by W. H. Vega
Paul herds Conway and me up the basement stairs and slams the door behind him. Supporting himself on the wall, he staggers into the living room. Nancy is in there too, passed out on the couch with a bottle of vodka clutched in her hand.
“Is it always like this?” I whisper to Conway as we make our way up the stairs.
“Nah,” she answers, a bit sadly, “This is a good night.”
I crawl under the bright pink but threadbare comforter and close my eyes. Try as I might, though, I can’t seem to lure sleep to me. It’s ages before I manage to lose myself to my usual bleak dreams. I sleep fitfully in the strange new place I’m supposed to call home. As much as I can, I avoid thinking about how many more nights I’ll have to spend here. I can’t dwell on how awful this place is—that’s the best way to lose hope there is.
~~~
The sky outside our bedroom window is barely light when I crack open my eyes again. My heart sinks as I remember where it is that I am. Swallowing a sigh, I roll over to see if Conway is awake yet. Her bed is empty, the sheets rumpled and cast aside. I cast my eyes every which way, looking for her, and something on the nightstand catches my eye.
Sitting beside the alarm clock is a soggy, unwrapped Hostess cupcake. A single, mostly burned out tea light sits on top of it, the little flame flickering in the near darkness. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, staring at the tiny treat. A folded index card stands next to the offering with the words “a sweet for your sweet sixteenth” scrawled in girlish handwriting.
Before I can stop them, baffled tears start to stream down my cheeks. It’s the first birthday cake I’ve had since my parents passed away—and quite possibly the best I’ve ever had in my life.
Four
Trace
Who is this girl?
I slam my hand down on the car horn, shattering the quiet of the morning. A satisfied smirk spreads across my face as I picture Paul and Nancy waking up in a cold, boozy sweat. Well, good. Serves the assholes right, I say. If they could haul their asses out of bed to round up the troops for school, it wouldn’t be my responsibility. But as the only foster kid in the house with a license, it falls to me to make sure everyone’s sitting nice and pretty in homeroom every morning.
The front door of the Daniels’ house swings open, and Nadia steps out onto the porch. I feel my throat clench up tight at the sight of her, and wish that I could kick my own ass.
This happens every time I take a look at her, even after the two weeks she’s been in the house. I need to shake this girly little crush of mine, and soon. It’d be way too weird to start anything up with her. And besides, I’m sure she doesn’t want or need any attention from the likes of me. Girls who look like Nadia can do way better than my sorry ass.
She hurries across the scraggly front yard, wrapping her arms around her waist. Her gray cardigan and fitted jeans are not exactly what you’d call skimpy, but she manages to make them look amazing. With that thick blonde hair and those big blue eyes, she doesn’t need any fancy beauty products to look incredible.
The crazy thing is, it doesn’t seem like she knows it. How can someone be as beautiful as Nadia and not even have the slightest idea?
“Morning,” she says breathlessly, sliding into the back seat.
“What are you doing back there?” I ask, peering through the rearview mirror.
“Garrick needs more leg room than me,” she replies.
“You got here first. Fuck Garrick.”
She lets out an exasperated laugh and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Don’t draw me into your macho nonsense. If you want to mess with Garrick, you can do it yourself.”
“Fine. I get it. You just don’t want to ride shotgun with me,” I say, pulling an over-the-top-pout.
“Don’t be sad. I promise you’re still my favorite foster brother.”
I cringe a little as she lets the b word slip past her lips. The last thing I want to be to this girl is a brother, after all. But that’s just my freakin’ luck, I guess.
I slam my palm against the horn again, holding it down nice and long out of frustration and more than a little annoyance. We’re going to be late if those jokers don’t get down here soon. Not like I give a shit about school, but I get enough detentions as it is without adding tardiness to the laundry list of offenses.
Conway comes catapulting out of the house in a crop top and low rise jeans. She thinks she’s tough shit, having grown up in the system and all. But really, she’s just a kid—a kid who it’s my job to protect, these days.
