Geek Girl

by Cindy C. Bennett

  “Then why are you feeling guilty? You should put that in the bank so you don’t lose it or have it stolen. I could take you down and you can open an account.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “I don’t need to open an account. The money came from my account.”

  Trevor looks confused, so I tell him the story, glossing over certain parts—those parts mainly being my own thoughts.

  “Wait, you think Sue would tell you about this, tell you it’s yours, then take it away?”

  “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds silly to think that,” I say defensively.

  “That’s because it is silly. Sue and Pat seem like good people. I’m pretty sure she’s not trying to pull some cruel prank on you.”

  I rip the envelope out of his hands.

  “I know that!”

  “Then what’s going on, Jen? What’s really going on? Because I don’t think this is about the money.”

  His words bring repressed feelings boiling to the surface, and I look away as tears brim, trying to flow. I brush them angrily away.

  “You don’t know,” I say irritably. “You don’t know anything. Your world is all about happiness and sunshine and security. I don’t have that luxury. I never have.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me tightly against him so that I’m sitting with my back against his chest. He wraps his arms around me, and in that silent show of support, I find my safety.

  “Tell me,” he says softly, giving me the chance to pretend I didn’t hear if I don’t want to tell him.

  “You know about my . . . real parents,” I stutter over the words, and he gives me a soft squeeze. “But after them, there have been a lot of foster families. There aren’t that many people out there like Pat and Sue.

  “A lot of foster parents are in it for the money and for the free labor they get from foster kids—or at least the ones I’ve had experience with. What can you do, right? I mean, they have you by the throat. You have to do what they say, try to stick around as long as possible because it’s better than the shelter. You might be surprised to find that there aren’t a lot of families looking for a black-haired, pierced, rebellious teen to take into their homes.” I try to sound flippant, but it doesn’t quite flow.

  “Yeah, I know, woe is me,” I say disdainfully as if he’d contradicted me. “I’m not complaining, because I haven’t had to spend much time at the shelter. But I’ve learned a few things. And one of the biggest is that nothing is free, Trev. There’s always a cost. I just don’t see what Sue’s price is. This is a new game for me.”

  Trevor is silent for so long that I finally look up at him. He’s looking at my mirror, which seems to spout a new photo every couple of days (and which Trevor claims is not him). It’s nearly covered all the way around the edges now. Finally, he glances down at me, and I’m grateful that his eyes aren’t filled with sympathy—that I couldn’t take.

  “Did it ever occur to you that she isn’t trying to play a game with you?”

  I stare at him. No game? There’s always a game. Even as I think this, I realize that it has never been a game for Trevor. I can’t say the same for myself, but for him it has always been genuine, no expectations, no payment expected. If he can be this way, I suppose it’s possible that maybe others can as well. Sue and Pat seem to be cut from the same cloth as Trevor.

  As my mind empties of suspicion and fills with something like hope, I smile at him.

  “What?” He sounds suspicious, but he’s smiling and his eyes are clear.

  “Wanna give me a ride to the bank?”

  ⊕⊗⊕

  I confess my thievery to Sue, who laughs at me. I wasn’t expecting that reaction, for sure. Disappointment at the least, a call to have me immediately removed from her home at most. I hand her the book meekly. She hands it back.

  “Why don’t you keep it in your room? You can add as well as I can.” I look at the proffered book, but my new resolve to trust my fosters—I mean, the Grants—causes me to shake my head.

  “No, I trust you. You keep it for me until I need it.”

  She shrugs, not realizing how momentous my decision is, and casually tucks it into her rear pocket.

  “You ready to shop tomorrow?” she asks.

  “You still want to take me, after I stole that money?”

  “You can’t steal what is yours,” she laughs.

  Just like that, my week of stressing and worrying over the savings account is made null and void. It’s weird, this feeling of trust, this sense of almost belonging.

  ⊕⊗⊕

  One thing I will say about Sue is that she sure knows how to shop. I’m exhausted long before she is. She lets me choose everything, subtly guiding me to accents and colors that end up looking great together. I don’t know how she does it, but once we return home and fix my room up, it’s exactly the room I’ve always wanted but haven’t dared hope for.

  My room transforms to red and black, a complete opposite from its bright white. It’s darker now, like me. Unlike me it is also elegant and welcoming, not something I would have expected from these colors. The frill is gone, and it’s plain and simple under the elegance.

  She even bought frames for my multiplying photos, and now they hang in a cool collage above my bed, replacing the bland, hopeful landscape that had hung there. On the other walls hang a couple of prints of paintings by Dali. The surreal, dark paintings appeal to something in me, though I suspect Sue isn’t as impressed by them. She bought them for me, anyway.

  Just like that, it feels like home.

  17. Offers and Issues

  I’m spending most of my time with Trevor now. Other than Beth and Ella, I haven’t taken the time to make any real friends. Making friends is a lot of effort to put forth when your stay is a temporary one. I might have made more of an effort originally if I’d known I would have the good fortune to end up with two separate families in the same school zone. By the time I came to stay with the Grants, I was back to having less than a year to stay—or so I’d thought. Now that I’m planning to make it a little more permanent, I feel a little sorry that I didn’t make the effort. Mainly because Beth and Ella are pretty angry with me about the whole Trevor deal and aren’t speaking to me much.

