Emma’s heart-shaped face is lifted toward me, tears in her big, tan eyes while her wild dark hair swirls around her in the wind. There’s a large red mark on her jaw that’s turning purple. I hate the family she was placed with.
No one cares or checks up on foster kids. They don’t look into families to see if the kids are safe there, if they’re happy. Since there are more kids than there are places for them, they don’t care.
A tear falls down her cheek and I brush it away with my thumb, careful not to bump the forming bruise.
“I hate it here,” she whispers. “I don’t want to go back.”
The roaring wind blasts us with rain, soaking the back of me as I try to protect her with my body.
“I have to tell my mom, she can do something. I’m sure of it.” Before the words are out of my mouth, Emma is shaking her head.
“It’ll just make things worse. An investigator will come in and I’ll have to stay there while they look into it.” She shivers in her too big black zip-up hoodie and ripped-up black jeans. Shrugging out of my jacket, I wrap it around her shoulders and zip it up before wrapping my arms around her.
My football hoodie isn’t enough against this weather, especially since I’m now getting wet, but I’ll be okay. She’s so small compared to me, I have to protect her.
Emma curls into me, pressing her uninjured cheek against my chest. I cup the back of her head, offering her every ounce of comfort I can, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. But Mom can help. She has to.
I kiss the top of Emma’s trembling head, frustration and anger turning my face hot.
“Nick! Dinner!” Dad yells from the front door and dread cements my shoes to the ground. I don’t want to walk her home. I don’t want to leave her in that house and wonder what bruises she’ll have tomorrow.
Sliding the sterling silver football helmet pendant over my head, I hang it around her neck. I kiss the helmet before tucking it into her sweater.
Emma lifts onto her toes and kisses me. It’s soft but bitter with tears and fear and resignation.
“I love you,” I whisper against her lips and they tilt up into a big smile. For just a second, her eyes are bright. “Don’t ever forget that, okay?”
She kisses me again, a quick peck this time. “I love you too.”
“Nicholas!” Mom yells this time, clearly agitated.
I growl and turn to wave, acknowledging that I heard her.
“Walk Emma home and come eat, let’s go!”
Huffing, I grab Emma’s hand and pull my jacket hood over her head before heading down the street.
“I don’t want you to go in there,” I say when we get close enough to see the house. Even though this is a nice neighborhood, the kind where kids run around unsupervised all summer, the cops are rarely called, there’s evil here. Everyone knows to stay away from that house. Yet somehow they keep getting foster kids. Kids that never talk about what goes on in there.
“He’s not home, so hopefully I can disappear into a bedroom and hide until school.” Emma shrugs like it’s normal to be afraid of the adults you live with. I guess for her it is. Her birth mom wasn’t physically abusive, just neglectful.
“If he comes after you, come to my house, okay?”
When she doesn’t answer, I shake her hand a little and she nods, but I know she won’t. She never does. She always stays to protect the smaller kids.
Wrapping her arms around my waist, she gives me a quick hug before running for the house and disappearing inside. I don’t leave the sidewalk until I see her wave from the upstairs window. I give her a little wave then hustle back home before Mom gets really pissed.
I’m soaked when I get back, so I have to change my clothes. Mom huffs at me but I promise to be quick.
“Get Brent down here too!” she yells after me. My roommate, foster brother, and best friend typically spends most of his time in our room. He doesn’t handle chaos well.
He’s laying on his bed with headphones on and a book in his hand.
I point to my ears, telling him I need to talk to him, and he pauses whatever he’s listening to and removes one earbud.
“Mom says go eat dinner with us.” I change quickly and he grumbles but climbs off the high bunk bed and follows me out of the room. Mom made spaghetti and garlic bread, which is normally a meal I would inhale, but my stomach is in knots over Emma.
When everyone is sitting and plates have been filled, Mom flicks her gaze between me and my plate that I haven’t touched.