Hi, my name is Raven Roth. Well technically it's Rachael Raven Roth, but I've always gone by Raven. I live with a foster family on Overlook Road. I'm not sure why it's called that but my best guess is because the rest of our town is so nice compared to my small street, so they decided to over look it. No one really knows where it is. If I were to ever give my address to someone, they wouldn't know where to go. Not that I'd ever give my address out. But if I did.
I'm one of the only kids who live on my street. Mostly the "poor" people or foster kids live around here. The only other foster kid who lives around here is Garfield Logan. His parents died when he was little. Something about a boating accident. I only talked to him once before. And it was when I was walking home after missing the bus and I saw him take the trash out. He saw me give him a funny look when I saw him there he made me swear to secrecy that I wouldn't say anything.
Now, if you knew the social arrangements at our school you'd understand why I thought it was funny to see Garfield Logan at this part of town. He's one of the 'popular' people in Freshman year. He knows everyone in our grade, and all the grades up ahead. Everyone who's anyone that is. I guess it's understandable that I didn't know he lived here. He usually doesn't take the bus. For the most part he just catches a ride with one of his friends. People know that he doesn't have parents, but I guess they just figured he lived with a relative, or a close family friend. No one ever really asked him. I mean, talking about how your parents were killed isn't exactly a pleasant topic to discuss. But he seemed comfortable talking about it with me. He told me about how his parents died, and how they didn't know who to send him too. That he was only a little kid and couldn't find anything saying who he was except for an old baby picture with his name written on the back of it in the glove compartment of his parents' rental car. He asked me why I was living here and must have seen the sour look on my face because he said I didn't have to tell him if I didn't want too.
But I did anyway. It was only fair. He told me his story so I'd tell him mine. I told him about how my mother died in my home country when we tried fleeing after our village got raided. She couldn't make it to our boat on time and got killed after she was left behind. I told him that I don't remember my mother, but she never called me by my first name, always by my middle name. That's why I'm known as Raven, everyone just got used to it. Even my father. My father and I were on the boat together but he didn't really care about what happened to me. He worked long hours, and when he wasn't working he was drinking with his friends. Neighbours, and teachers knew about family issues but they didn't think it was anything that put me into harms way. But when the neighbours heard me scream then saw me running down my driveway with a bruised arm and a cut up lip, I was sent away without a second thought.
He never argued with them trying to take me away. I don't think he cared. When the police burst into the house and said "Child Services". All he did was look at them say "She's upstairs second door on the right." Then went back to his beer. Didn't even try to make an argument. I remember looking at him while carrying my bags and my mother's necklace as they took me away, he didn't even come outside to watch me drive off. So instead I sat there in the back seat of a car watching my house grow smaller as we drove and the dim glow from the television in the living room window slowly die in the distance.
After I told him this there was only one expression I could read off his face. Pity. That instantly got me frustrated. I hated when people pitied me. Feeling bad for someone isn't going to help them, so why bother. I don't even understand why he felt bad. We were both in the same position. Both foster kids without anywhere or anyone to go to. We were both screwed over in life. Sure we found a temporary home, but once we hit 18 we're back on the streets to fend for ourselves. Maybe that's why he trusted me with his story. And maybe that's why I trusted him with my own. We were both in the same position as each other. We didn't have to worry about getting ridiculed because we were both going through the same thing. I'm honestly not sure why he trusted me with his secret, but not his best friends. But it doesn't matter. Like I said, I've only ever talked to him once. And it's probably the last time I'll ever talk to him. But after that one talk he nods to me and flashes very subtle smiles at me in the hall way as to acknowledge my existence.
