Page 42 of Finding London

Her eyes widen, but she quickly composes herself. She stands on her tiptoes and gives me a small kiss on the cheek. My body stiffens at the contact. She turns to leave, and her hand grabs the knob of the door.

But then, almost on instinct, she looks back at me. “I was just going to say that I really want to be fucked up together. And whatever reason you have for thinking you don’t deserve someone to love you is wrong. I see you, Loïc, more than you think I do. You’re a good person, and you deserve way more in this life than you’re allowing yourself to have. I don’t know why you’re punishing yourself, but you should stop. Maybe I’m not the person you need, but you need to find the one who is. Everyone needs love, even a big, bad warrior. Not everything in life should be a battle.”

I’m stunned, standing frozen on London’s front porch, staring at the door she just closed behind her.

What the hell?Those three words are on repeat inside my head. I grasp the back of my neck and turn to leave.Seriously, what the hell?

This entire day consisted of 351 reasons why I don’t date. I can barely think clearly enough to put one foot in front of the other to get off this porch.

I just need to get home and go to bed. Then, in the morning, I’ll work on forgetting that I ever knew a girl named London.

Loïc

Age Fifteen

San Antonio, Texas

“Hope is a powerful thing. It always kept me fighting for every tomorrow.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I spy black mold running along the caulk on the back of the sink, a sponge that is more gray than the teal color it’s supposed to be, and a sink full of dishes that should have been washed last week.

I think back to Glenda’s house. I haven’t lived there in two years, but I’ll never forget the maddening whiteness of it.

But which is worse—disgusting grossness or insanity-inducing starkness?

I think I’m going to pick black mold for $500, Alex.

Yep, I’d take the white over this any day.

I smile as I think of Mrs. Peters, the sweet old lady I stayed with for a few weeks before coming here. To say that she had an obsession with Alex Trebek would be an understatement. She recorded every episode ofJeopardy!onto stacks of VHS tapes and then would watch it all day long, every day. She would pause it to make meals and cookies. She made the best oatmeal–chocolate chip cookies in the entire world.

Oh, I miss Mrs. Peters.

I wished that I could have stayed with her for a long time. She was the nicest person I’ve stayed with. I didn’t have the nerve to ask her, of course, but I think she knew that I was happy there. Before my caseworker came to bring me here, Mrs. Peters explained to me that she was just too old to have kids full-time. She said us kids deserved better and that she could only be a temporary placement situation.

If she only knew.

After leaving Glenda’s, I stayed in five homes before coming here. I’m hoping this one will be temporary as well, but if we’re basing my stay off my luck, I’ll probably be here forever. I haven’t been here long, but I already know I don’t want to be either.

Bev and Carl seem nice enough—not really.Niceis a relative term, and in my experience, it signifies not cruel more than it stands for kindness.

Carl is overweight and just kinda gross. When he’s not at work—I’m not sure where that is yet—he’s sitting in the brown-and-yellow plaid armchair in the living room. When he’s gone, you can still see the outline of where his body sits. The fabric and cushions are completely worn down in a perfect Carl-shaped form.

Bev reminds me of a witch, like the one who tried to eat Hansel and Gretel. She comes off as decent, but there’s a part of her that’s off, that scares me. It’s like she’s being accommodating enough so as not to frighten me away, and then she’ll attack. She knows that I have nowhere else to go anyway. So, if it is indeed an act, she should know it’s an unnecessary one.

I have a feeling that Bev and Carl are going to be a permanent placement.

They have another foster kid named Sarah who’s been here for three years. She’s shy and quiet. I tried to talk to her last night, which goes against my usual behavior. I’d stopped trying to be friends with the other foster kids a long time ago. But something about Sarah makes me think she could use a friend. I didn’t get much out of her last night, other than the amount of time she’d lived here.

But I don’t like the way she acts around Carl. She never looks at him. The second she enters the living room, she keeps her eyes focused in the opposite direction of where he sits. I have the impression that she’s petrified to look at him, and that’s weird. I mean, he’s pretty ugly, but I think it’s more than that.

“Boy, the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.” Bev’s presence in the kitchen startles me.

“I know. I’m working on it.”

“To me, it looks like you’re just standing there,” she snaps.

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