Page 349 of Rage

Katherine

16 Years Old

Moving in with a new foster family always sucked, especially if they already had the kids they actually wanted. Nine times out of ten, foster kids were just a means to get a government check. I hauled my garbage bag up the small staircase into the living space of the bungalow. The outside looked well kept and had a swing set in the backyard. They obviously had kids already, so chances are, these people just want another form of shitty income. Too bad it’s at my expense.

The foster mom, I don’t even know her name yet, guides me through the living room. She shows me the gallery wall, full of wedding photos and baby photos of at least two other children. She goes on and one while I stand awkwardly, clutching my plastic bag until my knuckles turn white. My shoes are scuffed ten ways to Sunday and my pants could definitely use a good wash. When was the last time I washed them? I can’t even remember.

She’s droning on about how the kids are smart and favor their father’s looks. One has his nose, and the other, his chinand eyes. “I wish they looked a little bit like me. Seems so unfair since I carried them for almost ten months,” she remarks.

Her tone is sassy, like she hopes her husband hears her or something. But there’s that unmistakable tick in her voice that tells me she’s dead serious. If I didn’t know any better, I would dare to assume that she feels a hint of resentment towards the children and her husband for this slight against her. As if any of them actively chose not to look like her.

This is going to be splendid.

We round the corner and step from the living area to the kitchen. It’s homey, I’ll give it that. The table has clutter on it. School books are stacked on the corner with some kind of poster board project filling the middle. Markers and pens in every color are also scattered across the tablecloth. The chairs are wooden, and some are pushed into their spots while one is halfway across the room. The sink has a few dishes in it, but not so many to where I think I’m going to be forced to clean them day in and day out. A shiny, silver dishwasher hides beneath the counter, and I praise whatever God there might be because handwashing annoys the hell out of me.

Before we get any further into the impromptu tour of the oversized house, the foster mother turns toward me, complete with a look of shock etched on her shiny face. “I nearly forgot, how rude of me!” she exclaims. “Please, call me Debbie. And my husband is Daniel.”

The fridge is one of those fancy ones that has two doors for the fridge section alone, with a pull-out drawer on the bottom for the freezer. The curtains are blowing softly in front of a half-cracked window, and the smell of fresh cookies lingers in the air. I don’t spot the cookies, however, even as I scan the counters and subtly look toward the floor.

Debbie gives me a tour of the kitchen. “Here’s the table, sink, fridge. Help yourself to anything in the fridge at any time,” shefrets, before turning toward a sealed door. “Here’s the pantry. The bottom shelf is where the kiddos’ snacks live. You’re more than welcome to help yourself any time, day or night.” She claps her hands together as she spins back to me. Her blonde hair is shoulder length and pin straight. Her cheeks are rosy, and her smiles widens uncannily. I eye her warily. There’s something…off about this woman, even though she’s hit every benchmark thus far. I’m not sure what lurks beneath her glassy, perfect skin, but I’m determined to figure it out before I’m thrown under the bus, again.

The rest of the house tour goes the same. “Here’s the bathroom, bedrooms. Here’s where we do laundry. Just throw your clothes in one of the hampers in the bathrooms and I’ll get it done and folded for you to put away. I try to do a load at least every other day, so you should never be without.” Her smile cracks open her face, the generosity making me pause. I choose not to dwell on it for now.

Finally, after what seems like years, we make it down the end of the hall to a lone door. She eases it open with practiced grace and beckons me inside. “This will be your space while you’re here. There’s sticky-tac in the desk drawer, so please feel free to put any photos or posters you want on the walls. We can even order some prints online and get them set up for you.” She’s spinning around the room as she talks, forcing her skirt to billow out around her willowy legs. She’s a tall woman, I note.

“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to get settled in for a bit. Dinner is nearly complete. It’s a casserole with noodles and lots of cheese, so I’ll come grab you when it’s ready. The kiddos are with their dad on an outing, so you won’t have to meet everyone right away.” She pats my shoulder as she walks by. “I’m so glad you’re here, Katherine,” she tells me. I wouldn’t believe her if it weren’t for the wet look in her brown eyes. She seems genuinely excited that I’m here and, for now, I can accept that.

The rest of the evening goes by smoothly. There are no hiccups at dinner and the casserole is pretty tasty. I devour more than my fair share of the dish, but Debbie allows it. She offers even more as I push my bowl away, but I shake my head as I finish chewing my last bite. “That’s all I can handle for tonight,” I whisper.

She nods her head quickly, her blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders. “That’s fine dear. Don’t forget about the snacks in the pantry if you get peckish tonight.”

She begins clearing the table, even grabbing my bowl and spoon before I can. She pauses with the bowls in her hands, looking down at me. “Don’t worry about it, dear. I’m just going to throw these dishes in the dishwasher, and I’ll probably head up to bed soon. You can use the adjoined bathroom in your bedroom to shower and get ready for bed when you’re ready. But feel free to roam about.” She balances the bowls in the crook of one arm as she opens the dishwasher with the other. She glances back over her shoulder to me, the smile still present on her face. “Just knock on my door if you need anything. Daniel and the kiddos will probably be back home soon, but don’t feel pressured to interact with them tonight. He’s going to send them straight to bed before he does the same.”

I nod, the only response I'm capable of giving her.

Waking up in an unfamiliar bed has become so normal to me at this point that I end up sleeping like the dead. I don’t have a phone or an alarm clock, so I wake as the sun is beaming intothe room. It burns my retinas as I crack open my eyelids, but I quickly shudder awake.

My pajamas are rumpled from being in my garbage bag, but they do the job and are the warmest thing I own. I stumble down the stairs into the kitchen and am greeted by five sets of eyes watching me.

Debbie is busy at the table with the kids, who don’t look surprised to see me. They smile their crusty grins before shoveling more forkfuls of pancakes into their awaiting mouths. Daniel stands tall over the range, flipping even more pancakes onto an already tall stack. He looks over his shoulder, catching my gaze before wiping his hands on his apron and facing me. “Good morning, Katherine. I’m just whipping up some pancakes. Take a seat and I’ll bring you some,” Daniel tells me enthusiastically.

This family is too bright and cheerful in the morning. I don’t even know what time it is, but my soul knows it’s too damn early. I scrub my tired eyes awake and take a seat at the large kitchen table.

As Daniel sets a plate of pancakes in front of me, a door closes down the hall. Is someone else here? I look at Debbie and her face registers a split second of “oh fuck” before she faces me.

“Katherine, dear, this was very last minute, but we had another placement early this morning.”

I audibly gulp. Are they sending me away already? Ijustgot here and someone new is moving in and forcing me out. I steel myself, looking down at the fluffy pancakes that I will probably never eat again after this morning.

“Don’t worry, Katherine. You aren’t going anywhere. We have another spare bedroom for him.”

Him.Aboyis staying here? How old is he? Who is he?

“Good morning,” a voice smooth as butter greets us as someone enters the kitchen.

My ears must be playing tricks on me. Surely it isn’t who I think it is. It’s been several years since I’ve seen him. He was sent away to live with a foster family a few towns over and we lost contact.

But I’ve never forgotten. I couldneverforget.

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