When I had been dropped off at the orphanage, the woman had requested that I be called Holly.
My caretaker, Ms. Spink, narrated this story to me every anniversary of that day: a lady with a scarf and large sunglasses rushed at the front desk, a squirming bundle in her arms. Before Ms. Spink could get a single question out, the woman thrust her face up close to her. Ms. Spink could not decipher the female's expression, as her tinted lenses obscured her features. "Holly," she said, quaking, "her name is Holly."
Ms. Spink stuttered out something she could not remember, but it would not have made a difference anyway. I was laid on the sofa in the waiting room and my mother was out the door.
For twelve years, that is what I have been told. I sat down on my bed the eve of my thirteenth birthday, preparing myself for the annual telling of my history.
Ms. Spink walked into my room that I shared with two other girls. On her face was a look of abhorrence. "Girls," she said, her eyes shifting from one point to the next, "this room looks absolutely horrible. When's the last time you cleaned up in here?"
One of my roommates shrugged her shoulders, not looking up from the book she was reading. Ms. Spink marched over to her and grabbed the novel from her hands. In a low, slow voice, she muttered, "Did you hear what I just said?"
The girl blanched slightly at her tone of voice. Our caretaker only used this sound when she was threatening us. Usually, this preceded her either ripping our distraction to shreds or ordering us to 'get the towels'. You'll understand later.
"Yes, m'am," the little girl said, faltering, and she reached down and scooped up her pajamas from the ground.
"I'm glad I made myself clear," Ms. Spink said, turning on her heel and marching towards me.
No 'Are you excited to be nearly thirteen?' or 'How do you want to celebrate tomorrow?'. She sat down on the edge of my bed with a grunt.
"So I suppose you wanna hear how you ended up here," she said icily.
I nodded, eager to review the only information I had about life outside the foster home.
She began her account in that broken English of hers. "You was dropped off on a Monday by a woman that didn't want you. She was all covered up in fancy garments, and she looked down at me, came real close, and she said youse name was Holly. See, I respect her wishes?"
I nodded, gesturing for her to continue.
"Well, you see, I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn't have none of it. She didn't let the door hit her on the way out; didn't look back once. And here y'are."
My eyelids lowered. Although I was interested, I wasn't sure about the reason I was told this every year. Was it supposed to keep me in check? Ms. Spink, who never attempted to develop an emotional bond with any of her childen, always ended one of her stories with this moral: you're nothing without me. That's how barely any of her kids run away - we're too reliant on her. Nearly every aspect of the outside world is foreign to me. My only allotted time to explore the neighborhood comes from 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm every Saturday.
I pulled my knees to my chest and thanked Ms. Spink. Her mouth clipped, she strode to the door. She extinguished the candle light before walking out.
In the entire foster home, there were twelve children. Four girls and eight boys, all between the ages of 4 and 16. I was shy and did not like socializing, so out of everyone I only had two friends. One was my room companion Lise, and the other was Mason, a sixteen-year-old thrown into Ms. Spink's tight claws.
All the boys in the home had been troublemakers, dropped off by parents who were fed up with their recklessness. Even though Ms. Spink would surely bring out the towels if she ever caught him, at a tender age Mason was smoking and doing things of questionable legality.
On the side, besides his impressive resume of crime, what drew me to him was his sensitivity. Although rare, he could really open up when his guard was down and we divulged all of our secrets to each other. The next day, a Saturday, when our free hours matched up, we walked to a local convenience store and sat down at the tables inside. With our meager allowance we splurged on some powdered doughnuts in commemoration of my birthday.
Mason asked what it feels like to be thirteen. I shrugged, "I guess it feels the same. It's not like Spink treats me any differently." I eagerly wiped the powdered sugar from my face as I dug into another doughnut.
Mason barked a laugh. "Ha! Once you get older you'll be singing a different tune. She cracks down even more."
I opened my eyes wide in sarcastic horror. "What? Are you saying that she's not trying her hardest with me yet? I never knew Spink to give anything less than her best. I should have a little chat with her today."
"Yeah. Damn, I can't wait to get out of there."
"Don't worry. I'm sure you'll find adoptive parents soon."
His lightheartedness faded from his face. He pushed the last doughnut towards me, standing up abruptly.
"What is it?" I asked, alarmed at his sudden countenance shift.
He looked at the door and sat back down eventually. He looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed.
"Nobody wants me," he said quietly.
