Disclaimer:I don't own this. Obviously.
A/N--This is probably a rubbish chapter, but they'll get better I swear!!
ALICE
"Hello girls," he smile at us "got everything ready?"
"Yes Mr Cullen," Rosalie bobbed her head. She smiled her pretty smile at him.
"Ok. Do you want to say goodbye to Blake and Jo?" He asked, his grey eyes flickering to the door where they were sitting, speaking with our social worker, Steph.
Rosie looked at me. I bit my lip and shook my head, looking at the floor. They were throwing us away. They didn't deserve a goodbye.
"Alright," he sighed, raising his eyebrows as I looked up. "Get in the car."
My eyes flickered to the sleek black car. Sure, I didn't know my cars very well, if at all, but this one looked smart enough. Clearly, my new foster father had money.
"Alice, come on," Rosalie tugged my elbow. I picked up my little suitcase. It held the few possessions I had, the few clothes, the little folder stuffed with photos, drawings, and writing collected through my life, as well as a couple of books and my bear. Yes, I am fifteen and I still have a stuffed bear. Mock me, I dare you.
"I'm just going to have a word with Stephanie," Dr Carlisle Cullen told us.
Rosalie and me walked through the door for the last time, along the path, past the front garden that held a deflated paddling pool from two years ago, the pretty flowers and the slide, seeing as we had no back yard, and through the gate. The next door neighbours kids were skate boarding down the path, laughing and shoving each other. Rosalie and I got in the back seat of the car without another word, a backward glance. There was a tap at the window as I shut the door. I looked to see who it was, at Rosalie's window. Paul. Paul was Rosalie's ex. She dumped him for another guy, but he refused to give up on her, saying he loved her and giving her flowers and chocolate at every available opportunity.
"What do you want, Paul?" Rose asked, winding down the window.
"Where are you going Rosie? With your suitcase and your sister?" Paul asked. He held a soccer ball under his arm, his tanned skin dripped sweat. I crinkled my nose.
"Away. Away from you, away from everything!" Rosalie told him, staring him straight in the face.
"Why? I love you Rosie! Take me back?" He begged, his eyes pleading.
"No! Leave me alone Paul! Stuff your flowers and stuff your apologies! I know what you did with Grace! I'm never taking you back!" She wound the window up.
I stretched my hand out to her, as Paul turned throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation, to his friend. I didn't know about Grace.
Rosalie took my hand, and smiled sadly at me. There were tears in her eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall, I knew.
"This dress is so itchy," she said in a quiet voice. Jo had made us wear posh dresses seeing as we were going to a new foster home. She had bought Rose's especially, but mine was from back when I was eleven, seeing as I had only grown about two inches. It was ridiculous. It was a pink thing with frills and bows. Rosalie's wasn't much better. The two of them were 1940's style things, when here we were in the 2000's. Rose had curled her hair, and although Jo usually banned us from wearing make up, as if we were both six years old, she turned a blind eye to Rosie today. Maybe it was because she simply did not want to look at us. Guilt perhaps. "Alice are you ok?" Rosie asked, concerned. I nodded my head, turning my face towards the floor. I couldn't speak. I knew I would burst into tears if I did. We had been with Jo for two and a half years. Now, all because of me, she had thrown us out. "This isn't your fault you know," Rosalie told me, squeezing my hand.
"It is," I whispered.
"Alice! Course it isn't! It's just that old...that old cow thinks we're like some kind of shit she can throw away," Rosalie said angrily. "Its not your fault you got angry, sweetie."
"It's my fault we're leaving," I whispered again.
"No it isn't! If anything its my fault for sleeping with Paul..."
"Do you still love me?" I asked quickly.
"Oh Alice! Do you even have to ask? Of course I love you! You're my baby sister!" Rosalie stroked my hair from the other side of the backseat.
Baby sister wasn't the right word. I was only two years younger than her. I was fifteen, she was seventeen. But people often mistook me for a kid of ten, And Rosalie for a woman of twenty. Once, someone even thought I was her daughter! I'm pretty sure he was extremely short sighted though, being seventy nine and a friend of Jo's dead father. I didn't exactly act fifteen either. After we saw dad kill mom, when I was just four, I stopped talking for almost a year. After intensive therapy, and even a time in mental institution for children, I started to speak again. But I've never spoken much since, and when I'm sad, I stop altogether. I never, ever wear make up, and not just because I'm not allowed. I can't be bothered, whats the point? I mostly just read as well. I never have friends, because who wants a friend with issues? The only time I really talk, is when I get angry. When I get angry I scream, I tear my hair out, I smash things, I hit walls, I rip things up and tear pages out of books, I hit people, I hit my head against walls, hard, I smash windows and I break doors. When I get angry, you know about it.
"Ok Alice, Rosalie?" Stephanie asks, opening my door and peering in, with Carlisle Cullen just behind her.
Stephanie has been mine and Rosalie's social worker ever since my old social worker retired five months ago. Stephanie is much younger, at only twenty-six. She knows the ins and outs of my life, as well as Rosalie's, and on a quiz about our lives would probably get a higher score than ourselves. Stephanie knows all our history, as well as our parents, our grandparents and probably even our great grandparents. Stephanie knows about our presents, our futures, and how our minds work. When your fostered, your mind isn't even your own private place any more. I learned that in the children's home when our first foster parents couldn't handle my screaming fit. That was when I shared a room with the most obnoxious six year old you will ever meet, who bullied me because my mother was dead, and her own mom still loved her. The girl, who was called Felicity, her own mom was a drug addict, I learned through snooping through her files one night. Felicity didn't have a daddy. My daddy was in jail, and would be for life.
"I'll be coming to see you in a week," Stephanie smiled, brushing her brown hair away from her face. "And you're sure you're ok going home with Carlisle?"
"Yes thank you Stephanie," Rosalie nodded
"Alice?" Stephanie asked. I nodded. "Ok girls. See you next week. Good luck," She smiled.
"Thank you," Rosalie said, squeezing my hand.
Carlisle climbed into the car, and we pulled off, as Stephanie waved, and we passed by the street we had lived down for two and a half whole years. We had met Carlisle once before. He had told us about his home, in the country, two hours away from this place. He told us about how big it was, and that if we wanted we could have a whole room to ourselves. He told us about his adopted son Edward, who he adopted three years ago, and he was sixteen. Carlisle was single, after his wife died in a car crash six months after Edward was adopted.
"What do you two like doing in your spare time then?" Carlisle asked.
"I like singing," Rosalie shrugged. We didn't really have much spare time at Blake and Jo's. We were usually confine to schoolwork, studying and sports. "And baseball."
"What about you Alice?" Carlisle asked. I swallowed. I never, ever trust adults. All they ever do is break you.
"Alice likes reading," Rose answered for me. I was eternally grateful. "And dancing."
I wanted to hit Rosalie. I loved dancing. Mom sent me to classes when I was three and four, but then dad stabbed her six times, and she died. So then I went to a foster home, and I was hardly in any fit state to dance. I did dance again though. When we went to the children's home, I would dance in my room when Felicity was not around. I would dance whenever I could, if it was just me, or if Rose was there too. But it was a secret thing. My guilty pleasure.
"Really?" Carlisle asked.
"NO! It...its stupid," I yelled and then whispered, realising I was probably freaking my new foster dad out.
"I don't think it is," Carlisle shrugged. "I met my late wife at ballroom classes, ten years ago," Carlisle smiled fondly at this memory. It was probably the best he had.
