One Week Prior:
Patricia's face was haggard. Dark circles emboldened her dull eyes, and her lips were taut with undue stress. She'd been up for days, in heated battles with several jurisdictions concerning the fate of Lillian Truscott. Throughout her years in the foster care program, Lilly was paddled up and down the California coastline, from foster home to foster home. Wherever she went, a murky cloud of trouble seemed to follow. The constant tumult proved to be an effective repellent, cutting ties and souring her reputation. Patricia's fellow social workers gleefully sided with the Malibu court system's decision to reassign the girl to an entirely separate region. Despite the lack of support, Patricia altruistically regarded the teenager as her favorite ward of the state.
Lilly sat before her, hands casually folded and demeanor unreadable. Patricia sighed and addressed the girl for the first time since she'd entered the office. "I'm going to be frank with you, Lilly," she began. "The system is fed up with your behavior. No one is willing to open their home to a delinquent. How many foster parents have you had over this past year alone?"
Lilly kicked her legs out. "Six," she answered, swinging her feet back and forth in a steady rhythm.
"Six!" cried Patricia. "Six! I've lost count of the number of homes you've been transferred to over the past nine years."
47, the blonde thought, biting her lip. Patricia was the closest thing to a maternal figure as she'd ever gotten, and Lilly hated herself for disappointing the woman. She could tell Patricia was at her wit's end. Her eyes were glossy with a desperation that hadn't been there before.
"They're moving you to another state, Lilly," she said finally, quietly. "I've tried appealing the decision, you have to know that. I tried my best, but I can only do so much."
Outwardly, Lilly was cooler than a winter storm, but inwardly, she flinched. "Oh," was all she replied despite her festering innards. Her swinging feet picked up momentum. She felt her nails dig crescents into her palms.
"Oh? That's all you have to say?"
Lilly shrugged. "What do you want to hear?"
Patricia rubbed her watery eyes, and pointed at the door, thoroughly defeated. "Out, Lilly. Please. Just get out."
Present:
The jolty take off gives me this childlike rush. It's my first time on an airplane, and the experience doesn't disappoint. Mr. Lopez, my state appointed escort, is sitting next to me, snapping peppermint bubblegum and making irregular small talk. He's telling me about some magazine article, but it's apparent that I'm little more than a business transaction to him. One of the bubbly stewardesses confuses me for a pre-teen and, in a candy sweet baby voice, offers to pin pilot wings onto my shirt. I decline, but accept the souvenir, quickly stuffing it into my pocket before I get a chance to reconsider it.
The plane lands on a single strip of runway. Welcome to Podunk, Tenne-fucking-see. I briefly register my biting laugh.
Last weekend, after Patricia had revealed my destination, I played a word association game with myself. It was a ritual I'd adopted to essentially calm my nerves. They had a tendency to flicker, skip, and hiss like live wire. Tennessee conjured up things like Jack Daniel's, the Grand Ole Opry, dirt roads, Bible thumpers, rednecks with shotguns, nothing too pleasant apart from the whiskey. I then immediately stole off to the recreation room and Googled the city's name on the antique, communal PC. I read that Ledgewood was sparsely populated and, as far as the pictures divulged, all too woodsy. That night, I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself there, in the countryside, smack dab in some flowery field… or strung up by the neck, solemn townsfolk bunched around, pitchforks in hand. I expected some stereotypically backwards small town—some place untouched by big city ideals… corrupt and corruptible at the same time.
I guess I'm about to find out.
Mr. Lopez's rental car rolls up to a middle class neighborhood. The house is decent, far from shabby but nothing too fancy. It's a plain white color, as blank as I feel. There's a small army of garden gnome statuettes and pink flamingos on the front lawn. On the off chance inanimate objects were to come to life and band together against the human race, I'd be worried.
My foster parents, Linda and Mark Hammley, seem as boring as the house's interior motif. Linda initially comes off as an unspectacular stick in the mud. I think it has something to do with her get-up. Her hair's done up in the stiffest bun I've ever seen, and her long sleeved dress runs all the way down to her ankles.
We're sitting down for dinner. Linda reveals she's a teacher, and Mark works at an oil change shop. They have no children or pets. Linda hopes I like it here. Mark doesn't talk much aside from the occasional request to pass him some condiment or another. When Linda runs out of Hammley tidbits, she tentatively asks me a slew of questions.
"So, Lillian—"
"Lilly," I correct, stabbing a green bean.
"Ah, Lilly, sorry. You're 15, right?"
"Right," I confirm. I don't know why I'm engaging in this pointless exchange. They know my age. They know everything about me from freckle placements to shoe size, courtesy of the foster agency. I never understood the necessity of formalities. These introductions are messy, uncomfortable, and redundant.
"Malibu sounds like such an exciting place. I hope you tell us about it."
"Yeah." I bite into the green bean. I bet any place sounds exciting after 5 minutes of this dump.
Mr. Lopez wipes his moustache. "She's just shy," he explains. "She'll warm up." His assurance is stamped with apology.
After Mr. Lopez leaves, Mark retreats to his recliner with a twelve pack of imported beer. I almost want to cackle at the textbook predicability of it all. Is there a prerequisite that calls for subpar moral fiber in prospective foster parents? My last ones, the Jennings, were hoarders. They took foster kids on board for the monthly check each head secured. Their idea of pampering us included a game of Ms. Pac-Man and a clearanced candy bar. Mr. Jennings was a closet perv and Mrs. Jennings' primary diet consisted of cheap Sangria and Black Russian cigarettes. On the up side, she was a happy drunk. When she was sauced enough I'd bamboozle a couple dollars out of her. I kept every bill wadded up inside a spare sock. I'm saving up to get the fuck out of this system.
