Chapter 5: The Jones
"The Jones are going to look after you until you find your forever family," Mr. Harrington explained. Peter only half listened, staring out the window of the car as they drove out of the city center and towards a suburb he'd never visited before. Mr. Harrington was his assigned case worker. Because that's all he was now. A case. A collection of papers in a file folder, a problem that needed to be solved, a loose thread in the fabric of the world that the state of New York would try to tie up.
In the years since Peter's parents died, Aunt May and Uncle Ben hadn't changed their will to include a guardian for him in the event of their deaths. Peter didn't even know who they would have chosen if they did elect someone. Sure, they had friends, but no one close enough to feel like family, nobody who would say yes if asked to be the contingency plan for raising Peter. Aunt May and Uncle Ben were the contingency plan, they shouldn't have had to devise another one. Evidently they hadn't thought that the universe could be cruel enough to rip away a second pair of parents from a boy who hadn't even reached his thirteenth birthday. But the universe was that cruel; it had decided to rob Peter of the only security he'd ever known in his short life and left him adrift with nothing but the half-deflated life preserver that was the New York foster care system.
"They have a daughter your age, and another foster brother will be arriving in a few days," Mr. Harrington continued. Peter had never had siblings before, so the concept did intrigue him, but he feared these other kids would dislike him. Making friends wasn't exactly his specialty; Peter turned painfully shy when faced with new situations. However, if he was comfortable in a place, like he'd been with his aunt and uncle, he could talk endlessly about anything and everything.
Mr. Harrington pulled up to a single family house with a bright red door. A sidewalk cut through neatly trimmed grass in the front yard, a leafless tree casting a pattern of shadows over the concrete. Peter stepped out of the car and followed Mr. Harrington to the door, where he knocked three times in quick succession. He heard footsteps heading towards them from inside the house and hid himself partially behind Mr. Harrington. His foster parents opened the door with excited smiles on their faces and welcomed Peter and Mr. Harrington inside.
"It's nice to meet you, Peter," the man, Mr. Jones, said. Peter clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the floor.
"Would you like us to show you to your room?" Mrs. Jones asked. He nodded. The whole house was a lot for him to take in at the moment, having grown up in two-bedroom apartments, so maybe focusing on getting used to one room would help him. Mrs. Jones showed him upstairs and down a hallway with five doors: the master, a closet, their biological daughter Michelle's room, the bathroom, and the bedroom Peter would be sharing with his foster brother. It contained a bunk bed with plain navy blue sheets, a desk, a dresser, and two shelving units in the closet. Half of these belonged to Peter for the time being. The other half belonged to his foster brother who he'd yet to meet.
Mr. Harrington and Mr. Jones brought all of Peter's things into the room. "I'm going to go now, but you know how to reach me if you need anything, okay?" Mr. Harrington said. Peter didn't want him to go; he was the only familiar face in this house right now, but he knew it had to happen eventually, so he nodded and started unpacking to distract himself.
As Peter unpacked, the Jones' daughter Michelle lingered in the doorway, silently watching his every move with an almost frightening intensity. He didn't know what to say to her. Should he apologize for taking what once might have been a spare room for her to use, or for wresting her only child status away from her? Should he introduce himself? Should he just ignore her? That seemed rude, but he couldn't tell if she was there because she wanted to be acknowledged or because she just wanted to observe him. Besides, Peter wasn't sure he could bring himself to speak to her with the steady terror of being in a new place with brand new people.
All of the things in his old apartment that didn't belong specifically to Peter had been dealt with according to May's will, but he snagged a locket of hers that contained a picture of the three of them and removed it, placing it in the last empty slot of his mother's locket that he'd taken when she died. Now he had only one necklace with photos of both his families inside. Peter wore it every day, the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. He'd had a sweatshirt of Ben's ever since he died, and one of his father's too. He stowed those in the back of the bottommost drawer; he only wore them when he felt particularly scared and alone. They were way too big for him, but he found comfort in the feeling of being swaddled by the heavy fabric that still bore a ghost of a scent of his dad and uncle.
It took him less time than he expected to unpack everything, but he didn't know which bunk to settle his Chewbacca on. His foster brother would want a say in whether he got top or bottom, right? Just because he got there first didn't give him the right to call dibs. Unable to make a decision and too afraid to ask, he just left Chewy in a drawer to postpone the choice.
"Michelle, Peter! Dinner's ready," Mrs. Jones called. Peter's stomach clenched—not with hunger, but with revulsion. His appetite was still in shambles after the food poisoning, but after watching his Aunt May die from the same thing that made him sick, the very idea of letting any food pass his lips made him nauseous. Despite this, he trudged to the table and stood beside it, staring at the six empty seats. In his family, they'd always sat in the same seats due to some unspoken agreement. He didn't know if the Jones had a similar system, so he waited until all three of them seated themselves before taking an empty chair across from Michelle and next to Mr. Jones.
