye of my current social worker, I get a notice that Child Protective Services wants to place me in yet another foster home. Fuck that. I worked my ass off getting them to agree to let me live on my own even though I had just turned seventeen at the time. They said it was a probationary arrangement, but I hit all my high notes for a year. I worked, paid my bills, kept my grades in the four-dot-oh range and then this?
So, after I got the letter, I wrangled Louis and my social worker and petitioned the court to release me permanently from the nurturing care of CPS. I’m just a bump shy of my eighteenth, so fucking come on already.
Louis gives my shoulder a squeeze, he can feel my tension. He’s one of the only people I let touch me. I’m not a fan of people in my personal space.
“I’ve got another case coming before Judge Carmichael today. She should be here by now.” He scans the nearly empty courtroom and looks at his watch. “Just wait here, and I’ll be back.”
Louis turns away as I settle into the rearmost row of benches tossing my backpack next to me.
He stops a few steps away. “You bring your notebook?” He sets his eyes on me, raising his eyebrows.
It’s a rhetorical question; he knows I have it. I always have it.
“I want you to start right now. You’ll want to have something about today. I’ve got a feeling things will go your way.”
Over the years, I’ve discovered that sketching and drawing relieves my stress. Whenever I have a court date, I’m sketching faces, writing down thoughts, snippets of things I hear. It’s become a part of me.
Louis is out the door. There are two other people inside with me, huddled together in the kind of hushed whispers you find in the cool darkness of a court of law.
The room feels like a bulkhead, and no one leaves quite the same way they came in.
I unzip the top of my back pack and pull out my files and sketchbook. I flip it open to a blank page and shift forward on the bench to dig for the pencil in my back pocket. I set pencil to paper. I love the sound of the surfaces meeting, and then making something new from the friction. I start writing.
Let this be the last fucking time.
I can’t go back.
I won’t go back.
The soft squeak of the hinges on the massive door draws my eye.
The very instant I lay eyes on her, my pencil comes to life.
Louis is guiding a young man a little younger than me inside the courtroom and gets him settled in a bench toward the front.
Right behind him, I see another little girl accompanied by what must be her social worker hustling into the room. Her eyes dart around like a cornered mouse, their color near translucent. Like the crystal clear shallow water of a tropical shore, I want to look away, but I’m mesmerized. Her hair falls to her waist in a tangle of silk the color of antique porcelain. She is as close to a living, breathing china doll as there could ever be.
My eyelids burn when she turns toward me. Her ivory cheek is decorated with an angry purple and red circle. I notice how she crinkles her nose when she looks up at the woman by her side, hoping she will be the one to save her. Because I can see she needs saving. Then for just a moment, our eyes meet.
This broken, little soul with white hair and skin to match digs her sheer blue eyes into mine so deep, I feel her fear. My heart shatters inside my chest as I see the pain in her eyes and the way she moves so softly, gliding instead of walking. Her arms around her waist, holding onto herself, hoping for protection that she seems to know will never come.
Someone else was born inside of me that day. Someone that knew she was part of me.
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Thank You.
I have so many amazing people I’ve met since I started putting my
naughty thoughts on the page. To some of the first fans who supported me, the bloggers,
fellow authors who have been more than generous with their
time and opinions as well as the other professionals that
put up with my particular kind of crazy, thank you.
Neda, Gi, Mel/Alexa Riley, Sybil...you guys remind me
Every day that when we support each other
everyone wins.
xoxoxo
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dani Wyatt used to feel bad about having such dirty thoughts. Luckily, one day she decided to starting writing them down. Her uber alpha heros have a wicked possessive streak and an insatiable libido. Her heroines are intelligent, quirky and worry about having too much muffin top. With her books, you can count on a heaping helping of HOT, a dash of rough and always a happily ever after.
When she's not writing (which is not often) she is probably laughing about some irony (like A-1 Steak Sauce is vegan), riding her horse, wondering why The Walking Dead can't have a new episode every night, or looking cross-eyed at some piece of technology sent to ruin her day.