  I was as honest with them as I could be, leaving out my feelings for him. I told them that I decided I like hanging with him, so they’re off the hook with the bet. They completely don’t get it. They think I’ve sold out, which I guess is true to some degree. I’m okay with that because I’m liking both myself and my life better these days.

  Then two things happened to upset my new balance. First, a conversation with Pat and Sue, and second, an offhand comment made by Trevor on the heels of that conversation, which solidified an idea in my mind.

  Pat and Sue had sat me down and asked what I thought of the idea of adoption. At my stricken look, they had assured me that they weren’t trying to take the place of my natural parents, that they just wanted me as part of their family. They had even told me that I could keep my own last name—as if that name means anything to me.

  I couldn’t tell them that my hesitation wasn’t due to either of those reasons. My hesitation stemmed from that raw wound called hope. I’ve been looking at it from every angle since they told me, and I can’t figure out what possible ulterior motive they might have. That’s making me think maybe there isn’t another motive. Maybe they really like me enough to just want me as part of their family as they said.

  Then I think about the commitment involved in saying yes. It’s a lifetime commitment, no going back.

  It also means getting permission from my imprisoned biological mother—my mother, who has written to me only once, soon after she was convicted, and who has not contacted me again in spite of the hundreds of letters I’ve written to her. I haven’t written to her for over three years now.

  It’s while all of this swirls around, clouding my head, that Trevor makes his comment. We’re in my room listening to some mu
sic on the new stereo that Pat brought home for me the day after Sue and I remodeled my room. My mystery box happens to be sitting on my vanity because I cleaned out my closet earlier and just haven’t put it away yet. Trevor occasionally glances at it, and I’m aware of his intense curiosity. I’m also counting on his good manners for him to not ask about it.

  “You don’t talk about your parents much,” he says without warning.

  “You’re here almost every day, Trev. You know as much about them as I do.”

  He peeks up at me from underneath those beautiful long lashes, effective since he’s sitting on the floor next to the bed, and I’m lying on it, head propped up on my hand, my other hand hanging over the edge, fingers entwined with his. I try not to melt at the glance. He has no idea how appealing his eyes are.

  “I’m not talking about Pat and Sue,” he says quietly, and because I’m a little lost in the sea green of his eyes, it takes a minute for the words to penetrate. He senses when my gaze changes, his hand tightening instinctively over mine to keep me from pulling away.

  “I’m not trying to pry,” he begins, his ultra-politeness battling with his curiosity. “It’s just that . . .”

  He turns, not relinquishing his grip on my hand, sitting up on his knees so that he’s eye level with me.

  “We’ve been . . . together . . . for a while now. You pretty much know everything about me. But there’s a whole chunk of your life that’s a big blank to me.” He shrugs, looking down at our tangled hands. He brings his free hand up, tucking my hair behind my ear, then caressing my jaw with his thumb, sending goose bumps skittering across my skin.

  “You’re not playing fair,” I mumble. He leans in and kisses me until my belly is on fire and my toes are curled.

  “Sorry, can’t help myself,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Tell me about them,” he urges softly, and it has the effect of a bucket of cold water poured over my head. I jerk away and sit up.

  “Nothing to tell.” I know I sound belligerent, but it’s not something I like to talk about—to anyone.

  “Where were you born? Where did you grow up? Have you lived with many foster families? Why do you live in foster care?” He’s counting on his fingers with each question. “That’s a lot I don’t know. Things about you that I’d like to know. Things that have made you who you are.”

  “Things I don’t talk about,” I tell him angrily. Immediately he’s on the bed next to me, arm around my shoulder.

  “Whoa, Jen, I don’t mean to upset you. No pressure, honey. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  I lean into him, relaxing.

  “Sorry, sensitive subject,” I say. He just sits quietly with me, rubbing his hand up and down my back. I know Trevor; he might still be curious, but he won’t bring it up again. He won’t be angry or disappointed if I don’t tell him. My sure knowledge of that is what makes up my mind.

  “You heard what I told Mrs. Green,” I begin, and he tenses for a brief second before resuming his rubbing. “My only memories of my father are shades of purple and black, lots of violence. I don’t remember a lot of the specifics of life with him other than those impressions. Most of what I know comes from what I’ve read in the reports written about my life.

  “I don’t have any real feelings concerning him, you know? Other than fear. That is a feeling that I associate with him,” I say. Trevor pulls me a little closer.

  “He was killed by the cops when they were called to the house. One of the neighbors heard gunshots. He was shooting at me.”

  I don’t tell Trevor, but that is a crystallized memory—always there, always clear. The fear of my father that I experienced that day and the utter hopelessness of knowing that there was no one to protect me were burned forever into my mind.

  “The cops came,” I continue, “and he wouldn’t put his gun down, claiming he had the right to shoot me if he wanted to. He aimed at me, they fired at him, and he died.”

  I shudder with the memory of all of the blood on that day, and Trevor wraps both arms around me, reminding me of just how safe I am now.

