When I was eleven, Mother found out she was pregnant. By that time, Cole had been gone for a few months. He’d grown tired of Mother’s drug use and had taken off to his brother’s place in Florida. It was a shame Lizzie never got to meet him. He wasn’t that bad of a guy. Mother never told him she was pregnant, and she refused to tell our social worker who Lizzie’s father was. I think she knew that if she did, they would have let Cole have Lizzie and she would never have stood a chance of getting her back. When Lizzie was three, Mother heard that Cole had been killed in a freak accident working for a pipeline in Illinois. Lizzie would never know him at all. Mother was sure to let Children Services know his name then, because she wanted to get Social Security benefits for Lizzie. That was so typical of her—more money meant more drugs. I guess Mother hadn’t thought that one through, because the state ended up being the one to collect Lizzie’s check. Mother couldn’t collect it since she didn’t have custody of Lizzie. Not long after that, she started working on getting clean.
I’m not sure when she started using heroin. She might have been using it while she was pregnant with Lizzie. That would have explained Lizzie’s colic. Lizzie cried the first three months of her life. I know because I took care of her. I found a needle in Mother’s bedside table when Lizzie was about two months old. The overdose happened when Lizzie was four months old. That is how Children Services had gotten involved with our family.
I found Mother unconscious on the kitchen floor while Lizzie wailed from the bedroom. I’d been at school all day so I had no idea how long Lizzie had been alone and crying or how long Mother had been unconscious. I tried to wake Mother up, but it was no use; she was not responding. She was breathing. It was shallow, but at least she was breathing. I called 911 and ran to get Lizzie. Later at the hospital, Mother was awake but incoherent. She didn’t know who I was, and I don’t think she even knew who she was. She continued to deny it was an overdose; she said she’d had a nervous breakdown. I didn’t buy that. The social worker didn’t let us linger at the hospital long, so we were carted off not knowing if Mother was going to live or die. Mother told me later she spent three days in the hospital.
I spent five days in a group home waiting for a foster home. Foster homes suck, but that group home was horrible. Mother did the crime and I did the time. That seemed to be how it went. It was the loneliest I’d ever felt. I grieved for the mother I’d once known and for Lizzie. I worried so much about Lizzie. She was so small. I was in my first foster home for two months when I found out I had an ulcer. My foster mother told me it was probably from worrying so much. I got to see Mother two times and Lizzie once while I was in foster care that time. It was the longest eight months of my life. Mother was really bad about not showing up to see us. We would be sitting at the Family Center waiting on her and she wouldn’t show. Heck, most of the time she didn’t even call to say why she wasn’t going to be there. The social worker would just check her off as a no-show and cart us off, back to the foster home.
Interrupting my thoughts, Lizzie came running into the bedroom to let me know the pancakes were done. I told her I was fine and that she could eat the ones Mother had made for me. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Whatever.”
I followed her out into the kitchen and helped her up onto a stool at the bar. As mad as I was at my mother, I couldn’t help but be happy for Lizzie. She was ecstatic that we are all together again. For her sake, I hoped it would stay that way, but I had little faith that it would. I never should have talked Mother up as much as I had to Lizzie. I was going to be sorry about that. I just knew it.
Mother looked my way and said, “Are you sure you don’t want any pancakes, Jane? They’re your favorite: apple cinnamon.”
“No, I’m good,” I replied sarcastically.
“Jane, I understand you’re upset with me. I get that. But I cannot walk on eggshells the entire time we’re together. Could you at least try to tone down the sarcasm for your sister’s sake? Quit acting like such a child, Jane. You’re fifteen years old. Start acting it.”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
I woke up the next morning glad it was Saturday and that I didn’t have to start the dreadful hick school yet. I was sure it would be filled with farm-friendly people, especially if the boy I’d seen yesterday was any indication of how “friendly” they were. The disgust on his face when he looked at Mother’s car was all I needed to know. Maybe I was being judgmental, but I’d earned the right to be a little cynical. The boy had pulled out of the driveway very fast yesterday. Someone needed to let him know there was a four-year-old around and he would need to be more careful. I didn’t care if this was his house. He could be a little more considerate of other people. I was sure he was just as self-centered as he looked driving that brand-new sports car. I didn’t care. It wasn’t like we’d be there that long anyway.
Off to farm school
The alarm clock started blaring at 6 a.m.
Ugh, it’s Monday morning already, I thought. I was not looking forward to going to a new school again. I was getting pretty good at it, though. I kept to myself, didn’t attract attention, and didn’t make friends. That’s how to survive multiple schools during your high school years.
Mother had informed me that the school was called Whitman High School. I couldn’t believe it: The school was named after that arrogant boy! That was just freaking wonderful. I didn’t understand how she’d ended up being the maid to the richest family in Adams County anyway. There must not have been many options since Adams County was one of the poorest counties in the state of Ohio. I just couldn’t wait to check out Whitman High School.