Peter knew it was rude not to eat food that someone generously cooked for him, but he was certain he would have to run straight to the bathroom if he swallowed even a single bite. He made sure to move things around his plate with his fork, occasionally bring it to his mouth empty, and take sips of water. Michelle eyed him suspiciously, but she didn't comment. She hadn't spoken a single word to him since he'd arrived here, and a part of Peter wondered if she was mute.
She answered that question without him having to ask it when she responded to conversation among her parents. They talked among themselves, leaving time for Peter to interject if he wanted to, but not asking him any direct questions that demanded answers. He was glad they offered the freedom not to talk, because he was scared out of his mind that they'd ask why he wasn't eating or what he thought of Mrs. Jones' cooking, and he absolutely did not want to go into any of that. Peter didn't know how much of his life story Mr. Harrington had told them, but he didn't want to run the risk of his foster parents finding out that the mere sight of food could turn him into a manic ball of nerves and terror. They hadn't signed up to take care of a kid who freaked out at such mundane stimuli, and if they found out they might not be willing to shelter him anymore. The only thing that could make this worse was being uprooted yet again. So Peter did his best to pretend he enjoyed dinner, and even helped load the dishwasher.
"Thank you, Peter," Mrs. Jones said. He nodded his head slightly to acknowledge her, but retreated to his room at the first opportunity. Reluctant to claim either bed as his own without consulting his future foster brother, Peter grabbed the pillow off of one and a spare blanket from the closet and slept on the floor.
~0~
The foster brother arrived three days later. In that time, he'd managed to hide his not-eating with the same strategies he used that first night. He knew he couldn't survive on nothing but water, but the constant fear of getting sick again, as sick as May, weighed heavily on his mind. The doctors had said it definitely came from the meatloaf, but he knew diseases could come from other foods too, especially meat, produce, and dairy products. Mrs. Jones packed his lunch for school every day, a luxury he hadn't had since before Ben, but the only thing he could bring himself to eat was the bread of his sandwich, as long as it didn't have any condiments on it. Hiding out in the library and skipping lunch wasn't an option at his new school; a pass from a teacher was required to get in during lunchtime and he doubted he could get one more than once a week without raising suspicion. Plus, after barely eating dinner the previous evening and skipping breakfast, the mild faintness and queasiness that he now experienced almost constantly spiked uncomfortably if he had nothing at lunch too.
The fear of passing out, an action which would inevitably prove there was something wrong with him, was great enough to take the edge off his fear of being poisoned by what he ate, but only with foods he deemed safe. There weren't many of those. He was expected to make his own breakfast on weekday mornings, but everyone was so busy getting ready for work and school that nobody noticed that he had nothing but water. He figured that opening the fridge or kitchen cabinets would still send him spiraling into panic, reliving that day, and he knew that the Jones would send him back if they realized they'd been given a broken child.
Peter was excited to meet his foster brother, someone who must share some life experience with him. He'd gotten exactly nowhere with Michelle. She wasn't mute; she talked to her parents sometimes, but was yet to speak directly to Peter. In her defense, Peter hadn't spoken directly to her either—or at all. Peter didn't have much reason to talk, not having anything of note to share with the Jones, and if they asked him a question he found himself too shy to answer with anything beyond a nod, head shake, or shrug. If they were concerned that he wasn't speaking to them, they didn't show it. Maybe temporary mutism was common among kids dropped into new families like this.
The first thought to cross his mind when the kid arrived at the house was "Did I look like that?" He looked positively terrified, staring at the house as if it was a vast jungle full of dangerous unknown creatures. Peter tried to stay out of the way as the Jones conversed with the boy and Mr. Harrington, who must have been a case worker for this boy too. Peter wasn't technically part of the family, so he shouldn't be a part of the welcome home bit. But when they showed him to the room, Peter thought he ought to be there since he was to be the kid's roommate. He had dark hair that desperately needed to be trimmed and stood at about the same height as Peter.
This kid looked so darn scared that Peter felt he needed to do something to put him at ease, and the first thing that came to mind was just introducing himself. "H—Hi," he said nervously. "I'm Peter." If the Jones were surprised or relieved that he'd finally spoken, they didn't show it.
"I'm Ned," the boy responded, though he didn't bring his gaze up to meet Peter's.
"Nice to meet you. I haven't claimed either bed yet, so you can pick whichever one you want." Sleeping on the floor hadn't been nearly as bad as Peter thought it would be. The carpet in the room was thick and soft, and it was better than worrying about upsetting his foster brother.
"Bottom's fine," he mumbled.
