“Well,” she pauses, turning the afghan over on her lap as she begins a new row, “you’ve taken her place as the youngest daughter.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a daughter. I’m just a foster kid.”
“They don’t treat you as part of the family?” She looks upset.
“Yeah, they do. I even have stupid chores. Doesn’t make me a daughter.”
“Ah, yes, chores. I complained about them to no end, resented having to do them, and resented my mother for giving them to me. That is, until I had my own home where every chore was mine. Then I wished I could go back to simply having the few chores my mother gave me. Did I ever tell you I was adopted?”
I look at her, surprised.
“No, you didn’t.” I look down at the lopsided mess that I’d imagined presenting to Trevor as a scarf when finished. I think I’ll present it to the trash can instead.
“My own parents were killed in a car accident when I was only thirteen, such a critical age for a young girl.” Her eyes never leave her gnarled hands, which keep gracefully twisting the yarn into an afghan.
“I was angry,” she continues. “That’s why I acted out so much. My adoptive mother and father had never had children, and I was not easy for them. But they always loved me, no matter what I did.” Her faded blue eyes come up to mine. “My biggest regret in life is that I treated them so poorly when they were only trying to do right by me. Thank heavens they lived long enough for me to straighten up and thank them, to give them back some of the love they had so profusely given me.”
She looks back down at the work she is performing.
“My other regret is that I didn’t have a sister.”
“She’s not my sister.” I know I sound petulant, but I can’t imagine ever being grateful to have the cheerleader in my life.
“She’s the closest thing you have,” she says as she leans down to pull a new skein of yarn from her bag.
I’m silent, thinking about her words. I think of all the families I’ve been through and wonder how many of them had had sincerely good intentions that I’ve thrown away.
“Tell me about your parents,” she says, and I know instinctively that she’s speaking of my biological parents and not my foster parents. I have never told anyone the whole truth, only partial truths and only to serve my own purposes. I know that I can tell Mrs. Green and that she’ll never breathe a word I say to anyone else, that there’s a chance she won’t remember most of what I say.
She patiently waits, and whether I tell her or not, she won’t judge me. I set my crocheting down, look around to make sure no one is near and lean closer to her.
“I wish my parents had died in a car accident. That would have been so much better than the reality of them.” She looks up at me, brows raised curiously. I shrug. “My dad had custody of me when he and my mother divorced because she didn’t want me. I was really young, probably only two or three.
“Until I was six, my dad used me as his personal punching bag. He didn’t ever enroll me in school, and so no one knew. When I was six, he got his gun out and commanded me to stand in the corner so that he could shoot me. I was afraid of him, and young enough to not know I could refuse, so I did it. It was a game to him. He was shooting all around me, wanting to scare me, which it did like you can’t imagine. Someone heard and called the police. He died when the police came and shot him because he wouldn’t put his gun down.” I take a deep breath. Even after all these years, the memory terrifies me.
“So I went to live with my mom, who couldn’t much be bothered with me since she was trying to survive her violently abusive new husband. I think she would have put up with him forever, because he mostly left me alone, only sometimes beating me. Until the day he came to visit me in the night.” I stop, shuddering at the remembrance. I have to remind myself that he’s gone now, that he’ll never hurt me again.
“It was only once, but she heard my crying even though he had my mouth covered. She walked in, stopping him. The next day, she stabbed him until he died while he was passed out drunk.” I shrug. “Now she’s in prison.”
I glance up, and Mrs. Green’s eyes are on me, full of empathy.
“You’ve had a rough go of it, haven’t you?”
I smile at her simple description of the hell that is my history.
“Could be worse, I guess.”
“It always can, can’t it? Though that seems to be bad enough,” she says, clucking and patting me on the arm, as if she can sense that any more would undo me. That’s why I like her so much, because she just knows.
I’m feeling a little watery inside, a little self-pity party going on, which wouldn’t be the end of the world, except I hear a noise behind me and turn around to see Trevor standing there, watching me intently.
He heard—I can see it in his face. I read blatant sympathy there, which I know is genuine because it’s how the geek works.
I run away from his sympathy, pushing past him and out the front doors of the Senior Center, looking for somewhere to hide. Then he is there. He pulls me into his arms and holds me, just holds me, nothing else, no false words of comfort, no groping, not asking anything of me, just giving me his strength.
And I’m undone.
12. New Resolve from the Lost Girl
Trevor doesn’t try to talk to me about what he overheard, and I’m grateful. There are a few social workers who know the whole story, but I don’t think they’ve told any of my foster families. If they have, none of them have cared to mention it to me.
When I return home after we have a mostly silent dinner at the local diner—a happy medium between the Italian place and the pizza place, which is becoming a regular hangout for the two of us—it’s to find the cheerleader sitting in my room. She’s at the vanity looking at the picture of Trevor and I from the camping trip that’s hanging on my mirror, right above the one snapped by Beth at Morp. I let out an unwelcoming grunt.