I figured I’d better get dressed so I could go get tortured for the day. I did finally give in and unpack my clothes. I’d decided that once they were washed, I really wouldn’t want to shove them down into my backpack again. I needed one of those backpacks for school anyway. I went to the closet to find something to wear. I didn’t have much to choose from, so it wasn’t a hard decision. I never really cared what I looked like anyway, so it really didn’t matter that I didn’t have a huge wardrobe. I grabbed a black, vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirt, a pair of skinny jeans, my only necklace, my black bracelet, and my Chucks. I couldn’t leave home without my Chucks. They were so old. I’d gotten them for Christmas three years ago; they were the only things I’d gotten that year. I was going to have to wear a jacket, too, because it was cold. I couldn’t wait for it to get warm; I hated the cold.
I took a quick look in the mirror to make sure I didn’t have boogers hanging out of my nose or anything. I brushed through my hair one more time really quickly before I headed into the kitchen. Mother always told me when I was younger that I had the blackest hair she’d ever seen. It is pretty dark; I’m lucky to have a darker complexion also. That must have come from my father’s side, because Mother is pretty fair-skinned. My blue eyes stick out like a sore thumb with my black hair. I try to keep my hair grown out over my eyes. It’s a nice shield when you want to hide. It was shorter than I would have liked, though, because one of the girls at my next-to-last foster home had decided to cut it when I was sleeping. It had been really long too. The only thing they could do to fix it was pretty much shave it off. I really thought I could have hurt that girl. But she got sent to the group home for it, so that would have to do. My hair was finally growing a little. I was starting to look a little more like Joan Jett instead of G.I. Jane.
I went into the kitchen, grabbed an oatmeal bar out of the cabinet, and headed for the end of the lane. I’d never had to ride a school bus in the city. I had no idea what it was like; however, I did know what it was like to ride a metro bus. I hoped the two would be similar and I would be totally ignored on this bus as well.
I was out there at the end of the lane for about five minutes when I heard the roar of that Mustang come to life. It wasn’t long before the car came toward where I was standing. That boy was in the driver’s seat and there wa
s a girl in the passenger seat. Did he have a sister? It had to be his sister. Great, there were two of them. The girl glared at me as they went by. The boy just kept his eyes focused on the road and made a left out of the lane. Not long after they pulled away, the bus came. As soon as I climbed onto the bus, the worst smell hit me smack in the face. What in the world could that be? It smelled like some kind of crap. How disgusting!
As soon as I got to the top of the steps and turned to start down the aisle, I realized it was very quiet and everyone was staring at me. It was so humiliating. I looked around hoping to find an empty seat. Great—there wasn’t one. This wasn’t going to be good. Where would I sit? I started scanning people’s faces looking for someone who looked a little friendly or maybe a little dorky. Someone like that might not fuss too much about me sitting with them. I saw an empty seat next to a boy with big, dark glasses, buzzed red hair, freckles, and two abnormally large front teeth. That was where I decided to sit. I walked down the aisle and took my seat next to him. He turned toward me with the strangest look. I gave him a very fake smile and said, “Hello.”
He turned his head away from me and said, “They’re staring at you because you’re new. They don’t like new. You look a little different too. That’s not going to help you any. Sitting with me really just took down your chances of social survival. If you move now, you still might have a shot at it.”
Wow, that was not what I’d expected him to say! “Hi” would have sufficed. I’d managed to put myself in an awkward situation within five seconds of getting on the bus. I was a genius. I had to wonder what I would do to myself by the end of the day.
“I really don’t care about social survival. I probably won’t be here long anyway,” I replied.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest and grunted, “Whatever.”
The bus ride seemed to take forever. At least the quiet hadn’t lasted very long. As soon as the bus started moving again, everyone started talking. The staring didn’t stop, though. I got looks all the way to school. Did I really look so different from everyone that they needed to stare at me? I didn’t see anyone on the bus who was dressed like me. It’s not like I had chains hanging from my pants or multiple tattoos. I thought I was dressed pretty normally. Plenty of people dressed like me in the city, and we were only an hour away. It couldn’t be that different.
Several people on the bus were wearing the same kind of blue jackets. They had the letters FFA on the back, but I had no idea what it stood for until I was getting off the bus and got a closer look at one of the jackets. It said “Future Farmers of America.” Too freaking funny! Are you kidding me? There was some kind of club for future farmers? Not to knock anybody who wanted to learn about farming; it was probably a lucrative business in that area. But I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. This was going to be interesting.