  “So they sent me to live with my mom. She hadn’t wanted me originally, which is how I ended up living with my dad. She had . . .” I pause, looking for a word that can describe her life. “Issues, I guess,” I finally settle on this all-encompassing description, inadequate as it is.

  “By the time I went to live with her, she was living with her second husband, just another model of my father, another abusive lowlife. I wasn’t really a welcome addition to the house, but she had to take me. There wasn’t anyone else.

  “I have to give her props,” I say, shrugging. “She at least tried a little. I lived with her until I was twelve. It wasn’t exactly like living here with the Grants, or what it was like for you growing up. It was better than it had been at my father’s because her husband only beat me occasionally, and then only if I did something to draw his attention. But at least she didn’t beat me. She actually tried to protect me a little. Not that she’d win any mother-of-the-year awards since she was so wrapped up in her own misery and ignored me as much as possible. And mostly he was unaware of me.

  “But when I turned twelve I started to—” I stop abruptly, glancing up at Trevor, embarrassed. As usual, he’s instinctively doing the right thing, which is to not be looking at me. I clear my throat and continue.

  “I started to change.” I emphasize the word, refusing to say that I began to develop, not looking like such a little girl anymore.

  “And because he was a pig, he noticed that, and then it was hard to avoid him.” I stop, hating to remember the next part, the part where he had come into my room and tried to force himself on me. I clearly remember the overpowering sickly-sweet smell of his sweat as he crushed me beneath his large, heavy body, the revolting smell of his breath on my face, his rough, probing, demanding hands. I shudder again at the memory, and Trevor pulls me over onto his lap, pulling my head down against his neck, arms firm around me, holding me together.

  I breathe deeply of Trevor’s clean smell, of his goodness and purity, and the memories I have of Trevor replace those of that horrible night. Trevor has often held me close, never with anything even slightly resembling demand or expectation. I wind my arms around him, holding him close, grateful for whichever fate has put him in my path.

  I take a deep, bracing breath and continue.

  “He didn’t rape me,” I say quietly, firmly. “He probably would have, but my mother came in then and saw him. I still don’t know if she was angry that he was trying to hurt me or if she was jealous that he had turned his attention to someone other than her, but either way, she killed him. So now she’s in prison.”

  I point at the box.

  “That box, which you’re so curious about,” I growl at him, then kiss him on the jaw so that he knows I’m not really upset, “contains all of my worldly possessions. Not much to show for seventeen years.”

  I pull away from him but don’t move off his lap. I lift the box over and hand it to him. He looks at me questioningly.

  “Open it.”

  He flips the lid open with his thumb and peers in. My birth certificate lies in the bottom. My mother’s wedding ring from my father—a cheap, thin, gold band—is in there. There’s a wrinkled Polaroid of my parents—my mother barely more than a girl—and myself when I was a baby. At first glance, it would seem they’re happy, but if you look closely, you can see the strain and stress showing around their eyes and in the corners of their forced smiles. A key to a ’69 Camaro from my almost-brother, who gave it to me as a going away gift and told me someday I could come back and he’d fit a car to the key for me. A few little odds and ends from my various foster families, nothing of any real value.

  Mostly it’s full of letters. Trevor flips through them, not really looking. Then he notices what they are, and he goes back to the top, looking at each one individually. When he realizes what they are, his eyes come up to meet mine, horrified.

  “She sent
all of your letters back?”

  “Unopened,” I say, turning one over to show him.

  “Maybe you should go see her. Ask her why,” he murmurs, making the comment that puts the thought into my head, one I never expected—or wanted—to have.

  “No.” My answer sounds firm, final. It’s really anything but.

  He tosses the letters back into the box, and his eyes go soft with sympathy.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I command, recognizing that look.

  He only shakes his head.

  “I can’t help it. It kills me to think of how hard it’s been for you.”

  “Don’t, Trev. I can’t take it. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,” I repeat.

  He gives me a wry grin, but even that is laden with his sorrow.

  “I can’t help it. It’s how I’m built.” His excuse is lame, but lame or not, I recognize that it’s the absolute truth.

  “You’re such a geek, Trev,” I sigh resignedly.

  “I know.” He reaches up to caress my cheek with his warm hand, his smile less sad now. “But that’s why you love me.”

  “Yeah.” I lean in and kiss him. “It is.”

  We sit silently for a few minutes.

  “Hey, Trev?” I ask softly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you call me ‘honey’ before?”

  He chuckles softly against my neck, and I can’t help but grin. He is such an utter dork.

  18. Will the Real Mother Please Stand Up?

  So I decide it’s time to go and see her. The decision isn’t made lightly. The Grants’ desire to adopt me, as well as Trevor’s comment and sorrow over the returned letters, has planted the seed—I can’t keep it from growing.

  I ask Pat to take me. It doesn’t seem fair to ask the woman who wants to be my new mother to take me to see my old mother. I don’t ask Trevor because he’s been treating me like fragile glass since our conversation. I know he’s told his parents because his mom is suddenly being really nice to me. His dad gave me a quick, hard hug, then ruffled my hair and challenged me to an arm wrestle.