Day 1:
The wine glass was empty. Sharon's head was a bit light. Dinner, she needed dinner.They needed dinner. It was a they for the foreseeable future. Rising from the couch, she wavered on her feet momentarily, then made her way to her bedroom, past the closed, stubborn door to her spare bedroom.
After changing into jeans and a USC sweatshirt, regretfully leaving her bra on, Sharon tapped on Rusty's door. "What do you want for dinner?" she said crisply.
No answer. Well, that crap would have to stop, right now.
She opened the door, actually surprised to find it not locked. Rusty was on the bed, shoes off, reading one of the books her son had left behind on his last visit.
"Dinner," she barked.
He slowly lolled his head over in that way teenagers do which drove her insane. "I'm not into Lean Cuisine," he said, his gaze traveling from her furious eyes down her slim body. "I'm fine."
Ignoring the fact that half a dozen boxes of the frozen meals were in her freezer, she said, "I cook. What do you want? Pasta or veggie stir fry?"
The heavy sigh. She gritted her teeth. "I guess stir fry," he dragged out. "Vegetables sound good. Don't get much of those on the streets."
Concern immediately replaced her frustration. "What about the foster homes?"
He wiggled his white-socked toes; a show of agitation. "They just toss down nuked chicken tenders every night."
She took a closer look at his socks. One was dingy gray, one was close to white, but with red stitching on the toe; they obviously weren't a pair. He'd been wearing the same clothes for two days, she realized. "Do you want to do laundry?" she suggested leadingly.
"Uh, yeah, I guess," he mumbled.
Let me show you the set-up," she said briskly, "and then I'll start dinner."
Routine. Chores. Yes, parenthood was coming back to her.
He dragged his camouflage print knapsack behind him to the condo's laundry closet. His worldly possessions seem to be in it as he put aside his chess set to remove crumbled, pungently odored clothing. There weren't very many items.
"That's all you have?" she said, then regretted it as the mule expression that came on his face.
"I travel light."
"Why don't we wash what you're wearing too, then," she said.
He flushed and she rolled her eyes. "There's some things in the bedroom. My son's...He's pretty tall though...My daughter's sweatpants would probably fit you."
He flushed redder but she ignored that and started sorting.
"What are you doing?" he fussed, grabbing at his clothes.
"Separating the whites...And I used that term lightly," she said, holding a pair of underwear by her fingertips, "and darks."
"What?" He looked confused.
"We'll bleach the hell out of these whites," she said, staring at the one dingy sock on his foot. "And you don't want to bleach your jeans, right?"
"I guess not," he said uncertainly.
She waved a hand at him. "Go find something to change into."
He returned in a few minutes, yes, wearing her daughter's sweatpants, although a bit snug, and her son's green football jersey.
"Give me those socks too," she commanded.
He toed them off.
"None of your socks match," she commented, shoving them in the washing machine. She might as well start the load for him.
"Yeah," he said, a coldness there.
She peered at him over her glasses. "Boys can never keep track of socks."
He pursed his mouth. "It's not that. That last foster home, the 'mom' made you put all your socks and underwear in some bin and first come, first serve in the morning. No socks were matched together. When I got ready to leave, I just grabbed a handful. Didn't have time to find some pairs, let alone the good ones I came with."
Turning away so he wouldn't see her face, she poured bleach in the cup. "We'll get you some new socks then."
"You don't need to do that."
"They're just socks."
"I'm not gonna be here that long," he protested.
"We'll see about that-"
"When you find my Mom," he said, turning the knife. "She'll buy me socks."
She closed the washing machine's door and started the cycle. Facing him, she said, "Fine. But for now, I'll get you some new things."
He ate all his dinner, but she wasn't sure if that was an endorsement of her cooking or his state of perpetual teenage boy hunger. She needed to stock up more food...
The dryer buzzed. "I'll get that!" Rusty pronounced, jumping up from the table.
She didn't argue with him about it. It had been another long day. Any new job was difficult, but her age, and now with this boy...
After putting the dishes in the sink for now, she trailed down the hall to check on his progress.
He was stuffing his clean clothes into plastic shopping bags he'd found in the closet. She cringed to see the newly washed items wadded up and wrinkled already. "What are you doing?" she protested.
"Getting 'em ready to go," he said, his chin sticking out stubbornly. "Gonna be raining soon. Things get wet in my backpack."
She took a deep breath. She wasn't going to rise to his bait. "There're empty drawers in the dresser in your room. Use them."
As she headed back to the kitchen, he tucked the plastic bags full of clothes in the hall closet near the front door. She paused for a moment, considering stopping him, but then decided to choose her battles. She knew there would be plenty of them soon enough.