The school wasn’t very big, but it did look like it was fairly new. Mother had already registered me so I just needed to find the office and pick up my schedule. I followed all the other kids to the front entrance. Once inside, I looked around to find the office to my left. There were two ladies at a long counter. One was an older, heavy-set lady who looked to be in her sixties. She had her salt-and-pepper hair pulled up in a bun on the back of her head. The other woman was maybe in her thirties and had a small build and brown hair cut in that trendy short bob that everybody was wearing. I walked up to the counter and asked for my schedule. The younger woman asked me my name, shuffled around some papers, and handed me my schedule. She asked if I needed help getting around, and I told her no. I didn’t really want to walk around with a tour guide. The school wasn’t that big; I was pretty sure I could manage. She said okay and told me where the main areas were. The library was upstairs and the cafeteria was to the right of the office. She gave me a hall pass for being late, and I thanked her and headed to my first class.
I had algebra first thing. Great! That sounded like real fun first thing in the morning. My schedule said algebra was in room 202 so I figured that had to be upstairs. I walked up the stairs and headed to the left. I looked at a few of the doors and realized the numbers were going the wrong way so I turned around and headed the other direction. I found room 202 at the end of the hall. The classroom door was shut. I didn’t know if I should knock or just walk in. I decided I would charge right in.
I entered the room and the teacher stopped lecturing. “Can I help you, Miss?” he asked.
I handed him my pass and showed him my schedule. He didn’t say anything; he just walked over to a cabinet, opened it, and pulled out an algebra book. Handing me the book, he asked, “It’s really late in the school year; are you going to be able to keep up?”
I shrugged my shoulders and answered, “I hope so.”
The truth was I was no good at any kind of math and had done horribly in algebra class at my last school. I probably wouldn’t do worth a crap in this one either.
The teacher told me to find a seat and that his name was Mr. McDonald. Right after he said his name, there came a “Moo!” and an “Oink!” from the back of the room. It took me a few minutes to figure out they were making fun of his name and not me. Of course Old McDonald would teach at the farm school in cow country. That made perfect sense. Once I got done laughing to myself, I looked around to find a seat. I didn’t have to look far. The only empty seat was in the front row. I had no choice. That’s where I was going to be stuck for the rest of the school year.
After almost an hour of learning about the slope of a line, I was so ready to head to my next class. I really needed to find my locker since I would soon have a nice stack of books. Most of the lockers were upstairs, so I was sure I could find it. My locker number was 420. Of course it was. Everything else in my life revolved around drugs, so why not my locker too? I got lucky and found it pretty quickly. Then, I was off to search for my next class, psychology, which sounded even more fun than algebra.
I fumbled around the school for the rest of the morning until it was time for lunch. Mother had made sure to sign me up for free lunches, so I would get to humiliate myself in the lunch line. I was used to it. I’d always gotten free lunches when I was in foster care. I shoved all my stuff except for my jacket in my locker and headed toward the cafeteria. The cafeteria was pretty full already. I took my place in line behind two girls who had very long hair and wore skirts down to their ankles. I must have missed the memo on that one. They turned around, gave me a once-over, and went back to their chatter. After going to so many schools in the past few years, I should have been used to all the strange looks, but I wasn’t. I really wished I were invisible. It would have been nice to go through life totally unnoticed. Probably wouldn’t have been any disappointments that way. I knew I had to learn to stop having expectations of people. If I had no expectations of anyone, then they couldn’t disappoint me. That would be my new motto. I liked that: No more expectations.
I finally made it up to get my food. I chose to eat pizza. I could have lived on pizza; I had lived on pizza. Hot, cold, stale, or moldy, it didn’t matter. Lizzie and I had eaten a lot of pizza the last time we’d lived with Mother. Our apartment was above a pizza restaurant and I think the manager knew we were alone a lot because she was always sending up pizzas that were supposedly made wrong.
I got to the register and the lady asked for my lunch number. I knew I’d seen it on my schedule. I started searching my pockets when I realized I’d put my schedule in my notepad. Crap. I didn’t have a dime on me to pay for my food. I told the lady I was new and my lunch number was in my locker. She told me it was my problem and to pay for my food or get out of the line. Wow—no sympathy from her. She was rude. I was getting ready to put my tray back on top of the counter when someone reached around me and handed the lady two bucks. I turned to see who it was. It was Mustang Boy. More charity—that was just wonderful.
“That’s okay, really. I’m not hungry anyway. Keep your money,” I urged.
“It’s no big deal; you can pay me back later. Besides, I know where you live,” he said, chuckling.
I set the tray on the counter. “No, I don’t want it,” I snapped.
“Now, you two are going to have to make up your minds, Landon. I don’t have all day,” the lady said.
Mustang Boy grinned at her and said, “Keep it, Mabel. Look how puny she is. I think she needs to eat something, don’t you?”
I grabbed the tray and took off toward the tables.
“Whatever. Thanks.”
As I was walking away, I heard Mabel say something about me being “a snippy little thing.” Then I heard Mustang Boy laugh out loud. I sure was glad he’d amused himself at my expense.
Opiate Jane Page 2
