Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  “Thank you, Javier,” I said, and reached out very slowly to take the pump from him. Then laughing, I told him, “You see, sometimes I have a little problem with walking. My feet don’t always want to beha—”

  “I know. My mommy was clumsy too.”

  Poor Javier. I stared at him so long I frightened him again. I could hardly believe he was speaking to me. I thought perhaps I imagined it. “Was she?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he jumped up in an incredibly agile maneuver, where he went from sitting on his bottom to standing on his feet in one swift motion.

  I smiled at him in awe. “You’re very good at that!”

  Javier smiled, hiding his teeth. Something in his face had changed, I realized, and I also wondered if this time he would give me a different answer.

  “Javier, would you like to come outside with me?”

  It was quick; the barest of movements. But at his nod, I had to work to control my response, so as not to raise my hands and cheer. “That makes me happy. And I know everyone will be so happy to meet you.” Then I chuckled to myself, because if not for being clumsy, I wouldn’t have been able to convince him to join us.

  “Foster. Pshh. Come in, Foster. Over. Pshh.”

  My body gave a jerk as I came to. The sound of Emily and Maddie’s laughter grew louder with each level of reverie I somersaulted through. Jake stared at me from under austere brows, speaking low into the makeshift walkie-talkie pressed to his lips. “Foster, do you copy? Pshh—over.”

  I grew hot and began laughing uncomfortably. “Sorry,” I said softly. “I was just—thinking.”

  Jake peeled back the lid of his walkie-talkie, dunking a spoon into the carton of chocolate pudding. “I was just about put this under your nose,” he said, picking up a tiny white packet. “You looked unconscious.”

  It took me a moment to put two and two together, and deduce that Jake was referring to smelling salts. I smiled. “Just thinking,” I repeated. There wasn’t any particular reason why I kept The House of Hope a secret; at least, no more reason than why I kept everything else about my life concealed.

  Emily made a jeering face; a small laugh slipped from her mouth. “Jake, you do understand the definition of unconscious means ‘not awake,’ right?”

  He shrugged and waved his spoon simultaneously. “Fost knew what I meant.”

  Emily smirked. “And the salt? You know it wouldn’t—”

  “Geez!” Jake leaned back and angled his head awkwardly to look at his sister. “Who are you—Ask Jeeves?” Then he laughed and turned his attention back to eating. “I get it, okay? It was just a joke, so relax, will ya? Actually, here”—he used his forearm to scoot one of five cartons toward her—“have some pudding. It’ll make you happy.”

  Emily rolled her eyes half-heartedly at her brother, but glancing down she shrugged, then grabbed a spoon.

  “Oh, hey,” Jake said from inside the nearly empty carton. When it had not even a smear of brown left inside, he set it off to the side, and ripped into a new one. “You have that thing today, yeah?” He shoveled three monstrous bites into his mouth and stared at me—waiting. “You know . . . that thing,” he enunciated with a firm nod.

  “Wow, Jake,” Emily said in an extremely dry voice. “Way to make yourself crystal clear.”

  “You know what I’m talking about, right Fost?”

  I grimaced, shaking my head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Jake. Can you be a little more specific?”

  He lifted both hands in the air. “The thing!”

  “He sucks at Pictionary, Gestures, and Taboo, too,” Emily chimed in between bites.

  A roll of nausea swooped low through my belly. I looked at Jake and nodded. “You mean—” My throat was suddenly lacking the moisture necessary to speak. “You mean in Music class?”

  “Yes!” He gave a great sigh of exultation, grinning triumphantly. “See,” he gloated with confidence, elbowing his sister. “I told you there was a thing.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Emily replied, dryly. “You told me.”

  Chapter Six

  I needed to stop shaking. It wasn’t helping.

  In hindsight, I could now appreciate the distraction Emily provided over lunch. If not for her usual and highly entertaining interactions with Jake, and the spats with both Samson and Amy, I would have spent the entire fifty minutes obsessing about the only thought monopolizing my mind since Monday—Senior Piece partners.