I’ve lost count of how many douche bags I’ve had to chase away from her. It’s not like they’d get anywhere with her, anyway. My little foster sister only has eyes for one dude: Garrick. What she sees in the big lug is beyond me, but they’ve been cooped up at the Daniels’ for a while...tragedy can bring people together.
Naturally, Garrick’s the last one out the door. His eyes are still puffy from sleep, and he looks more than a bit hungover. We’ve got all the booze we want in this house, and Garrick’s got a habit of going overboard. Me, I know how to handle my liquor. Chalk it up to experience, I guess. It’s not something that I’m proud of, really. I don’t actually think about it all that much. It’s just a part of my life, like anything else. Besides, there are far worse things a guy could be into than booze.
“Don’t you assholes know what an alarm clock is?” I demand as Garrick and Conway lower themselves in my car.
“Shut up,” Garrick grumbles, closing his eyes tightly, “Why do you have to be so damn loud in the morning?”
Just to piss him off, I crank up the volume of the car radio and switch on my favorite metal station. Garrick groans as we pull away from the curb, and all I can do is laugh. Maybe I can train him into taking it easy on the booze. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.
In no time flat, we pull into the parking lot of our public high school. Chicago schools are not exactly the pride and joy of the nation, and this one’s no exception. One thing this place has got going for it, though, is that it’s pretty easy to fall through the cracks. No one gives you shit, or gives a shit at all most of the time.
For those of us just waiting out the clock, that’s a pretty big perk. I don’t need any asshole teacher trying to go all Good Will Hunting on me, that’s for damn sure. I sure as hell don’t have time for that.
The four of us pile out of the car, slinging our backpacks onto our shoulders. I catch a happy little smile creep onto Nadia’s face as we make our way toward the building. She’s walking faster than any of us, and I hurry to keep up with her, letting the others fall behind.
“What are you smiling about?” I ask, “You do realize that we’re heading into school, right?”
“Exactly,” she says, “I know what to do here. How to get by. I don’t know...I guess that school’s always felt more like home to me than any place I’ve lived.” Nadia catches me looking down at her, dumbstruck, and blushes prettily. “Sorry,” she says, “I guess that’s kind of a weird thing to say.”
“It’s not that weird,” I tell her. “I mean...I’ve heard weirder, anyway.”
“That’s something, I guess,” she laughs.
We step through the front doors of the school, and swim out into the sea of people surging through the main hallway. In these last few minutes before the first bell rings, the whole place is totally chaotic.
Nadia turns to me with a timid smile. She’s seemed kind of skittish around me since she got to the house, hell if I know why. Maybe she just doesn’t make a habit of getting too friendly with thugs like me right out of the gate.
She’s only been around other foster kids for a few years, she probably still doesn’t feel like one of us. And I’m certainly not going to press the issue. It’s probably better if she does keep her distance, to be perfectly honest.
“Guess I’m off,” she says, “I’ll see you after school.”
“Yeah, OK,” I say, nodding once.
We move away from each other and head our se
parate ways, but a weird feeling creeps through my blood the minute I turn my back. I whip my head back around toward Nadia and feel my jaw clench hard. Her slight body is being towered over by some guy in a hoodie and baseball cap. I can tell just by looking that she’s uncomfortable, trying to put quick distance between them. But this asshole won’t quit.
He trails her, following her down the crowded hallway without leaving any room to breathe between their bodies. As I watch, he frees a hand from his long sleeve and places it on the small of her back. She flinches away at the touch, and he raises his hand just a hair to lay a slap against her ass.
My body unfolds in one motion, and before I know what’s hit me I’ve got the guy up against the wall, my hands around his throat. He wheezes, surprised by my interference. I watch him recognize me, and as he does, his surprise turns to terror.
Good. He’s heard of me.