“What do you want? I’m not in the mood,” I say, walking in and throwing my jacket across the bed. She doesn’t say anything for a minute, just looks at the picture. Then she turns around and takes in the rest of the room slowly, eyes finally coming to rest on me where I’m sitting on the bed.
“Why don’t you have any other pictures hanging in here, or anything at all that’s yours?”
“What do you care?” I shoot back.
“Just seems odd to me,” she murmurs.
“Well, if you have to know, I don’t exactly have a lot of personal things.”
She looks at me, a bit surprised that I’m so candid. I’m a bit stunned myself. I didn’t mean to be, not with her.
“I don’t think Mom or Dad would care if you wanted to get some things to put up. This room feels so . . . I don’t know, like a showcase or something.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter; I’m not planning to be here all that long anyway.”
She looks at me questioningly, but amazingly enough doesn’t pursue that line of questioning. She has something else on her mind.
“Did you do it just to make a fool of me?” she asks, and I struggle to understand. What does moving out or hanging up a picture have to do with her? I guess I look confused because she clarifies.
“With Trevor, when we were camping? Did you steal him away just to make me look stupid? Or was it some kind of thing where you wanted to prove you were . . . I don’t know, better, or sexier, or more appealing, or whatever, than I am?”
I think about telling her yes and letting her live with that. She doesn’t seem angry or upset, though, just curious, and after the emotions of tonight, I find I don’t care if she knows the truth. I’m not in the mood for games just now.
“No, I didn’t. We didn’t. Honestly. Trevor and I were already kinda . . . together, I guess. We were just trying to keep it on the down-low, you know? And when you asked me . . . I guess I just wanted to see what you could do, see if his head could be turned.” I think about my words, what they are implying, and shy away from the thoug
ht.
“I’m sorry, it was a rotten thing to do to you,” I say. Oddly enough, the words are the truth.
She nods, believing me.
“I guess he must really like you, huh?” Then she laughs. “I guess that sounds really conceited, like I’m so desirable that he must really like you to resist me. I didn’t mean it like that.”
I look at her, trying to figure out this weird absence of tension between us. “It’s okay. You wouldn’t be far wrong. If I’m being truthful, Trevor definitely belongs with someone like you and not me.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?” She seems truly interested.
“Come on,” I say sarcastically. “I’m all dark and hard—trouble. You’re light and bubbly, the . . . well, the cheerleader-type.” I mentally cringe at the nickname I always call her.
“I’ve heard you call me that,” she says. I look at the floor, not wanting to meet her eyes. “It’s okay though.”
I lift my brows at that, and she shrugs.
“I was a cheerleader in high school. I’d probably be one still at college if I had time.”
“Why are you in here being nice to me?” I ask abruptly. “I haven’t exactly done much to endear myself to you.”
She shrugs and gets up, walking to the door.
“You should get some personal stuff in here,” she says at the doorway. “I think my parents would really like it if you stayed.”
She walks out the door but turns and sticks her head back into the room for a parting comment.
“I don’t think you’re as bad as you like to pretend you are. I wouldn’t mind if you stayed either.”
I flop back on the bed, feeling washed out. I roll onto my side, curling up in a ball, pressing my fists against my heart—too many roller-coaster emotions in one day for me.
“I’m not going soft, I’m not going soft,” I repeat quietly, over and over, a litany. I reach behind me and pull the comforter over myself, too tired to get up and get ready for bed.
“I am not going soft,” I say again. Somehow, the words seem empty.
⊕⊗⊕
I wake up in the morning, weary. I look at myself in the mirror, surprised at the face looking back. I am lost somewhere under this face that shows an unfamiliar complacency.
This whole deal with Trevor is supposed to be me turning him, not the other way around. No real feelings involved. I strengthen my resolve, take a deep breath, and stiffen my spine. I’m not here to be friends with a cheerleader or to become anything resembling a real daughter, and I’m definitely not here to fall in love with some geek.
“Trev,” I say later when we’re in my room, me pacing the floor and Trevor sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s a little disappointed in me today, I can tell. I’m back, the real me, the same one who first approached him so many months ago—a lifetime ago, it seems. He saw it right away by the full-force return of my look with severe makeup, wearing the tightest sweater and shortest skirt I own. I am dressed for success.
“Yeah?” he asks, clearly uncomfortable with my harsh tone.
“Look, we spend a lot of time doing what you want. I’ve watched more sci-fi movies than I even knew were available, spent time with your friends who are definitely not my type, gone with you to do charity, camped in a tent for you, went to your family reunion—”
“What is with you today?” he interrupts my tirade. “You’ve been on edge all day.”
“What, you mean I’m not my usual cheery, sweet self?” I ask sardonically.
“Something like that,” he murmurs. Then louder, “If this is because of what happened yesterday . . .” He trails off, and I know he’s thinking about my unguarded confession to Mrs. Green. But I don’t want to talk about that.
“Actually, Trev,” he cringes at the way I spit his name, “this whole thing is feeling a little one-sided.”
“What? What are you saying?” He’s bewildered, palms up in supplication.