  With Emily’s help I was able to push it out of my mind for a while. Unfortunately Jake had remembered the thing, and I went right back to privately obsessing. The plans I had of finding Mr. Balfy before school started were tainted from the get-go. As my luck would have it, he wasn’t in his classroom during any of the passing periods, tutorial, or before lunch.

  And fully preoccupied with the impending conversation, I had neglected to grab the binder containing my first draft Senior Piece. If I was right, it would still be laying on the passenger seat of my car.

  Passing my class, I didn’t stop, but was able to catch a quick glimpse of a few early arrivers, festooned with instruments. Still no sign of Mr. Balfy. I picked up my pace, nearly trampling Pilar Knight coming toward me from the opposite direction. Surprised, she made a graceful glide, avoiding my flailing attempt at dodging out of the way. Behind me, the back of my hand connected with something warm and hard. I heard a grunt and turned around to find a boy, his features twisting from surprise to anger, with a perceptible pink mark stained on his left cheek. He stormed away, the word freak dug roughly into his bottom lip.

  The birdish shriek of rubber soles and linoleum hung in the air as I swiveled back around to give Pilar the customary full body-scan. A kind girl with a penchant for bright clothing, Pilar wasn’t so much introverted as she was speculative. Her amber eyes held both unspoken questions and answers.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, beginning my examination at her toes, painted gold and bound by gladiator sandals that laced halfway up her slender calf. “I didn’t—I didn’t hurt you? Or step on you, did I?”

  “Noot at all,” Pilar answered in her lovely accented voice. She adjusted the thick brown belt loosely wrapped around the flowy bronze dress, “And yourself? You didn’t damage your hand smacking that lout in the face, I hope.” She pushed back her soft cloud of dark curls, eyes glittering.

  “Oh. No, I—um.” I glanced at my hand. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “I don’t believe he could have been less gracious,” she said, looking past me.

  “I don’t blame him for being upset,” I said. “I should have been more careful.”

  “Nonsense. It was an accident, anyone could see that. He didn’t need to be so beastly about it. You heading in?” She lifted a finger, pointing over my head. From the expansive sounds coming from the open door, it was clear more students had arrived.

  “In just a minute,” I replied, and took a step toward the double door. “I need to get something from my car. I’ll be right back.”

  “Should I . . .” Pilar gave me a strange look. “Should I let the professor know you’ll be tardy?”

  “I think I can make it,” I called back, stepping aside judiciously, as a cluster of Music students came through the doors.

  “All right, well, I’ll cover for ya,” she assured me with a shrug. “If you’re running behind, that is.”

  “Thanks, Pilar.” She smiled genuinely, following Connor into the classroom.

  “Oh, Foster!” My name sounded pretty when spoken through Pilar’s accent; less harsh without the r sound at the end. Fost-ah.

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking,” she continued, and laughed through a smile, “hoping, actually, that maybe you and I will be partners. You know . . . if Mr. Balfy decides to do things alphabetically.”

  And when I answered, I surprised myself by speaking the truth. “I’d like that.” If I was to have a partner, I couldn’t think of anyone I would rather work with.

  “Sorry, go on then.” Pilar flic
ked her hands to shoo me. “Off with you!”

  Outside in the blinding sunlight, I plunged a hand into the fathomless pit of my backpack, sorting through calculators, highlighters, pens, pencils, and protractors.

  Keys. Where are you, keys?

  I continued to search in vain, checking pockets for the third and fourth time, frisking myself, though I was absolutely positive I hadn’t put them in my jacket or skirt. I grew frantic, noticing I was just about the only one still outside of class. About to dump everything out on the ground, something glinted on the outside of my backpack. My eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the sunlight, but connecting with the familiar shapes and textures, I knew I had found them, suddenly remembering how I had meant to save myself both the time and the nuisance of misplacing my keys by attaching them to the zipper. I had not envisioned my plan working out this way. And the way my keys jangled made me certain they were laughing at me.

  I took off running, not bothering to zip anything shut. Things began to fall out of the gaping hole, clacking and clattering noisily to the ground. I didn’t stop running, though, but swung my bag over my chest, tugging roughly on the jammed zipper. I should have let it go. I should have reconciled with being late to class and left it at that.