“Keep your God damn hands to yourself, you filthy son of a bitch,” I growl, tightening my grip on the prick’s windpipe. All around, people start to take notice of us, hooting and carrying on like this is some kind of damn prize fight. They circle around us, rubbernecking to get a better look. I ignore them, obviously. I’m not much a showman, this shit is personal.
“I was only messing with her,” he gasps, trying and failing to get away from me.
“Messing with her means messing with me,” I say to the punk ass. “And you don't want to mess with me. Do you motherfucker?”
“Trace...” I hear Nadia say softly. “Trace, let go.”
“No way,” I tell her.
“You’re going to hurt him,” she says, imploringly. I feel her hands close around my arm and tug, but I can’t stop now.
“This little bitch needs to know his place,” I snarl, “And what’ll happen to him if he steps out of line again.”
“Come on,” Nadia pleads, “If you don’t stop, someone’s going to see—”
“Mr. O’Connor,” says a familiar voice from down the hall, “Get off of him. Now.”
With a stifled groan, I let go of the asshole’s throat. He slides down the wall, coughing, as I turn to face the interrupter. Mr. Sanders—or The Colonel, as I like to call him—plants his hands on his hips and looks at me with something that’s half disappointment and half resignation.
Sanders is my guidance counselor, or at least that’s what it says on his pay stub. Can’t say he’s done much in terms of guiding me, but I don’t hold it against him. No one’s ever been able to get through to me.
“Hey, Colonel,” I smile, stuffing my hands into my pockets, “How’s tricks?”
“Come with me, Trace,” he says. For all my teasing, the guy actually looks nothing like that southern dude on the chicken buckets. He’s got this do-gooder hipster thing going on that would normally piss me the hell off. But, he’s usually pretty straight with me, so I can stomach the elbow patches and the mountain man beard.
“I was just having a little talk with the guy,” I tell him, taking a step forward, “We had a couple of things to clear up. No harm, no foul.”
“Don’t know if he’d agree,” Sanders says, nodding to the guy on the ground.
“Well,” I shrug, “Can’t please everyone.”
“Let’s have a little chat in my office, shall we?” he says, “The rest of you can stop gawking and get to homeroom. Now.”
The circle of onlookers moves out, grumbling...all but Nadia. She stands stock still, looking at me. Her blue eyes are full of wonder, tinged with wariness.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says quietly, “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” I tell her, “But everyone needs backup.”
A slow smile creeps across her plush lips, a smile that’s just for me. I’m just about to be swallowed whole by that smile when I managed to wrench myself away and follow Sanders down to his office. Can’t very well be caught standing in the middle of the hall, grinning like a damn idiot, can I?
Five
Trace
Don't fuck with my friends.
The Colonel and I make our way to his glorified broom closet of an office and step inside. The school is already pressed for space, and I guess that guidance counselors aren’t very high up on the food chain.
I sink down into a worn out chair that stands in front of Sanders’ desk. He plops down opposite me with a heavy sigh.
“So, what was it this time?” he asks.
“What was what?”
“Did that kid owe you money or something?” he asks, “Bum a smoke without getting you back? What?”
“Nothing like that,” I say, “You know I’m not that petty, Sanders.”
“It’s not a gang thing, is it?” he goes on, “The last thing I need is for you to cave in and join up with a gang. You’re so close to being out of here, Trace. Don’t blow it now.”
“Relax,” I tell him, “It’s not a gang thing. Not even close. You know I’m not going to do anything that stupid. As soon as this year is over, I am out. I’m not going to fuck up my chances of getting away scott free.”
“Good,” he says, “I’m glad to hear it. But if you’re so concerned about making a clean break, what was all that back there?”
“I couldn’t help it,” I shrug, “It’s not like I planned to jump the guy, he was just acting like a dip shit.”
“How so?”
“He was messing with someone. My...friend. Nadia.”
“Miss Faber?” Sanders asks.
“Yeah,” I say, “How’d you—?”
“I’m kept pretty in the loop when it comes to foster kids here,” he says, “Nadia’s staying at the Daniels’ with you and the others, right?”
