Page 2 of Diesel
I hear voices drifting from the hallway. I don’t know who it is. I don’t care. I’m supposed to be hidden, unseen.
I intend to escape to the room they allow me to sleep in, but before I can, they’re there.
Michael and Sharon are walking and talking to a woman I don’t recognise. I know instantly what she is. A social worker. They all have that same air about them, that same tired saviour complex stuffed into old suits and scuffed shoes.
But it’s not her I focus on. Clutching her leg is a small girl, pale face, freckles dusting both cheeks. Too thin and just barely clean. Her dark hair is tangled around her face, and her wide eyes look like they’ve seen too much for someone so young. She can’t be more than six, but I’ve learned not to trust appearances. So many kids that I come across in foster care look years younger than they are or years older. The system ages you in ways no one expects.
But this girl… she looks fragile, like she hasn’t been in the system long enough to get a hard shell. One stern word would break her and that’s a problem.
She’s not going to survive in this world if she doesn’ttoughen up. This is the worst place they could’ve put her to do that. Michael and Sharon are evil.
I freeze, unsure whether I should duck back into the kitchen and hide until they pass or keep moving and try to escape to my room without drawing too much attention to myself. What would Michael want me to do? What’s the action that’ll keep me out of trouble?
Before I can move either way the social worker notices me. Her gaze lifts, and she gives me a smile that is too soft for this house. “Zane, right?” She glances at Sharon. “This is your foster?”
Sharon hums a yes. I don’t answer, although it sits on the tip of my tongue to ask her for help, to ask her to get me out of here.
No… I don’t trust adults. I never trust those in the system. The social worker isn’t my friend, even if she’s smiling like she’s not a threat. The only thing social services care about is keeping kids moving through the system, and on paper Michael and Sharon are model foster parents. They’re not going to take my word over theirs.
Michael glares at me, the unspoken threat there.Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it permanently.
Sharon’s expression is even more hostile. Her lips pinched together like they always do when she’s trying not to explode.
“He won’t answer you,” Michael says with that edge he always puts into his voice when he’s talking to outsiders. That voice is a lie. It suggests he’s a caring, doting man. “He’s barely said two words since he was placed with us six months ago, poor thing.”
The social worker frowns, but my gaze has gone back to the little girl. Her coat doesn’t fit. The sleeves finishhalfway up her forearm, exposing bony wrists. She’s watching me, like she’s scared I might take something from her. Good. Being cautious is what keeps you alive.
“Oh.” The social worker looks back to me like I’m a puzzle to solve. “Has anyone investigated that? Is it normal for him?”
Sharon holds an arm out, directing her towards the sitting room. “Why don’t we sit down and I’ll grab you a cup of coffee while we discuss everything.”
The social worker looks at me again, as if she wants to ask more questions, but she turns to the little girl. “Why don’t you see if you can make friends while I talk to Mr and Mrs Abbott,” she says softly.
Friends…
With me?
She wants this little scared rabbit to make friends with me? I resist the urge to frown. Nobody has ever been my friend, and I don’t think she’s going to be the first.
The girl doesn’t look sure, but she doesn’t follow the social worker when she steps into the living room with Sharon and Michael. I let myself breathe easier the moment we’re alone.
Neither of us move. The girl fiddles absently with the toggle on the side of her coat, almost as if her hands need to be busy.
The silence stretches, oppressive and heavy. Then she takes in the hallway. I know what she’s seeing. Photos on the walls of all the kids that have come through the front door behind her over the years. A snapshot of a picture-perfect life that doesn’t exist within these walls. Every single one of those kids is smiling, but I know how to read faces, intentions, and a closer look at each one paints thereal picture. None of those smiles are real. Nothing about this house is real.
I’m disappointed she’s falling for the trap, seeing the performance and not the reality. Or at least I think so, until her lip curls down at the corners.
I don’t expect it, but she walks toward me, closing the space between us. She doesn’t get close enough for me to reach her, smart girl.
“Are these bad people?” Her voice wobbles. Maybe she understands more than I thought.
I don’t answer. What can I say to her that isn’t going to scare her to death?
Her brow furrows at my silence. “Can you speak?”
“Yes,” I say, the word rasping out of my mouth as if I haven’t used my tongue in a year.
Her face softens. “Oh. Good. I’m Max.”
