Chapter Three

Under the Little Mermaid bedspread and between the Aristocats sheets, Emma Swan clutched her baby blanket tightly. The blanket was the one link she had to her past, like Annie with her broken locket in that movie she'd watched on video in her last foster home, the night before Cecilia had left to go to her new family. Emma knew that Mrs. Malcombe had meant it to be a treat, or give some kind of message about not giving up hope—because a ten-year-old could really get adopted after all, but though she'd watched it through from beginning to end, all the while, she'd felt like a knife was twisting inside her. The movie was a fantasy. It wasn't real. And even if it had been, Emma was eleven.

Maybe Mrs. Malcombe had been trying to show them all that they could have been living at a place like Miss Hannigan's orphanage and that they ought to be grateful they weren't.

Emma hadn't been ungrateful; not really, but she hadn't enjoyed living there either. She'd learned to wolf down her food before a bigger kid swiped it off her plate. She'd protested the first time, but dropped the matter after the thief had offered her a knuckle sandwich. (Seriously? She hadn't thought anyone talked like that anymore outside of an old movie or a cartoon!) She and Cecilia had hit it off, though, even though the other girl had been three years younger. She should have known better: friendships didn't last. Maybe, if you got really lucky, you might run into someone you knew a few placements down the road, but Cecilia's new family lived in Pittsfield, about as far as you could get from Boston and still be in the same state. And Cecilia would never be in another foster placement again.

Great for her. Lousy for Emma. When she'd watched Cecilia get into the station wagon the next day, headed for a new life with parents who wanted her, Emma had known she couldn't stay. Mrs. Malcombe had told her that it would be her turn one day, but Emma had recognized the reassurance for the lie it was. Lately, she'd been getting good at that: being able to know when a person wasn't telling her the truth. It didn't work if they believed what they were saying, but Mrs. Malcombe hadn't.

Still, she'd gone into supper, as she was told and barely noticed when Trevor nudged her baked potato onto his plate and Janice speared her chicken cutlet. She'd just eaten the spinach left behind without really tasting it and not said anything when her slice of cake disappeared somewhere between the head of the table and her seat.

She'd raided the kitchen several hours later, just before she left that place behind for good. At least, she thought as she hugged her blanket to her chest, she hoped it was for good. She'd swiped the grocery money from the canister on the counter—there was a set of eight there and Emma had learned by accident that the money was kept in the one on the far right—to buy her bus ticket. She didn't want to face Mrs. Malcombe once she found out about that!

Her heart started to pound. If the Department found out what she'd done, would they send her to juvie like the O'Donnells had threatened four placements ago? Was it true that kids who were bad got worse placements? One of the other kids—Steven had been his name—had told her that there were some foster homes that the Department only sent troublemakers to and they could be as mean as they wanted to be because if a kid complained, the only other place to send them was jail.

"Steven!" exclaimed a girl's voice in her memory. "They don't send kids her age to jail. They put them in reform school!"

Emma had made the mistake of asking the girl what that was. The girl had smiled nastily. "It's a special jail, just for kids!"

She hadn't wanted to believe the older girl, but she hadn't been as good at knowing if someone was lying back then. She still wasn't sure how much of the rumors and stories she'd been told over the years had been true, but she didn't want to find out.

She should have given the police officer a fake name when he'd asked her. She'd decided to call herself Natty Gann, after another kid who ran away to look for her father. But she'd been flustered and scared and trying to get her bearings when she'd been stopped, and she'd given her real name automatically. It was written on the label of her jacket, the jacket she'd been carrying when she stepped off the bus into the sticky heat of downtown Los Angeles anyhow, and the truth would have probably come out then. Meanwhile, they knew her name, but nothing else. She'd learned years ago not to write down her address and phone number; she bounced around so often that she would have had to keep scratching those out. Emma hoped that they'd never find out where she'd come from. If they didn't know that, then they'd never send her back there.

And then maybe she'd be able to stay here until she found her real parents.

"Ms Gabor?" The speaker's tone of voice combined nervousness and firm resolution in equal parts. She looked up with a slight smile.

"My name's Phyllis," she said automatically. Her smile yielded to a frown. "I know you," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Don't I?"

"Uh… I'm not sure," the young woman with the small rhinestone stud on the right side of her nose and the jagged green lightning streak on the left side of her short dark-blonde hair answered. The streak was slightly faded, as though its owner had been trying to wash it out with limited success. "Maybe…? I'm your new intern."

"I figured," Phyllis said dryly. "Got a name?"

The young woman nodded. "It's Ashley. Ashley Larsen."

Phyllis's eyebrows shot up and her smile broadened. "I knew I recognized you!" she exclaimed triumphantly.

Ashley tilted her head to one side. Her eyes grew wide. "Pizzazz?!"

