I almost forgot what number foster home that I am currently going to. But then I remembered: number 14. How could I forget? Ten homes ago, I was with Callie. That had been a bad home for Callie. The foster parents were nice, and the foster brother was nice to me, but not to Callie. Something happened that made us get moved, and Callie wouldn't tell me. But I know what happened. After #4, Sandra, our old social worker, separated us to 'better my chances of adoption.' Yeah, right. So, seven-year-old me and ten-year-old Callie were separated. I went to #5 by myself, and who knows where Callie went. #5 was okay at first, but then stupid little kid me decided to try on the foster mother's dress, and everything went to hell from there. I was removed a little less than a year later. I had one home when I was nine, two when I was ten, one home and juvie at 11, three homes at twelve, and two, going on three since I turned 13 in February. Now it's October. Not one of my homes post-Callie has been decent. I highly doubt this one will be okay. There's probably a one-in-a-million chance that they'll feed me, or that they won't hit me. You see, almost all of my past foster homes have thought that I'm gay, which is the main reason of them hitting me. I don't know if I'm gay, but I sure hope not, considering that I get beaten if anyone even thinks that I am. Bill, the social worker I've had since Callie and I were separated, has been telling me this whole car ride that this family is really good, that they've adopted three other kids from the foster system, that I have to be good. I mean, it's cool that they've adopted kids, but their adopted kids are them, and I'm me. Bill's also been telling me that if this home doesn't work out, 'he'll be forced to place me in a group home or juvie.' Wow, Bill. I'm really sorry that you have the weight of my future over your shoulders because I am sure that me going to a group home or juvie will affect you a lot more than me, right?
I've been to juvie before, but only once. And it was stupid that I was even there in the first place. I was 11, and I got busted for running away and stealing a bag of potato chips from a gas station. Stealing was justified because I was practically starving to death since I was living on the streets for about two weeks or so before I got caught. And running away was definitely justified. The home I was in was the worst one I had been in. I haven't been to a worse one yet. The parents were very religious, and let's just say that they didn't like my 'gay, tranny, femme' personality all that much (their words, not mine.) Anyways, Bill says I'm lucky that I even got any more foster homes after juvie. Yeah, Bill, I sure am lucky. I haven't had a place to call home since I was four years old, and I don't even remember what home is supposed to feel like. Whenever Callie and I were in a bad place, she would tell me stories about Home. I always thought she was making them up; I mean, there can't be a place that good, can there? I guess I'll never home. Even though I don't know what Home is, I hope that Callie found a place like that. All I want for Callie, even now, is for her to be happy, so I really hope she is.
"Jude, we're here, let's go," Bill says as he stops the engine. I blink out of my daze and look out the window. We are in the middle of a really nice-looking suburban neighborhood. I'm shocked; all of my homes have either been in Chula Vista or San Ysidro, except for #4. If you didn't know, San Ysidro and Chula Vista are two of the shittiest towns in this area. I look at the house in front of us, which I assume is my new foster family's house. It's huge, almost as big as #4, and #4 had seemed like a mansion. But it looks cozy and warm, too, not too big and fancy.
"Come on, Jude, they're expecting us," Bill said as he closed his door. I step out of the car and follow him. We go to the porch and Bill knocks.
"Okay, Jude. This family is great, but you need to be on your best behavior. No talking back, no cursing, no sarcasm, nothing. Understand?" Bill says quietly, and I just nod. It's hard to be polite, but I'll try if it means having a decent home for a little while. Even if they are nice, I know it won't last. Like #2; they were great and were going to adopt us. But they were too old to adopt us (according to CPS), and we got taken away and moved to #3, which was one of the worst ones. That's when I learned nothing good ever lasts for more than a year. I was five.
A few seconds later, the door opens. A tall, dark woman with long, bushy brown hair and a kind smile stands there, next to a shorter, light woman with short, bright blonde hair and caring eyes. It's kind of weird, seeing them. They look too happy and kind, and just friendly to be real.
"Hey there, Bill! And you must be Jude! Come in, come in!" the blonde lady says a little too enthusiastically. I follow Bill inside and look around. There is clutter everywhere; there's a piano overflowing with music sheets in the corner, a half-empty bottle of blue nail polish on an ottoman, a skateboard over by the back door, and what seems like millions of fashion and sports magazines are spread all around. The blonde lady must notice me staring because she smiles and winks; yes, winks, at me. "Sorry for the mess, Jude. With four teenagers, there's no way to stop it," she, the darker woman, and Bill all laugh. I don't see what's so funny, so I don't laugh. "Well, Jude, my name is Stef and this is my wife Lena." the blonde woman says. Or, I guess, Stef says. I'm surprised; I don't know what I thought the women were, but I definitely didn't think they were wives. Well, at least they can't punish me for being gay (if I am) since lesbians can't be homophobic, right?
"Kids! Get down here!" Stef yells, and I hear four pairs of feet tumble down the stairs. Two boys, and two girls.
"Jude, this is Brandon, Stef's son from her previous marriage," Lena said as she pointed to the taller one, with shaggy brown hair. I get the feeling that he's the one responsible for the sheet music everywhere. "He's seventeen. And these are the twins, Jesus, and Mariana, we adopted them about eight years ago." "We're fifteen," a short girl wearing a designer (I think?) sweater and a lot of makeup says. She must be Mariana. "And this is Callie, we adopted her about five years ago," the black woman (Lena?) says. I suddenly look up at the girl they're talking about. She looks like...Callie?!