I Spoke as a Child Chapter 1, a foster's home for imaginary friends fanfic

I Spoke as a Child

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 1

The knock on the door was as small as the boy knocking, but it was big enough to be respected.

"Come in!" Frankie called.

She turned off the MP3 player she had been listening to on her bed, pulled out the one earbud she was using and put down the book she had been reading. She had been propping it on her thighs with her knees up but lowered her legs onto the bed at the knocking. Then she pulled her skirt down and smoothed it out.

An instant later, with an instinct she felt without thinking, she repositioned the book over the bottom of her groin. As if it were a shield.

Her bedroom door creaked open slowly, then stopped. The small boy's face emerged just past the edge.

"Frankie …," he said, almost as if he were asking a question, "it's me. Can I come in?"

"Sure, Mac."

He entered the room and shut the door softly. He walked toward the chair by her desk, but all the time – and Frankie noticed this – he kept his eyes on her, as if she were a strange animal he couldn't help but be wary around. He took off his book bag, dropped it on the floor and climbed into the chair.

He looked at the 22-year-old redhead: Same green hooded jacket she always wore. Same purple skirt and cutoff white top with the Powerpuff Girls in color silhouettes. She was wearing her usual orange ankle socks, but her blue-and-white sneakers were casually tossed on the floor next to the bed.

A small silence. Finally, Mac asked, "Um … how are you?" He sounded uncomfortable.

She nodded with a smile. "Good. You?"

"Good."

"Well, that's … good." Another silence. "So how's your mom?"

"She's OK."

"And Terrence?"

"Still a spaz."

She chuckled. "Well, that's what big brothers are for. To pick on you."

"Yeah …"

Frankie closed her eyes and sighed. Well, she thought, might as well greet the elephant in the room.

She opened her eyes and assessed the 9-year-old with the mop of brown hair: As always, the red shirt over a gray long-sleeved flecked sweatshirt. Tan pants and black-and-white sneakers. He looked like the quintessential kid brother.

Which would make this all the more difficult, she thought.

"Did you give your mom my note?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"OK. Thanks for doing that. Did she … talk to you about the note …?"

"Yeah. She wasn't really happy to learn I'd been going to Foster's after she told me not to."

"I'm sorry about that, Mac. Really. But my message to her was very important."

"She seemed really upset when she read it. I don't know why. She wouldn't let me read it." His eyes turned contrite. "I'm sorry if I made you mad, Frankie ..."

She shook her head. "I'm not mad at you, Mac. You didn't do anything wrong. Don't worry about that. I just told her about what happened to me last week. I thought it was better if she explained it to you."

He looked down at the floor and remembered. Remembered the past week.