  When I plowed into what felt like a brick wall, I released a squeal equal in surprise and pain. Upon impact I flung backward and crashed to the ground. I landed painfully on my side, skinning my left leg and watched, in slow motion horror, as books, papers, and pencils rained down around me and my latest victim. I surmised it must be a he, though I couldn’t yet bear to see if I was correct in my assumption.

  Still too mortified to peek, I stumbled to my hands and knees and got straight to work picking up the scattered belongings and offering the rote, well-rehearsed apology. As I gathered things, hoping nothing was broken, I reflected that in this month alone I had already replaced an iPod and a bottle of perfume. Thankfully, from what I could tell the majority of the wreckage belonged to me. Not so thankfully, the second bell rang. I cringed. It was one thing to make myself late, and entirely another to force tardiness on someone else.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said for the second time, still not meeting his eyes. I knew now for certain it was a he by the large sandaled feet dusted with a light layer of fine black hair. Still on my knees gathering pencils, I reluctantly tipped my head back, traveling up the long legs covered by dark blue jeans, passing the hips and narrow torso that—sort of funny if you could see the humor in it—did offer a resemblance of a brick wall. The red shirt he wore was loose in the stomach, though fit him snugly in the arms and chest.

  Then I noticed his hands, fisted at his sides. Knowing he was angered, I began to babble.

  “I was running late and I couldn’t find my keys. And then I did find them, but they were not where I thought they would be, and then my backpack . . .” The nervous and ineloquent chatter did nothing to ease my anxiety. I finally finished checking him for damage, and paused at the wide shoulders. “I will pay for anything that’s broken.” I bent down quickly, plucking one last piece of paper off the ground. I stared at it without really seeing what was written, but realized how nosy this must appear. “Sorry!” I said, and thrust the paper toward him. “I’m really . . . very sorry.”

  When I could put it off no longer, I lifted my eyes.

  My heart was instantly confused; in the same second it broke into a sprint, smashing against my ribs with blunt and forceful knocking, sounding alarms of all kinds deep within my eardrums, and defaulted to a nearly painful canter—sluggish and irregular. The eyes that stared back at mine were indisputably the bluest eyes I had ever seen, possessing so many varying shades of turquoise that, simply calling them blue was both obtuse and inaccurate. They were barrier reef and pale, cloudless sky, outfitted by a cluster of lashes thicker and darker than any hedge could afford. They were stunning.

  Through the sticky haze of stupor clouding my better judgment, a voice—distant and heeding—advised me to look away; to give him his things and turn to go before he chose whether or not to speak to me. But I knew I was going to stay; not because I wanted to, but because curiosity had stolen me and made me his prisoner.

  Trapped in his stare, I remained entranced by some unseen gravitational force. Time felt indefinite, though it couldn’t have been more than an instant. And then something happened: a flimsy piece of pink paper—crumpled and creased from the strain of his grip—dropped from his taut hand and fell toward the ground. I followed it, watching as it fluttered like a piece of ceremonial confetti shaken loose from rafters. He made no move to retrieve it. I wasn’t even sure if he noticed. I lowered my arm, slowly, realizing it was still extended toward him. I met his direct gaze, my perception heightened by the broken moment. Only then was I able to see in his eyes what I had overlooked a moment before. Not exactly overlooked, but disregarded due to unfamiliarity.

  People didn’t look at me, let alone look at me like this. But there wasn’t any other explanation. Utterly shocked and perplexed, I continued to gawk, watching as all life and color dissolved from his face. A hose taken to a brightly chalked sidewalk, his face was left slick and gray within seconds. He breathed rapidly from the nose, nostrils flaring above lips, white and pressed stiffly together. When there was too much proof to refute what I was seeing, I let the nonsensical words I had dismissed finally have their say.

  He’s afraid of me.

