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I’m not being negative here. It’s the truth. Mom was the only person who loved me, and even she didn’t love me enough as she should’ve. If she did, she wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be here, sitting on a stained couch in some stranger’s living room listening to her tell me about how thrilled she is to be a foster parent. Spoiler alert: The only thing she’s thrilled about is the money that comes attached to me.
This is the third home I’ve been to. Apparently I “wasn’t the right fit” for the first two we’d visited. What they really meant was that I wasn’t worth the money. I’m what’s considered a “special case,” and I don’t mean orphan Annie special. I’m a traumatized fourteen-year old suffering with PTSD. Plus, I can’t sing or tap dance.
Society somehow managed to glamorize foster care. Everyone imagines an infant being left at a fire house, and magically getting adopted by the quintessential happy couple who lives in a two-story house surrounded by a white picket fence. And maybe that does happen for some kids. Lucky bastards. No one knows how bad it is on the other side of that coin. Not even good old Cheryl here. She gets to clock out at the end of her day and go home to eat a hot meal.
No, the only people who know what it’s really like to be a foster kid are the foster kids. We’re supposed to be grateful for the roof over our heads, even though that roof drips onto your bed every time it rains. We’re supposed to show appreciation for the food in our bellies, but that food is often stale or moldy. We’re supposed to respect our foster parents despite the fact that respect should be earned, and let’s face it—nobody ever respects someone who beats on them.
I’m not surprised by the statistics for kids like me.
“Thank you, Cheryl. It was nice seeing you again.” My new foster mother, Debbie, smiles at me. “Thomas is going to be a great addition to our little family.”
Part of me wants to drop to my knees and beg Cheryl to take me home with her. The other part of me knows better.
Once the door closes, Debbie’s façade vanishes. She breezes past me without a second glance and collapses onto the couch, lighting up a cigarette before switching on the TV.
“Uh, excuse me, Miss Debbie?” I hate how pathetic my voice sounds right now, but I have to be cautious and feel this one out.
“What?”
“I’m really hungry.”
“What do I look like, a chef? Get out of the way. You’re blocking Judge Judy.”
I shuffle around until I find the kitchen. I swing open each cabinet, hoping to find something edible. At the end of my search, I settle for a box of stale Cheerios and a tub of expired peanut butter. Don’t knock it till you try it. Peanut butter is protein, and it makes the cereal taste a little less like cardboard. I scrape the green fuzz off the top layer of the tub before diving in. Expired food won’t kill me. The most I’ll get is an upset stomach. And don’t they make penicillin out of mold? I heard that somewhere.
My body jolts when a brown ball of fur scampers across the floor. “You won’t find much in here, buddy.” I coat a few cereal pieces with peanut butter and place them on the floor. I’d always wanted a dog, but Mom said it would only be one more thing for Dad to hurt. In hindsight, I’m glad we never got one.
The mouse is quick to pounce on the cereal and sniffs the air for more.
“I bet you’ve eaten better meals out of a garbage, haven’t you?”
I haven’t resorted to dumpster diving yet. There were a few times over the past few months I’d been tempted. It’s amazing how much food people waste. I’m in the stage where I’ll stoop low enough to scrape mold off my food, but I’m not ready for half-eaten trash.
Funny how we all cling to our last shreds of dignity, like it makes a difference.
But it doesn’t. Not when you’re a statistic. Some people are destined for greatness. Others … we’re not destined for anything.
“Don’t feed that filthy animal!” Debbie’s screeching voice startles me. “What’s wrong with you, boy?” She’s quick to grab a broom, and swats at the mouse.
“Stop!” I grip the broomstick and attempt to yank it out of her hands. “Don’t hurt it!”
“Get out of my way! These pests eat your food and shit all over the place.” She shoves me into the wall, giving the mouse enough time to run for his life.
For a second, I think he’ll get away. Then Debbie corners him and the broom crashes down on his little body. Three times she smashes it, until it’s lifeless and bloodied.
I don’t turn my head in time. I see everything. Maybe that’s my destiny, to see all of the horrible things in this world.
“Why would you kill him? Why would you do that?” My knees hit the tile as I sob into my trembling hands.
Debbie tosses the broom onto the floor beside me. “That’s the circle of life. Now get rid of him.”
The image of that innocent mouse being killed will haunt my dreams long after I’ve moved on from Debbie’s house.
It’ll join the nightmares I have about Mom.
Welcome to the club.
Chapter Three