“That would be correct,” I say. “Guess Paul and Nancy are really digging those foster parent tax benefits. They just keep collecting more of us.”
“I’m sure that’s not why they’ve taken you all in,” Sanders says, unconvincingly.
“You don’t even believe that, Colonel,” I tell him, “I thought we had a deal? You be straight with me, I act real nice and cooperative whenever you call me in here.”
“Fair enough,” he allows. “So tell me, then. Who’s Nadia to you?”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Well, Conway and Garrick get into their fair share of crap around here, and I never see you rushing in to rescue them.”
“They don’t need rescuing,” I say.
“And Nadia does?”
“No, she’s...She’s just new to this whole thing. So sue me for being a little protective.”
“It’s just not really like you, is all,” Sanders says, “What makes her different than your other foster siblings?”
“I really hate that,” I tell him, “When people say things like ‘foster siblings’ or ‘foster parents’. Unless ‘foster’ is another word for ‘fake’, then it’s a bunch of bullshit. The assholes I’ve been forced to call ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ my whole life are about as far from family as you can get.”
“What about the other kids?” Sanders asks, “Don’t they come to feel like family after a while?”
“No,” I tell him frankly, “Family just lets you down, no two ways about it. But Garrick and Conway...and yeah, Nadia too. They’re better than family. They’re my friends. And I’m not going to let anything happen to any of them.”
Sanders looks at me long and hard, training his uncomfortably sensitive eyes on mine. I actually start to squirm a little, under his watch. I can stand up to a lot, and have been called to, but this scrutiny is a bit too personal for me.
“OK,” the Colonel finally says, “I get it. I really do, Trace. And I think it’s great that you have people in your life that are so significant to you.”
“But?” I ask.
“But...You know I’m going to have to give you all kinds of detention for manhandling that kid back there.”
“Naturally,” I mutter, “Never mind the fact that he was groping and harassing Nadia. I’m totally the
bad guy, here.”
“Come on, Trace,” Sanders says, “By now, you’ve got to know that it’s hardly ever the bad guy who gets what’s coming to him.”
I laugh sharply. “You can say that again, Colonel.”
“So. This afternoon, report to room 204 for an hour. You know the drill.”
I raise my right hand in a salute and shoulder my backpack once more. I’m more than used to taking the fall for my actions by now, whether the punishment fits the crime or not.
The rest of the day passes in fits and starts, just like it always does. I drag myself from class to class with ear buds jammed in firmly. The soundtrack for my days at school isn’t the droning of asshole teachers—it’s the Wu-Tang Clan, and Public Enemy and anything with a good blast beat.
They can make me come to school, but they can’t make me give a shit about it. I pass the time in the only bearable way I know how, riding the day until my ass is finally free. I schlep up to detention, serve my time, and finally make my way back out into the late afternoon.
As I make my way toward my car, I spot three people hovering around my parking space. My mouth twists into a grin as I see that Garrick, Conway, and Nadia have been camped out, waiting for me to reemerge.
“Can’t you assholes just find someone else to bum a ride from?” I complain, shooing Conway off the hood of the car.
“No, actually,” Garrick says, “No one wants to play taxi driver for us rejects.”
“Nadia got a few offers,” Conway teases.
Nadia shudders in response. “Yeah, but for much more than a ride home, thank you very much.”
“Jesus,” I growl, “How many asses do I need to kick before these mouth breathers realize you’re off limits?”
“I didn’t realize I was,” Nadia says pointedly. Somehow, she manages to twist the phrase into a question, looking at me with frank curiosity.
“I, uh...” I stammer, “I don’t know. Whatever.”
“What a loser,” Conway laughs, as we all hop into the car.
I blast the radio, hoping to drown out any further conversation. But even through the rearview mirror, I can feel Nadia’s big blue eyes trained on me. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll have to explain myself to her, but I intend to put that moment off as long as humanly possible.