"Okay." Peter was almost certain he hadn't come across as quite this terrified when he first got here, but he couldn't be sure. Ned looked like he anticipated the paintings on the walls to come to life and try to murder them at any second. Peter's number one concern, on the other hand, had been waking up in the middle of the night and forgetting where the bathroom was. He climbed up to his bed and tried to come up with a conversation starter while Ned started unpacking. The other boy had no real luggage to speak of, having brought his things here in plain plastic bins. Ned didn't have very many clothes compared to Peter, not that Peter had an excessive amount by any means. Michelle did not man her post in the doorway this time, possibly afraid of being outnumbered.
Trying not to stare at Ned while he worked, Peter picked up one of the three books he owned. All were Star Wars official novels, and this was his favorite of them. He didn't have the focus to actually read it for comprehension, but it gave him something to look at other than Ned. Peter sensed the attention made him even more uncomfortable. However, he couldn't help but notice when he packed away a tee identical to one Peter owned.
"Hey, is that a Stormtrooper shirt?" Peter asked, elated that he might have something in common with this kid beyond being foster kids. Ned nodded meekly as he messily folded the shirt and stuffed it away. "I have the same exact one."
"Cool." Ned still refused to look at him, but Peter wasn't going to let this one potential connection fizzle out so easily.
"Do you have a favorite character?" He started with the most innocent question he could think of.
"Obi-Wan," Ned answered. Peter detected the barest hint of genuine enthusiasm in Ned's voice and mentally congratulated himself for getting this far. He waited for Ned to reciprocate the question, but it quickly became evident he wasn't going to string that many words together.
"Personally, I like C3PO. But Chewbacca was the only one they had, so that's how I ended up with this guy." He held up his stuffed Chewy. Peter glanced between Ned and the character in his hand and thought about every time it had been there for him. Sections of its fur were permanently textured differently from being soaked in tears so many times. "When I'm feeling really scared, he helps make things not so scary." Peter climbed back down and left Chewbacca on the foot of Ned's bed before climbing back up. Handing it to him seemed too forceful, and Peter wanted him to feel in control. He knew one of the worst parts of this was the complete lack of control. Silence descended over the room, but Peter didn't let it continue for more than a few minutes.
"I've only been here a few days," he began. "But I can try to answer any questions you might have. I don't know if you've…done this before." Peter hadn't paused to consider that maybe this wasn't Ned's first foster home. He knew nothing of his past or the path he took to end up here, though he hoped it was less painful than his own story. Finally, Ned turned and looked at him. His eyes scanned over Peter from head to toe, long enough for him to grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Ned's expression shifted from fearful to concerned and he seemed to muster the courage to speak more than one or two words at a time.
"Do they…do they feed you?" he questioned.
Peter glanced down at himself, wondering why looking at him had made Ned ask such a question. He knew he'd lost some weight; his clothes had been slowly growing baggier ever since Ben, but it was normal to have an abnormal appetite while grieving. He'd barely escaped the worst phase of grief for his uncle when his aunt died too and started the cycle all over again. Besides, it couldn't be that bad. Ned probably asked that question because he'd heard somewhere that some foster parents could be neglectful.
"Yeah," Peter answered. "Yeah, of course they feed us. Mrs. Jones even packs me a lunch for school every day."
"That's…nice."
"Yeah, it is."
"Are they?"
"Are they what?"
"Nice?"
"Yes. They're very nice." As soon as Peter said that, Ned appeared to loosen up by several degrees.
"And the girl?"
"I don't know. She doesn't talk to me," Peter admitted. "Whenever we're in the same room, she just kinda stares." When Ned blanched at this description, Peter amended, "I don't think she's dangerous or anything. Just shy."
"Shy," Ned echoed with a nod. He'd already finished unpacking, and Peter couldn't help but notice how few things this kid had to call his own. Ned gravitated to the bed and, much to Peter's delight, picked up the Chewbacca toy and hugged it to his chest.
"Anything else you want to know?" Peter asked, though he sensed Ned had already reached his upper limit for chatter. No response sounded from the bed below, so Peter returned to his book. If he couldn't break the ice, he'd just have to wait for it to thaw.
~0~
Peter missed his old life with Aunt May more and more each day. No more movie nights, no more crazy nursing stories, no more lazy Saturday morning chocolate milk. He'd dealt with death before, but something about hers was taking a lot longer to sink in. Possibly it was because he was all alone in his grief. When his parents died, Aunt May and Uncle Ben missed them too. And when Uncle Ben died, Aunt May missed him too. Both those times he'd had comfort. Now he felt like the only person in the world dealing with her loss. He had nobody to turn to when he needed to cry—even Chewbacca now basically belonged to Ned and Peter didn't have the heart to take it back from him. The other boy clearly needed it more.
