Standing in a back alley of Detroit, I begin to ponder, an angry red blaze flashing across my eyes. I like to think it's rage, but it's probably just the light from the street lamp. I decide I'm sick of being peddled from one house to another because of stupid fuck-ups like me trying to one-up my reputation. It's not like I asked to be a fuck-up. I don't like looking in the mirror for a reason.
I twirl an unlit cigarette in my frigid fingers, debating my last twelve years or so, give or take a few months, I guess. My life hasn't been perfect, no, but it could always be worse. Sure, I've been hospitalized more than any of my other foster "siblings," but I could be like Maria, locked up in some cell somewhere because of a drug problem. I never touched it. Ever. Drugs, that is. I had enough to fuck me up.
No, my calling to fucked-up status was always kleptomania. I stole anything I needed, or sometimes what I wanted, you know? It all depended on what mood I was in.
When the foster family found my habit, which sometimes was on purpose or by accident when she found four hundred dollars missing from her purse. Bitch shouldn't have left that much cash in there. It was begging to be stolen. I was "flogged to within an inch of my life" as her husband would have said, so they didn't press charges on me, they just sent me away again.
Fine by me. I had what I wanted. I wanted to get out of that shit hole anyway. It was a perfectly strategic plan. I walked out of that house with so much of their stuff they didn't even know I took.
The social workers don't know what to do with me. Every house I've been to has been a failure. Either they fuck up, or I do. Like the one time one of my "foster fathers" threw me down a staircase. That was fun, until I hit the ground and passed out because I landed on my ribs. I woke up in the hospital with all my things already packed for me. Fuckers.
So now they're sending me to the patron saint of lost children. Last time they did this, I fucked up in three weeks. Second best record. My best was when I ran away after three days because the "mother" wanted to jump me, tie me to the bed and fuck my brains out. Imagine what that did to an eight-year-old. I shudder to think about it.
I hear the chiming of the five o'clock bells go off at the churchyard, and the sun is just barely tinting the sky. I've been away all night, and that fact brings me a sick sort of satisfaction. It's today that they're taking me to my new "home."
Apparently, her name's Evelyn Mercer, and she's helped hundreds of kids find permanent homes, but she's adopted three "like me," as Phil would say. He's an old fool who still thinks there's some good in the world.
Fat chance of that.
So, I start my trek toward the home they stuck me in with a bunch of other smelly homeless, listless boys who had nowhere to go. Some of them are worse than me, but they say I'm the worst. What the fuck ever.
I enter quietly and flop onto my bunk, pretending effectively that I'm still asleep when Phil comes and wakes me up at six, saying, "It's your big day, Jackie," in that childish voice. I groan under my breath. He took it as a sleepy sound, but it was disgust. "Dress in your best."
I pull myself from the bed, grabbing the shoes I'd worn all night. Black leather, worn to shit, steel-toed. I pull on my Pink Floyd t-shirt. I think it's the only shirt that's still clean, and pair it with my dark blue ripped jeans, and my ever-enduring leather jacket, which is accumulating more modifications every day. I run my hand through my hair, then glare effectively at Phil, who had been watching me the whole time, creepy bastard.
"Can we go?" I said shortly, in a gruff voice, shaking my head to clear it. I hate going to new places, even though I've never stayed more than a year at one particular place. Phil sighs sadly and I follow him out of the place, not paying any attention to the "brothers" I had accumulated over the past couple of weeks. They're nothing to me as they catcall me out the door. They're just another couple of people on a broken road leading to nowhere.
Great, I'm sounding like Edgar Allan Poe or some shit. What is it with me? Phil grabs my arm as we exit the place.
"Now, be on your best behavior," Phil mumbles. I yank my arm from him, and give him a sardonic grin behind lidded eyes.
"Always," I say slyly. I pull out a lighter and begin to flick it as Phil tries to grab me again, stepping away from the flame. Effective way of warding off unwanted contact, don't you think?
"And put that lighter away; Evelyn's a very highly respected person, so give her the respect, you hear me?" Phil reprimands, and I all but laugh in his face.
"Me? Respect? You gotta be kidding," I mumble, and continue flicking the lighter. Truthfully, I am nervous. I've never met a saint before. What is she like, I wonder? Will she baby me? Well, if she does, fuck her; I don't need it.
We get in the car, and the ride is silent until we ride up on a house that's half-brick, half something else, with an outside patio enclosed by windowpanes. Hey, at least it's a somewhat nice house. Maybe I'll burn it down. Phil pushes me out of car and toward the door. I stumble a bit, but regain my balance, standing in front of the door, waiting for Phil to knock. I sure as fuck won't.
He does. Stupid fuck.
The door is opened by a boy of about seventeen, with hard green eyes and slicked-back hair, a cold aura around him. My eyes lift to meet his, and for the first time in a long time, I feel fear seeping through me. Not enough to deter me though.
"Yeah?" the boy at the door asks. Phil begins to explain the situation, and the boy lets us in, taking an extra hard look at me, scrutinizing me. I shiver and walk far away from him, into a warmly lit living room with an old woman crocheting on the multicolored couch. She looks up and her blue eyes sparkle in the light. I step back, away.
"This is Jack, Ms. Mercer," Phil introduces me; I can't even do that myself apparently. I roll my eyes.
"And he can't introduce himself, Mr. Harris?" the woman inquires, and my eyes flicker up to hers, eyebrows high on my forehead.
"Of course he can, he just won't," Phil explains. I shake my head, thinking. I can't let myself get attached to this woman. I'll be gone within weeks, so no putting down roots. I look down, fiddling with my lighter as I feel her eyes on me.
"Stop staring," I mumble. "I'm not a circus animal." I look up at her, expecting shock or disgust or some sort of negative response. Instead she's looking at me with those eyes, wide-open and …welcoming. This lady's a one of a kind, that's for sure.
"I never said you were, Jack," she states.
"I'm going to explore," I state, walking out of the living room, away from her penetrating stare. I'm not watching where I'm going, and run into a large black boy a few years older than me, with big hair and a confident air about him.
"Who are you, kid?" he asks in a slick voice.
"Jack, and you?" I shoot the question back at him. I'm about eye-level with him, thanks to being tall. He grins at me.
"I'm Angel. What are you doing here?" he asks, and I chuckle.
"Apparently I'm going to be staying here for a while," I say, and his eyebrows rise. I smirk slightly, cocking out my hip a little.
"Ah, the new addition," comes a voice from behind him. It's the boy from the door. I dare to look him in the eye again. "I'm Bobby."
"Jack," I say again. How many more people will I have to introduce myself to? Another black boy comes out from behind Bobby, making me even more nervous. He had almost a kind face, but his eyes were calculating, like the rest of them.
"I'm Jerry," he states, and I merely nod my head, not wanting to say my name again. They all look at me imploringly, making me nervous.
"So, where do I stay?" I ask, assuming they'll say the couch. I'm used to sleeping in strange places.
"Ma has a room for you; it's just upstairs, next to hers," Bobby states, and I can feel the way my face changes. I'm shocked…a bedroom, just for me? This is a first, a really BIG first. "It's upstairs."
"My...my own room?" I whisper to myself, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. I brush it off roughly, noticing that it's Angel's.
"Yeah, kid, your own room," Angel says. A tint of a smile touches my face as I look down. Maybe this won't be so bad…for a couple weeks.