"It's been a long time since anyone's called me that, kid!" Phyllis laughed.

"I didn't recognize you with red hair!"

Phyllis grinned. "That was the point, kid," she admitted. "This isn't exactly the kind of gig an ex-rocker usually drifts into. I like making an impression, but I didn't need the tabloids watching my every move. Or I didn't want to find out that they didn't care what I was up to anymore. Going 'establishment' meant I didn't have to. "So, you're joining the force?"

"I don't know," Ashley said slowly. "I mean, I got into social work because I wanted to help kids in the system. Like me," she added. "I got bounced around from placement to placement for six years before I lucked out and ended up at Starlight, even if it took me a little while to understand how good I had it there. Now, I'm realizing that there are more options. I still want to work with kids, but I'm not sure if DFCS is the answer. That's what I'm hoping fieldwork will help me decide."

"I gotcha, kid," Phyllis said. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but part of fieldwork? Involves paperwork. So," she said, getting up from her desk, "follow me and I'll show you how our filing works."

Ashley nodded. "Uh… Pizzazz—sorry! Phyllis?"

"Yeah?"

"How'd you get into this?"

Phyllis shrugged. "Some families look like they have it all, but underneath? A lot of kids are hurting more than they let on. Turns out I'm pretty good at spotting that stuff," she added softly. "Except these days, I don't take advantage and pay 'em thirty bucks to let me into their house. Uh… sorry about that, by the way."

Ashley grinned. "Apology accepted. And… sorry I was kind of a brat back then."

"Hey," Phyllis said, "you weren't a brat. Kinda scrappy and a little bit punk, but those aren't things you need to apologize for." She held out her hand and, while she couldn't say she was surprised when Ashley took it, she wasn't expecting the wave of relief that washed over her and her own smile warmed.

"Reuniting the Holograms sounds wonderful!" Raya enthused. "Only, I won't be done with my classes and papers until June. Can't we hold off until summer?"

Jerrica squelched the sigh rising in her throat. "I've been hearing that a lot," she admitted. Aja had strongly hinted that her band would need some downtime after their tour. Kimber hadn't called back yet. And Shana was currently 'up to her elbows in sequins and satins' as she was working tirelessly to make 60s elegance look fresh and new for a summer stock production of Dreamgirls. She hadn't even tried reaching out to the Misfits, yet.

Contacting Stormer would be easy. And while she and Pizzazz weren't exactly close, they did keep in touch. Come to think of it, Jerrica thought with a pang, she wasn't at all certain that Pizzazz—Phyllis, now—would be on board with any of this. She'd once admitted to Jerrica that being a Misfit had let her let the worst part of herself run wild. These days, she was trying to distance herself from that rebellious phase. And, Jerrica had to admit, Phyllis's past did make her one of the better social workers when it came to establishing a rapport with the kids she handled. Do I want to take her away from that and throw her back into the patterns she's done her best to break out from? Even for a short time? And would she say yes, if I asked her? She hadn't heard anything from Roxie or Jetta in years.

"Hello? Jerrica?"

Jerrica blinked. "Sorry, Raya," she said into her phone. "I was just thinking. I guess summer is probably going to be best, after all. When are you free?"

This time, the pause was on Raya's end. "I'll have to check and get back to you," the other woman said finally. "I think I know the dates, but I want to be sure I'm not getting mixed up with last year. And Papi may need me at the store; June is usually a big month for weddings, but maybe I can work around that."

"Okay." Jerrica's eyebrows shot up. "Raya, I'm getting a beep; I'm going to let you go. Talk soon?" As soon as Raya acquiesced, Jerrica took the call that was waiting.

"Hello? Mrs. Harmon!" Jerrica exclaimed when the voice on the other end introduced itself. "How are you?"

"Lovely, Jerrica, and yourself?"

Jerrica coaxed a laugh into her voice. "Busy as always," she informed the social worker. "How have you been keeping?"

"Well, I've moved into administrative work now," she said. "Supervisory. I was actually calling today about a new case that's just come through. A girl of about eleven or so. She's currently in an emergency placement, but we're looking for something a bit more long-term."

"How long-term?" Jerrica asked, all business.

"At the moment, we're not entirely sure. She seems to have arrived from out of state, though she isn't providing details. We're making inquiries, of course, but so far, nobody's reported her missing. Of course, even when we do find out her particulars, it might take some time before all the paperwork gets sorted and arrangements can be made to send her back. Right now, we don't know whether she ran away on a lark or if there are more serious issues in play. Until we have all the facts, I was hoping that you might be willing to take her in."

She had a concert to plan and people to contact, but there was a child in need of help and Jerrica was in a position to provide it. She reached for her pen and flipped the pad she'd been writing on to a fresh sheet. "I guess you'd better give me the details you do have, then," she said, pulling her mind away from the Parkinson's benefit for the moment.