I was taken aback. I couldn't stammer out a response for several seconds. "That's ridiculous. You just have to find the right parents for yourself."
"NO, Holly. You don't understand. Who leaves that place? THINK."
He began to count off of his fingers. "First the light-skinned girls get adopted, then the light-skinned boys. Then, the dark-skinned girls. And finally, when the pickings are slim - " He choked on his words. "Ms. Spink said so. Nobody wants the black boys."
His pain in front of me increased my hatred for Ms. Spink exponentially. How could the most ignorant woman on the planet be spreading such lies?
"That's stupid. I've never heard of something more absurd, Mason. Ms. Spink doesn't know what she's talking about. You'll find parents."
He stopped himself from shaking his head and plastered on a smile for my sake. "Sorry, Holls," he said, "I don't mean to screw up your birthday."
"Mason, it's - "
"I'd really rather not talk about it."
It was a gloomy, cloudy day that seemed to reflect the mood as we walked in silence back home. When we arrived and had gotten through the door, we were greeted by a caretaker with fire in her eyes.
"WHERE have you two been," she spat, as if she was stating a fact and not asking a question.
"Just over at the 7/11," I began, but she tossed a small clock in our direction. It was almost four, nearly an hour after curfew.
She planted her feet. "Get. the. towels." she said. The other foster children peeked out behind the staircase at the mere mention.
I glanced at Mason in panic. Did coming in a little late consequentially condemn us to the worst punishment inflicted in this house?
'Getting the towels' was code for a beating. The punished child had to fetch a long, thin, white towels dip it into water, and twist it into a whip-like shape. Then Ms. Spink beat the child with it until she got bored. It was humiliating to have to summon one's own disciplining item, but even more so to have to bear the pain of it while the other foster kids watched.
I decided that there was no way around it, and obediently started for the basement where her selected of towels were. But Mason put out his arm to stop me. "No," he said shortly.
Ms. Spink did not understand. She had never even had to comprehend a child telling her no. Her face did not betray it, but her body positioning did. She took a slight step closer towards the two of us. "What did you just say to me?"
"I said no."
"That's what I thought I heard too. Boy, get the towels."
She reached for his ear, but he moved out the way. "NO! I'm sick of this house! I'm sick of your mind games! I'm sick of YOU. You don't own me anymore. No, no, NO!"
He spun on his sneaker and stormed out of the house and down the street. Without thinking, I raced after him, my feet pumping hard. He was already out of my sight as I neared the corner. I could hear Ms. Spink screaming bloody murder after me. A roar of thunder raged over my head, and the foreboding day finally yielded rain.
I pulled my sweatshirt hood over my head as I attempted to find a dry place. No way in hell was I going back. I needed refuge. Where? I whipped around blindly, vision obscured from the rain. Oh please, Ms. Spink, don't come after me, I prayed.
I ran for a couple more blocks before I heard the faint sound of singing. It sounded like the French Gospel music that Ms. Spink forced us to listen to every Sunday. A church was around here.
I located a steeple raised high up above the other buildings and moved closer to it. I saw a door propped open with a trash can and knew it would probably would be closed soon with the start of the rain. I only had a couple of seconds to get in.
They wouldn't kick me out, right? It was a church after all, and wasn't it against Jesus to turn away soaked, homeless girls with squeaky high tops? Something like that.
The door I had entered was part of a kitchen in the back of the church. There was a line snaking up and down, and it looked like a lot of people like me were receiving steaming bowls of soup. My stomach grumbled at the scent of rich clam chowder. I hadn't had anything today besides powdered doughnuts.
I debated with myself whether I should get in line or not. I didn't want to interact with anyone. They would ask too many questions.
My eye, shifting around, landed on a girl that was staring at me from behind a vat of soup. She immediately averted her gaze, but I could tell she had been focused on me. The way she had been looking made me feel like she was unraveling all of my deepest secrets. I felt utterly naked and exposed. It was as though she was memorizing my every feature. Oh, God. She was going to tell the staff, and I would have to go back to that cursed place. My heart rate quickened. I couldn't stay here. With one final glance at the mystery girl, I slipped out of the kitchen and back onto the streets.
A/N: I was inspired to write some background on Holly! What did you think of this impulsive beginning? This is probably going to be a multichapter, because if you didn't quite catch it, that 'mystery girl' was Sammy :D. I want to write about her relationship with SKeyes and also maybe find her mother and figure out what landed her in foster care? Not sure yet, so stay tuned! Love you, beautiful people!
X,
DKMV