“How many times have I asked you to come with me, hang out with my friends?”
“You used to ask all the time, but you haven’t asked for a long time.”
His statement is true, but I’m not about to admit that.
“Well, I’m asking now. Or do I have to forsake my friends on top of everything else I’ve given up for you?”
“That’s incredibly unfair, Jen. I haven’t asked you to give up anything.”
“Really? Is that what you think? Then why have you been looking at me like that all day?”
“Like what?”
“Disgusted because I look the same as I did when you first met me instead of like the watered-down version I’ve become lately.”
He gets up, walking over to stand right in front of me, effectively cutting off my pacing. He’s right in my face and though I can see the storm raging in his eyes, he doesn’t yell or try to intimidate.
“I was attracted to you from the first minute you walked up to me, and you know it. You made sure of it. I wouldn’t care if you were now bald and covered in warts. Your looks aren’t why I like you, why I want to be with you.” His jaw clenches as he glares at me. “I’ll talk to you later,” he bites out.
I watch, stunned, as he walks out. Trevor has never walked away from me. My sails deflate, and I sink down on my bed. This isn’t how I pictured it going. I wanted him to grovel, to do whatever I wanted to keep me happy.
Fifteen minutes later my phone rings. It’s Trevor.
“Yeah?” I growl roughly, wanting him to know I’m still angry.
“When?” he asks. This throws me.
“When what?” It’s hard to sound mad when you’re confused.
“When do you want us to hang out with your friends?”
“Saturday,” I shoot back, knowing there will be a party somewhere.
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Fine.”
“And Jen?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re right—we have only done the things I’ve wanted. I’m sorry if I made you feel like what you want isn’t important to me. It is.”
I sigh. Why does he have to be such a dork, making my insides all gooey by saying such things?
“I’m sorry too. I don’t want to fight with you.”
“So, where are we going on Saturday?”
I hedge a little, afraid he’ll back out if I tell him it’s a party. “I don’t know. I’ll have to find out what’s going on and let you know.”
“Okay.”
I feel that little worm of guilt trying to push its way up again at his easy acceptance and trust in me, so I push it down and offer a tiny olive branch.
“How about if you come over at six, and I’ll make you something to eat first?”
“You cook?” he asks in disbelief.
“You’re not the only one who has hidden talents, Scully.”
“Scully’s a woman. I think you mean Mulder.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I say and hang up to the sound of his laughter.
13. Chicken, Flat Soda, and Vines
On Saturday morning, my foster mother takes me shopping for food when I tell her my plan to make dinner for Trevor. I’m sure she has great hope that the nerd holds influence over me and will change me into the ideal foster child that she can show the world with pride.
One of the things I make is a killer chicken dish, although it’s a talent I hoard. I let Sue give me advice on how to cook, since she’s unaware of my ability. I tell her I want to do chicken and potatoes and let her chatter about preparation. After all, she’s footing the bill.
I could get a job, but past experience has taught me that doing that only gives foster parents the idea of forcing me to purchase all of my personal necessities instead of getting them for me. I figure since they’re getting money from the state for the dubious honor of having me live in their homes, they should pay for everything.
When we get back to the house, she hovers a little, but pretty soon I look over to see her smiling at me like the cat that
ate the canary.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ve been keeping a secret, haven’t you?”
My mind immediately races to discover which of my many secrets she might have discovered. I shake my head in denial, waiting for her to tell me which one she’s discovered.
“I think you’ve been in a kitchen before. You almost look like a pro.”
“Yeah, right.” I shrug, relieved that this is her discovery.
“Seriously, you’re cooking with a natural ease, and you look pretty happy doing it.”
I hurry and put a scowl on my face, but this just makes her laugh.
“Ever thought of becoming a chef? Maybe opening your own restaurant someday?” she asks as I lean into the fridge to pull some items out.
I school my face before looking up at her—I don’t want her to see on my face how close she has come to guessing my only dream, the one that crushes me with its impossibility.
“Maybe I can be a cook at the diner. Being a chef requires schooling. Somehow I don’t see college in my future,” I tell her.
“Why not? You’re definitely smart enough.”
“You’ve seen my grades, right?”
“I have, yes. I also know they aren’t a true reflection of what you’re capable of.”
My anger sparks.
“And you know this after knowing me for less than a year?” I ask sharply.
“Yes.” Her answer is simple, straightforward. I roll my eyes. She’s almost as impossibly nice as Trevor is.
“Mind if I watch and learn?” Her question surprises me—and pleases me a little. I’ve never had anyone want to learn from me—if you discount some of the things I’ve taught my friends that were either illegal or at least not fit for polite company, as the saying goes.
When Trevor shows up—bringing me a big apology bouquet of wild flowers in true geek fashion—he makes my day with his genuine praise for my culinary skills. I’m also happy that he’s come casual in a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, keeping the nerdiness to a minimum—and looking pretty hot in the process, I have to say.
“You look good, Trev,” I tell him and get a kiss for my compliment.
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