Emma awoke to a knock on the door and, for a moment, she didn't know where she was. Memory returned while she was still half asleep: more than three days on a bus out of Boston and it felt like she'd dozed for most of them. When she'd finally arrived, she must have given off some kind of 'runaway' vibe, because a cop had approached her before she'd even stepped out of the station, asking her who she was and where she was from. Then there had been the hours at the police station while she'd thought they were trying to find out who she was, but they might have just been busy with other stuff, until someone could be spared to bring her here.

"Haven House," she whispered aloud. It sounded like a nice place to be, but nice names didn't mean anything. She'd never been sent to a home called, "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter" or "Bullies R Us," but they might as well have been. That Giselle person had been nice last night, but it probably wouldn't last. No matter how hard Emma tried to be good, she always did something that prompted a call to her social worker. She'd thought that good kids were supposed to be quiet, not make waves, and follow the rules, but then, she'd overheard Mrs. Flanders on the phone.

"I just don't know how to reach her. Her walls are up so high and nothing I do seems to crack them. I don't think this is going to work out."

Her social worker had been there to pick her up the next day.

Sometimes, being quiet worked longer, but the bigger kids quickly discovered that they could push her around and she wouldn't tattle or fight back. Eventually, someone at school would see the bruises, or notice that she wasn't getting enough to eat, or that she seemed 'jumpy' and she'd get shuttled off somewhere anyhow.

Lately, she'd started shoplifting. At first, it had just been for food, but then she'd realized that if nobody caught her, she could have Lion King pencils and Animaniacs shoelaces like the other kids at school, too. Besides, if not being a problem was a problem, then maybe it was better to be a problem after all! Until now, Mrs. Malcombe hadn't noticed, but that had probably been because she'd been busy helping Cecilia get ready to be adopted. With the younger girl gone, Emma had no reason to stick around, and anyway, it was just a matter of time before she was caught with something she hadn't paid for. Once that happened, she'd be off again and, for once, Emma hadn't felt like she wanted to wait around for the inevitable. If she was going to be leaving anyway, at least she could decide how and when.

There was another knock on the door.

"Emma? Are you coming down?"

"I'm getting dressed," she lied, pushing back the bedclothes. "Give me another minute."

She was hungry, and Giselle would probably still be nice for a little bit longer. She might even remember about the bra shopping she'd mentioned last night and not have something better to do today. She got up and looked at the new-to-her clothes. They'd been washed a bunch of times, from the look of them, but there were no faded stains and no holes. She'd had worse.

Her stomach rumbled and she reached under her bed for the bag from Mr. Cluck's. The food she'd left over was still there. Even if breakfast was gone by the time she got downstairs, she wouldn't starve. Then again, breakfast was probably going to be a lot better than cold, greasy fries and a cookie. She dressed quickly. When she opened the bedroom door, Giselle was waiting with a ready smile.

Emma returned it cautiously.

The dining room was set up like a cafeteria. Giselle showed Emma where to grab a tray and cutlery before she joined the line. "A lot of the people who live here are emancipated minors. We give them a place to live at a subsidized rent, and they work here or in the community." She frowned. "You know what an emancipated minor is, right?"

"Kind of," Emma admitted. "I know some of the kids back in Bo—" She caught herself. "Back where I used to live, they told me that if you could convince a judge that you could handle being on your own, then they could make it so you didn't have to be in the system, but I know I can't do that, yet."

"More or less," Giselle confirmed. "It's different depending on which state, but here in California, someone who's at least fourteen can qualify, if their legal guardian is okay with it, if they can prove they can manage their own finances, if they have legal work—no under the table stuff, and if the judge believes it's in their best interest." Her face grew serious. "Haven House isn't a regular foster home, though we are licensed for it. We're a refuge for teen runaways. We help them get settled and, if the only thing holding them back from emancipated status is a job, we do our best to find them one."

Emma nodded, but her heart was sinking. She wasn't a teenager and she wasn't old enough to be emancipated. There was no way she was staying here.

"Hey!" The red-haired guy behind the counter who was probably in his late teens gave her a friendly smile. "You're new, aren't you?"

Emma nodded again, this time more cautiously. A lot of big kids had smiled at her in the past—right before they insisted she give them her allowance (when she was lucky enough to have one) or a small keepsake she'd taken from an earlier placement.

"Emma," Giselle said, "meet Danny. He used to live here until recently and he ran our kitchen. Now, he comes in mornings to train Daria until she can take over." She waved at a dark-skinned girl who didn't look older than fifteen, who turned away from the griddle at the mention of her name, her curly hair straining under a plastic head covering that reminded Emma a bit of a shower cap, but not exactly. Daria grinned and waved back, before going back to the eggs.

