In my first memory I am three years old, and I'm being taken away from the only family I can remember.

The social worker with the pretty red dress and fake smile tells me I'm going on a new adventure and reaches out her hand for mine. I don't really like her so I don't take it, but I follow behind her when she walks out the front door because I know it's what I'm supposed to do

I cry because my foster mom tells me I have to leave my favorite doll behind, and I wonder who will take care of her when I'm gone. Without me no one will be there to give her baths in the sink or change her clothes. Without me no one will tell her they love her.

But, I'm not surprised I'm leaving. Somehow I knew, even then, that I wasn't a permanent fixture in those people's lives. Their house was not really my home. The bed I slept in was not really my bed. We were all just sort of playing pretend with each other for a while.

I lived for the day when my real mother would come to find me and take me back to live with her.

That day never came.

So I guess you could say that thirteen years later I'm not expecting too much out of these new people.

But, that's okay. I don't need much. I don't need someone to pull me into their arms and let me call them mommy. I don't need someone to help me get ready for school dances or give me advice about boys. I just need a bed and a place to study. The rest I can take care of myself.

I'm pretty sure the social worker was supposed to come in with me to introduce me to my new foster parents and shit, but this one doesn't seem particularly fond of her job. She took off in her Buick the moment my Keds hit the sidewalk. Normally I wouldn't care, but my bags are pretty heavy. I've learned to be ready to pack everything I own in a bag at a moment's notice, but that doesn't mean I'm able to pack light. Between my books and all my clothes this thing probably weighs upwards of thirty pounds and now I'm stuck dragging it down this dirt road.

It doesn't help that my hands are shaking. Even after a doing this so many times, there's something weird about introducing myself to a foster parent. "Hi I'm about to move into your house for the foreseeable future and you're going to be in responsible for me"….it's just awkward.

I've learned along the way that there are three kinds of foster parents. The kind that uses you as a stop on the road to adoption, the kind that wants you for the caregiver money, and the kind that genuinely cares about you.

I've never gotten the third kind, and from the looks of this dilapidated double-wide trailer, I'd guess that my new parents are the second kind. There's no doorbell, of course, so I knock instead, and almost immediately a chubby man in a trucker hat answers the door and smiles at me. His two front teeth are missing. "Josephine?" he asks.

"Um, my name is Jo, actually."

The second I walk in the door the stench of piss hits me.

"My name is Kevin" he says. "Welcome."

The kitchen is the first thing I see. Cereal bowls crusted with curdled milk are scattered across the kitchen, and a litterbox filled with cat shit is sitting in front of the refrigerator.

"Where's your wife?" I ask.

"Huh?"

"The Social Worker said you were married and, um, another foster son."

"Oh, Janine, she's at work" he says. "I don't know where the hell the other kid is."

"Can I set my bags down?"

"Of course" he says. "Settle in, make yourself at home."

I look around for where my room might be, and see a hallway on the other side of the living room. "My room is that way?" I ask.

"Yep" he says. "Third door on the right."

There are laundry baskets and trash bags everywhere, and I trip two times before I even make it to the hallway. But, the other side of the trailer is a little better. I can't believe this place hasn't been condemned, let alone that they are letting two foster kids live here. I've met drug addicts who were tidier.

There had to have passed some kind of inspection to take me in. Were they just that good at speed cleaning when they needed to?

My room is about the size of a postage stamp, but it's by far the cleanest room in the house. It stinks, just like the rest of the place, but aside from a mattress on the floor and an old dresser in the corner it's completely barren.

I could probably find a cheap desk at the Salvation Army across the town, and there'd be plenty of room for one. After using some air freshener I might even be able to stand the smell. Maybe this all won't be so bad. I've made do with worse before anyway.

"You the new girl?" a voice from the doorway asks.

I turn and see what might be the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen in my life.

"Yeah" I say. "I'm Jo."

"Cool" he says. "A girl with a boy's name."

I giggle and sound like a total loser, but he doesn't seem to notice. Instead he moves closer to me and gives me a serious look. "You want a piece of advice?" he asks.

"Sure" I say.

"Janine is fine, but stay the hell away from Kevin."

"Why?"

"Just trust me, it's for the best."

"I live with him, how am I supposed to-"

"You got somewhere else you can be until 10:00?" he asks.

"I could go to the library…"

"Good. Do that. At 8:00 he starts drinking, he's out like a light by 10:00, you'll be safe then until morning."

"Okay."

"If he ever bugs you at night just scream as loud as you can, I'm a light sleeper. I'll hear you."

I'm not sure what to say to that so "thank you" is what comes out of my mouth.

"Don't thank me" he says. "It's pathetic. We're not friends. All I'm offering to do is peel a pervert off you because I don't like the thought of him taking in underage girls so he can screw with them. I don't like hanging out around here until after he's asleep either so we probably won't see too much of each other."

"Oh…okay."

"Oh, and stay out of my room, I don't like people touching my shit."

"Fine" I say. I'm not sure why he's being such a douche, put it's starting to piss me off. "Don't touch my shit either."

He doesn't even wait for me to finish before he walks away. "Don't worry" he says over his shoulder. "I could care less about your shit."

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