Linda seems embarrassed, but doesn't say anything apart from her grimace. I wouldn't be surprised if she's one of those battered wife types. This scenario has all the elements of a formulaic Lifetime Network original movie. You'd think I'd be more perturbed, but this is a fucking cake walk in comparison to some of my past living arrangements.
She distracts me with a short tour of the house, and shows me to my room. "The bathroom is across the hall," she points. She goes in first, flicking the light switch and illuminating the space. It's big, and painted solid lavender. There's a bed, full length mirror, dresser, and a small desk holding a cute table lamp and a PC. Mark brought my bags up beforehand. "I hope it's okay," says Linda. "Feel free to put up posters, or pictures."
"It's… nice," I answer. She just nods and leaves.
I toss myself on the mattress and bite the inside of my cheek, surprised when I don't bolt up out of bed. I figure I'm dreaming, still back in the Malibu group home with dozens of other throwaways. I don't know what's worse, being stranded here or being stranded there.
Linda drives me to the high school. "Do you remember your way back home from here?" she asks as the car comes to a stop.
I nod and climb out, heaving my backpack over my shoulders.
"If you have any problems, don't be shy to give me a call. I work a couple blocks down at the elementary school."
I nod again, and she waves as she drives off.
People are already eyeballing me, no doubt trying to figure me out. I'm probably the most exciting thing that's gotten around to this town since electricity. The school is a cramped single-story building, and my classes are ridiculously easy to find.
My schedule consists of Trigonometry, AP World Literature, Biology, AP World History, P.E., and Theater. No, I'm not ambitious. God, I hate preconceptions. I hate assessment tests even more. If I had any say in the matter, my classes would be made up of finger painting, Duck Duck Goose, and nap time whims. I'm one of the whopping five in Trig. I bet the head count doesn't fair much better in my subsequent courses, and it doesn't.
Lunch time comes and goes, just like my hunger pangs. Linda gave me some cash this morning, but my desire for independence overshadows the lunch menu items. I opt to add the fiver to my wad of savings.
I'm in the provisional auditorium. I heard the last auditorium got charred in a botched Sadie Hawkins prank, and the school board is waiting on government funding to trickle down. There are rows of metal folding chairs for seats, and a portable stage. The bell rings. Ms. Stewart or whatever is late. I have this unwritten rule about tardy teachers. If they're missing for a full 20 minutes, I feel entitled to walk out.
5 minutes tick by, and the door flaps open. My eyes lazily wander over, and I almost do a double take. She's unbelievably hot. You know, the kind of teacher that gets apples everyday. She can't be any older than 25. Everyone's at attention all of the sudden.
"I'm sorry I'm late," she says. I'm sorry she's late too. Mostly because it cut 5 minutes from my allotted class time, which means I'll only get to stare at her for another 55.
She makes us do yoga exercises and then we play some silly improv game. My reluctance totally melts under her reassuring smile. I'm bummed when the bell rings. No one seems to stand, except for two chatty girls in the front. Ms. Stewart laughs and claps her hands together. "You know," she grins. "You guys can leave now. School's over."
There's a collective shuffle of feet and chair legs. Embarrassment creeps upon my cheeks in the form of a light pink flush. Before I can leave, I hear her call my name, "Lillian?"
I gulp and swipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. My collar feels suffocatingly tight. I slowly turn around and make my way towards her. "Yeah?" I answer.
The rest of the class has already vacated. It's just me and her. I suppress a shiver. "I just wanted to personally offer you my support," she says.
I squint my eyes a little, suspicious of her extended hand. What's with the hospitality? Does she know I'm a foster kid or something? Usually, when news gets around people are really liberal with the pity.
"This whole experience must be scary for you. New things, new places. They're not always the easiest to deal with," she smiles at me and admits, "I can relate to your situation. This is actually my first year teaching, and it's been intimidating to say the least."
"No way. You can't tell, you know," I blurt, feeling a case of word diarrhea coming up. I know the symptomatic feeling.
She looks confused. "Can't tell what?"
"That you've never done this before with the way you teach. You're so confident, natural… fluid. Come on, Ms. Stewart, you can't honestly say that you haven't noticed the way everyone's captivated by you?" There it is, the shit to top all shits.
I don't think she knows how to answer. I'm surprised to see some red coloration in her cheeks. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was flustered. Hell, it's just wishful thinking. "Thank you," she finally says, smiling.
"Uh, yeah. I mean, it's whatever" I'm fidgeting. "Can I go now?"
On my way back to the Hammley's, I hear someone call out my name. "Lilly, right?" I glance behind my shoulder. It's a shaggy haired boy.
"Who's asking?"
"Oliver Oken," he introduces, pushing a little faster to catch up. "I'm in your Trig and Biology classes."
"So?"
He shrugs. "I thought we could walk together. It looks like we're heading in the same direction anyway."
"Okay," I sigh. I let him walk beside me. It's quiet for the most part.
"Where'd you move from?"
"Malibu."
"Cool! As in Malibu, California?"
"No. Malibu, Ohio."
"Oh."
I can't help my laugh. "I'm dicking around."
"Oh." He lets himself laugh too.