"Came here when I was thirteen," Danny confirmed. "That was almost six years ago. I just got my own place last month. Where'd you come from?"

Emma shrugged. "Around."

"I get you," Danny said. "And don't worry. If it was a bad situation, the folks here will do everything they can to make sure you don't have to go back there."

How bad, Emma wondered, did it have to be, though? She hadn't liked living at the Malcombes, but they hadn't been mean or abusive. They might not have noticed the bullying going on behind their backs, but that had been about the other kids, not about them.

"Scrambled eggs okay?" Danny asked, serving spoon poised over the long metal basin.

Emma hesitated. "Could I have pop tarts?" She felt her face redden as she saw a look pass between Giselle and Danny. She should have asked for something healthier. Sugar was bad; she knew that. But it tasted so good!

Danny locked his blue eyes on Emma's for a moment. "We don't have pop tarts," he said, "but if you don't mind being a guinea pig…?"

"What?" Emma asked blankly.

"I'm experimenting with a new recipe," Danny explained. "Assignment for one of my cooking classes. I had to make enough for twenty-five, but I always do a few extra, just in case. Try these; tell me what you think." He placed what looked like two chocolate cookies on her tray. She eyed them suspiciously.

"They're really cookies?" she asked. "I-I mean, they… don't have carob in them, right? Or wheat germ?" The Swensons had been health nuts. And to make matters worse, they'd always made food that looked amazing, but tasted like sawdust, all the while enthusing about how amazing food tasted when you left out 'all that unhealthy sugar and salt'. Amazingly bad, in other words, Emma thought, wincing at the memory. She'd been glad to see the end of that placement. Spending her allowance on that pack of chocolate bars so she and the other kids could have some real dessert had been worth it. Even if they had kicked her out for 'corrupting and trying to poison' their own 'angels'.

"I promise," Danny said, adding a smaller scoop of scrambled eggs to her plate, a safe distance from the cookies. "I mean, I won't lie: there's healthy stuff in them, but I really worked to get them to taste okay, too."

Still not sure if she was about to become the butt of some joke, Emma cautiously broke off a piece of the cookie and popped it into her mouth. It was chocolate, but with a pleasant tang to it. Her eyes widened, and she picked up the cookie and took another bite. "What is this?" she asked, through a full mouth.

Danny's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Protein cookies," he said. "Chocolate, a bit of oat flour, cream cheese, honey…" He paused for a beat. "Also known as my Tuesday morning homework."

"Danny's taking culinary arts at LATTC," Giselle explained. "That's one of the colleges here."

"In other words, I'm a cooking student," Danny said. "One of my assignments was to come up with a high-protein breakfast to appeal to," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "fussy eaters."

Emma finished what she was chewing. "I'm not fussy," she protested. "I just like pop tarts." She eyed the last bit of cookie in her hand. "And these," she added, lifting the piece to her lips.

"Uh… some of us have to leave for school in, like, less than an hour," piped up an annoyed voice behind Emma.

Danny blinked. "Sorry, Juana," he exclaimed, plunging his spoon into the scrambled eggs. "See you around, Emma," he added, sliding a generous scoop of eggs onto Juana's plate.

Giselle smiled at her charge. "Would you like me to introduce you to anyone else?" she asked.

Emma shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw three kids get up, leaving empty space at the end of one of the long tables. "Can I sit there?" she asked, jerking her head toward that space.

Giselle nodded. "Of course. Take your time. I've got a few things I need to deal with, but I should be done by about ten. We'll go shopping then."

She'd remembered after all, Emma realized. She ducked her head once to agree, but as much as she tried not to show it, she was sure that Giselle had seen her smile.

Three hours later, a much happier Emma walked into Haven House beside Giselle, clutching a blue paper shopping bag with rope handles containing three training bras and two five-packs of underwear.

"Do you remember how to get back up to your room?" Giselle asked.

Emma nodded and headed upstairs. Once alone in the room—her room, at least for now—she carefully lifted each item out of the bag. Then, she opened the packages and ripped off the tags. The sign at the cash had said that you couldn't return undergarments if they were out of their original packaging, and Emma wasn't going to take any chances. She'd just put everything away in the three-drawer bureau beside her bed, when there was a knock on the door. "Emma?" Giselle's voice called.

Emma walked to the door and opened it.

"I had a call from DFCS just now," the rainbow-haired woman said seriously. "They've found a more stable placement for you." Something must have shown on Emma's face, because Giselle added, "You knew that this was just short-term, right?"

Yes, but she'd hoped it wouldn't be this short-term. She swallowed hard, but her voice was steady, as she asked, "When do I leave?"

"Tonight."