Peter knew nothing about why Ned was in foster care. He wasn't even sure if Mr. and Mrs. Jones knew. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't even sure if they knew Peter's backstory. Was it his responsibility to tell them? That couldn't be the case. He was just a cog in this machine, not one who controlled it. If he was supposed to tell them things, they would've asked by now. They asked him almost every day if he wanted to talk about anything, and his answer was always no. He didn't trust himself to talk about anything without breaking down. And if he broke down, he might lose the closest thing to a family he had in this world. Peter did, however ask them a question that had been bothering him since he got here.
Peter wasn't sure how it would be received, but it did need to be answered with some urgency if he had any hope of making this arrangement less awkward for him and his new foster family. He approached them after dinner a few days after Ned arrived and nervously broached the subject, "Um…I've never really been…in this situation before, so I don't know how this normally works, but am—am I supposed to call you Mom and Dad?"
"Do you want to?" Mrs. Jones asked warmly.
Peter didn't know. Aunt May and Uncle Ben had stayed May and Ben even after they became his guardians, but that was different because he'd already had a relation to them beforehand. He imagined himself walking up to this woman and saying, "Mom," and the thought filled him with a sense of wrongness. He didn't know why, but he didn't think he wanted to call them that.
"I—I don't think so," he admitted sheepishly. Hopefully they wouldn't find that offensive.
"That's okay," she assured him. "You can call us Mr. and Mrs. Jones, or Daniel and Rebecca. Whichever you prefer."
"Okay."
A week in and Michelle still hadn't spoken to Peter or Ned. If her parents were concerned about this lack of communication with her foster brothers, they didn't express it. But Peter was concerned. He couldn't tell if she resented, feared, or despised him. Or some combination of all three. When she finally did talk to him, her words confirmed exactly none of those possibilities.
"The average time a kid spends in foster care is about twenty months," she stated. No preamble. Michelle just stood in the doorway to Peter and Ned's room—they never closed it; Peter noticed Ned got nervous when it was closed—and blurted that fact out. He glanced to Ned to gauge his reaction to the statement and compare it to his own disbelief at Michelle's forwardness.
"That's…not exactly helpful," Peter said unsurely. Did she say that because she was afraid they'd be here in her house that long? Given his immediate alternative, Peter wouldn't mind staying here for nearly two years. The only way out for him was adoption or aging out. He hoped every night that the former would happen before the latter.
"It wasn't supposed to be." Michelle shrugged.
Peter didn't know where she intended that conversation to lead, and it didn't look like she was going to give an additional nudge in any direction, so he took the helm and asked, "Are we your first foster siblings?" It seemed like a reasonable enough question, though Michelle looked at him as if he'd just asked if she was secretly a superhero. After an awkward, long hesitation, she nodded. Peter considered it a victory. "You and Ned are my first foster siblings. First siblings of any kind, actually."
"I guess we have that in common." Peter shuffled his feet nervously. Finding things in common was how he'd been taught to make friends as a little kid, and the principle should still apply here. "It's pretty weird, isn't it?"
Michelle nodded again. So did Ned.
"Most brothers and sisters know each other their whole lives, but we all just met," Peter continued. "We're more like roommates than siblings. Now, I've never had a roommate before, but I know that sometimes they become friends. Do you guys think maybe we could do that?"
"Yeah," Ned said with more enthusiasm than Peter had ever heard from him.
"Sure," Michelle added.
"Okay." Peter tried to hide the sheer amount of excitement he was experiencing at the prospect of making friends. He was tired of being bored when there were two kids his age around all the time.
"Have you guys ever played Telestrations?" Michelle asked. Peter and Ned shook their heads. "It's basically Pictionary combined with telephone."
"Sounds fun," Peter said. She led them to a closet he'd never opened before and pulled out the game. They had to bend the rules a little bit to accommodate only three players, but they managed. By the second round they were laughing so hard their hands were shaking, making their drawings even worse and therefore making them laugh harder.
"Peter, why did you draw an ostrich with four legs?" Michelle asked between giggles.
"Is that not what they look like?"
"Ostriches only have two legs," Ned informed him.
"Sorry. But I think the more important question is how 'human pyramid' somehow turned into 'no mushrooms.'"
"I genuinely don't know," Michelle stated.
"Mushrooms are gross," Ned added.
"That may be true, but that doesn't even come close to answering the question."
Ned only smirked at him and they all dissolved into breathless laughter once again. At one point Mr. Jones came into the room to investigate the commotion and Peter could literally hear him smiling at his daughter finally getting along with her foster siblings. Then he insisted on joining the game. He was actually a really good artist, so they had to set a timer to ensure he couldn't make his drawings too good and easy to guess. The game was way more fun when the drawings were terrible and the guesses got weird and specific. For the first time in a while, Peter felt like a part of a family.
I don't know if any of you have ever played Telestrations, but it is so ridiculous and fun. Both of the situations described in this chapter are things I've seen happen in a game.
