Page 15 of Play Fake
6
SOPHIE
The foster agency always smells faintly of crayons and disinfectant. A mix of comfort and sterility, like it’s trying too hard to feel like home but never quite makes it.
I slip my bag onto the volunteer desk, sign in, and head down the hall toward the playroom. The sound hits me before I even push the door open—squeals of laughter, little feet pounding against tile, a toddler wailing because someone stole his block.
It’s chaos. My favorite kind of chaos.
“Miss Sophie!”
A tiny blur barrels toward me, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed pink. I barely have time to crouch before he throws himself into my arms.
“Hey, buddy.” I hug him tight, breathing in the scent of what I’m assuming is strawberry shampoo. “You’re supposed to be playing.”
“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles into my shoulder, even though I can feel the smile pressed against my shirt.
This is Caleb. Four years old. Big brown eyes, dimples that should’ve belonged to a kid without scars. His case file saysneglect,substance abuse,multiple placements. Words that look cold on paper but mean nights of hunger, mornings of fear, and days spent wondering if anyone would ever stay.
He clings tighter, and I rub slow circles on his back.
Most volunteers call him clingy. I just think he’s a kid who’s learned too soon how easy it is to be left behind.
“All right,” I whisper. “You wanna help me with snack duty instead?”
He pulls back, eyes brightening. “Goldfish?”
I grin. “You know it.”
We spend the next twenty minutes handing out paper cups of crackers, refilling juice boxes, and herding the little ones toward the reading circle. Caleb stays with me the entire time, glued to my side like my shadow.
When it’s time to settle them down a few hours later, I tuck him onto his mat, smoothing the blanket over his small frame. His hand darts out, catching mine before I can pull away.
“Don’t go yet,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
My chest tightens. I sit cross-legged beside him until his eyes flutter closed, his grip loosening as sleep wins.
Watching him, I can’t help the thought that always comes when I’m here: how many of them will find something permanent, something safe? And how many will spend their childhood bouncing from home to home, learning that love has an expiration date?
I press my palms against my knees, grounding myself. This is why I’m here. Why I stay up too late finishing assignments and I push through practices even when I’m exhausted. Because if I can help even one kid like Caleb someday—give them a steady place to land—then every sacrifice will be worth it.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Almost two. Soon the staff will swap shifts, and I’ll have to rush across town, grab a quickbite, then throw myself into the rest of the day, which includes practice and homework. The cycle never stops.
But this part? Tuesdays and Thursdays, every week? This part is mine.
I started volunteering here my sophomore year, back when I was just trying to build my résumé for grad school. That’s what I told myself anyway. Hours logged, references gained, boxes checked. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about me.
Now, it’s the two mornings I refuse to give up, no matter how insane my schedule gets. The only hours where I can push my own stress to the side and justbehere. With them.
With Caleb, who lights up when I walk through the door. With Mia, who won’t nap unless someone sings to her first. With the older kids who pretend they’re too cool for hugs but still hover close when it’s time to leave.
Tuesday and Thursday mornings remind me who I want to be.
Not the perfect daughter in heels and a rehearsed smile. Not the girl who wasted too many years tied to Zach’s shadow.
But someone who matters. Someone who stays.
I brush a hand lightly over Caleb’s blanket before standing, easing toward the door on quiet feet.
