Page 40 of I Am Salvation

The people who work here are nice. They don’t beat up on us. Don’t abuse us. I’ve heard some horror stories from some of my friends here about what could happen. What has happened to them at other places.

But today I turn thirteen. I’m a teenager. Shouldn’t that be a big deal in a boy’s life? If I were Jewish, I’d be a man today, according to my friend John Levine. He’s a little younger than I am.

I’m not Jewish. I don’t really know what I am. My parents never went to church, so neither did I. But we celebrated Christmas.

Christmas…

That last Christmas at home, when I gave Griffin those pink pajamas, she was so happy that she had to go change into them before she opened any more presents.

Does she miss me? Does she ever ask about me?

I miss her.

But I don’t miss my parents.

They didn’t believe me. They left me here.

My friend Jimmy—who left this home a year ago when he turned thirteen—told me that if you’re not adopted by the time you’re nine or ten, you never will be.

Nobody wants a problem teenager.

I don’t particularly think I’m a problem, but you never know.

I wish I were a little bigger. I haven’t had my growth spurt yet. Some of the other guys who aren’t yet thirteen are bigger than I am. That doesn’t bode well for me going to the new place.

My counselor’s name is David. He’s a nice guy, somewhere in his twenties. He tells us we’re all worth something, and that one day, we can be anything we want to be.

Yeah, right.

“You ready, Dragon?” he says.

Does he expect me to answer? The fact of the matter is that I have no choice. I’m leaving. I’d like to stay here. It’s not great, but no one hurts me here.

Sure, I get into a fight every now and then, but we’re guys. Guys can fight and then make up and be cool—all in a matter of minutes.

I don’t answer him.

He doesn’t press it. He simply picks up my duffel bag that contains everything I own in the world, which isn’t much. Just some secondhand clothes and a few pairs of shoes.

We walk silently together out of the home. None of my friends are here to say goodbye. They’re all in school. We go to the local elementary and middle school.

I’m in seventh grade. My school won’t change. Just my residence.

I’ll be back in school tomorrow, and I’ll see my friends.

But everything will be different.

I walk with David to the van. He takes my duffel and shoves it in the back, and then he opens the door for me. I climb into the passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt.

“You remember to call me if you need anything,” he says.

“Sure,” I say.

Will I even be able to use the phone? None of us have cell phones, of course. This is a group home. It’s not like the state has funds to give us all a cell phone. A few phones are available for use, and of course we have to ask to use them. Never once in my time here have I asked. Five years, and I’ve never made a phone call. Who would I call? My parents don’t want me. I don’t have any other family.

The boys’ home for the older kids is only a few blocks away. In fact, it’s closer to school. It will be an easier walk.

David pulls into a parking spot, gets out of the van, and grabs my duffel.

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