  I had no time to consider the absurdity of this statement. His frantic eyes were suddenly in motion, raking me from head to toe. I took an involuntary step backward, self-conscious under this very blatant and concentrated inspection. Slowly, his neck began to turn aside, eyes sidled as if he couldn’t decide whether to look away or look closer. The ambivalence was catching. I presently wrestled with the indecision of whether to turn and run, or let this boy look at me . . . like no one ever had before.

  The truth was, I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. My entire body was rigid, shaking with a fear all my own. My legs felt like they might give way at any second. The silence, palpable and withering, pressed on my frail shoulders like the weight of the ocean. And because there was no other option, and it appeared as if he’d made a decision, I studied him just as closely.

  I began at his throat—veins protruding and dripping with rivulets of sweat—noting how he couldn’t seem to stop swallowing. As he did this, the jaw of his dreidel-shaped face clenched and released. No longer white, his skin had returned to what I assumed was its original color—a deep caramel. Crimson colored his angular cheekbones, fading into the high forehead and disappearing completely in his jet black, tousled hair. Why, I didn’t know, but for some reason I found myself comparing him to Samson. Possibly because there was a congruity in the sharp contours of their faces and striking contrast of light eyes and dark hair, but that is where the similarities ended; a silly and strange thing for me to postulate, as I knew nothing about him—or almost nothing. Soaked in his impenetrable and heavy stare, I found not one part of him to be hollow.

  I tried to find my voice, stuck somewhere in the moments that seemed to neither pass nor start, to begin another round of apologies. I lost my nerve, though, as his expression shifted to something entirely more daunting than fear. A small gasp fell from my mouth. The word angry had immediately come to mind, but it was gone before I finished the thought. It wasn’t even a close comparison. When I pictured the disgruntled boy from the hallway, cheek stained with the print of my hand and eyes glaring with an aloof anger, I couldn’t differentiate his resentment from any other look of scorn I’d received upon knocking into someone. This look was different. It wasn’t anger; it wasn’t even hostility. Seething and trembling, this boy radiated an emotion that turned my blood cold and made my bones ache. Not even Vanya, full of contempt, had ever harpooned me with eyes sharpened with this much disgust.

  In that moment, I didn’t even think to ask myself the most obvious question—why? I only knew that I had to apologize—again.

  “
I’m sorry,” I croaked inaudibly. My throat was tight with apprehension. He let out a slow breath, shaky and volatile. A voice was screaming at me, no longer with distant suggestions, but shouts full of warning. I told my feet to go, to leave before I somehow made him impossibly angrier. They wouldn’t budge; it was as if they had sunk into the ground and become part of the cement. Cautiously I took in my surroundings.

  We were completely alone.

  When he finally spoke, I felt foolish for entertaining morbid thoughts. It was difficult, however, not to consider the similarities between the current situation and one of Emily’s beloved horror movies. I had yet to watch one that didn’t include a deceptively innocent scene—middle of the afternoon, plenty of witnesses nearby—where somebody was savagely and brutally slaughtered. Still, the sound of his voice jolted my insides like a burst of electricity.

  Hatred spilled from his dilated pupils in a colorless vapor, choking the air from my lungs. “I’m late,” he announced in an accusatory voice from between his teeth. Glancing down, he added in a hinting tone, “And I don’t know where I’m going.” I stared, frozen and mute, wondering if this was a request for directions. His thick black brows merged, furrows denting the space between his eyes. He kept his gaze averted, fixed on something below my waist. I was too nervous to see for myself.

  He exhaled brusquely, flexing his fingers. “My schedule?”

  I panicked, not understanding what this meant. How was I supposed to know what his schedule was? “Your . . . schedule?” My heart was pounding.

  His jaw clenched. He threw out an open palm and flicked his index finger toward me. “My schedule! You have my schedule in your hand. I need it,” he growled, still not looking at me.

  I jumped at the fully realized venom in his voice. “Oh!” My arm shot up like a catapult. “I’m sorry—here.”

  He snatched it from my fingers and shoved it into his pocket. Just as I bent to pick up the other piece of paper, he did the same. Our heads collided. He made a low noise in his throat—one of sheer revulsion. I scooted back abruptly, thinking it best to let him do it on his own.