Throwaway Girl

by Kristine Scarrow

  “May I come over?” I ask her. She waves me over. I push myself up in the air and over the fence and land with a thump on her side of the yard. She chuckles while I pick myself off of the ground. “Sorry … I guess I should have used the gate,” I say sheepishly.

  “I would have done the same thing at your age.” Mrs. Assaly laughs. I take a seat beside her at the patio table.

  “Whatcha doing?” I ask. Mrs. Assaly rubs the front of the album she’s holding, a forlorn smile on her face.

  “You were right, Bernice,” she says, opening the album. Expecting to see photographs, my eyes light up in surprise when I see that the album contains dozens of drawings carefully posted on the pages.

  “Are these yours?” I ask. Mrs. Assaly places the album in front of me so that I can have a better look. I carefully turn the pages, staring at the gorgeous images. Most of them are of people of all ages and sizes. The people look so real, it’s hard to imagine that they were drawn.

  Mrs. Assaly smiles nervously. “It’s been quite a few years since I’ve last looked at these,” she admits.

  “Oh, Mrs. Assaly, you must continue drawing! These are incredible!” I breathe. How could someone with so much talent give this up? Mrs. Assaly looks closely at me before reaching for the album.

  “You may have changed my mind, Bernice. I think you’ve inspired me.” She flips through the pages herself, lost in thought. My heart swells with pride knowing that Mrs. Assaly may draw again and that I had something to do with it. If she’s as passionate about drawing as I am about writing, how in the world could she possibly give it up?

  The wind starts to pick up and the leaves start to lift and swirl above the ground. It’s starting to get dark. Although Mrs. Assaly and I are having a wonderful time together, I’m anxious for Luke and Shelley to get back. They’ll be so excited to hear about Mrs. Assaly and her drawings. When the pages of her album keep getting blown open by the wind, Mrs. Assaly suggests we go inside the house and wait. I help her stack the patio chairs and carry in the album for her. We sit in front of the TV and she brings me some cookies and milk. “I’m sure you’re hungry dear,” she says. “It might be awhile before you have dinner.” I am thankful for the snack. The growling in my stomach is getting louder and it’s starting to make me anxious. Feeling this hungry brings back too many memories. It’s as though the emptiness of my stomach has paralleled the emptiness inside my heart throughout the years. But it’s different now, I try to assure myself. You have a loving family, a safe home, and lots of food to eat. It’ll be okay and you’ll eat soon.

  Mrs. Assaly keeps glancing at the clock, watching vigilantly out the window every time she sees a pair of headlights making their way down the street, to see if it is Luke and Shelley. I’m focusing on the game show on TV. Adults are playing against children to see who is smarter. I’m amused by this show, how the kids are clearly smarter than the adults. Many of the answers come easily to me and I laugh when I see the adults scratching their heads, asking for help.

  At last, a pair of headlights turns into Luke and Shelley’s driveway. Mrs. Assaly breathes a sigh of relief.

  “They’re home!” she says brightly. I get up from the couch and stretch, grateful to be going home now. Mrs. Assaly walks to the front door and pulls it open. She hesitates at the doorway and puts her hand over her mouth.

  “Stay here,” she advises me. Immediately, my heart starts to beat faster. What’s going on? I wonder. I make my way towards the door but when I look outside, it’s not Luke and Shelley at all. It’s a man in a police uniform, walking towards Luke and Shelley’s doorway and he’s clutching his hat in his hands.

  I watch as Mrs. Assaly dashes down the steps towards him. I stand at the top of her front steps, watching, my feet frozen in place. The officer looks at Mrs. Assaly and then up to me before clearing his throat uncomfortably. Mrs. Assaly cups her hand over her mouth, horror in her eyes, and somehow before anything is said, I know.

  In seconds, I vaguely hear Mrs. Assaly talking to me. She is wrapping her arms around me, as though shielding me from the news. I can hear the police officer speaking in low tones, but I don’t make out what he is saying. Instead my mind is thinking of the girl in my story, the one who is very ill. I think of her lying in that hospital bed while her parents talk to the doctor.

  “We’ve made our decision,” they say. “We’ve decided against the experimental treatment. It’s time for us to let her go.” The doctor nods in understanding. And with that, the parents walk hand in hand out of the hospital while their daughter gasps in horror, knowing that her fate has been sealed. There will be no miracle for her, no happy ending. She won’t be saved after all.

  Chapter 11

  I am sitting in a conference room in Haywood with Betty, my new caseworker Sharon, and other officials from social services responsible for my welfare, but I’m not sure who they are exactly. They are here to discuss my upcoming departure from Haywood. I will be eighteen in April, which is just one month away and that means I can no longer stay here. I’ve known that this time would come, but I’m still quite nervous.

  I want to believe that I have the courage to face the real world and that I can make it on my own, yet I wonder how I’m going to handle it all. The caseworker has designed a plan for me, which includes securing my own apartment. Social services will pay my rent until I’m done school. They’ve asked what my future plans are. Survival, I want to say. But that’s not the answer they are looking for.

  As we move out on our own, we are supposed to have goals, dreams, and things to aspire to. I find it hard to imagine how I’m supposed to dream when I’m constantly worried about how I’m going to manage to eat, sleep, and keep a roof over my head. Our dreams are different from other kids our age. We don’t expect as much from life as other kids do because our dreams were robbed from us long ago.

  “You are almost done high school, Andy. That’s a huge accomplishment.” Sharon says to me. All of the people at the table nod in agreement. “Have you thought about furthering your education? Your marks are very good.” I shrug. Sure I’ve thought about school, but how will I make it all work? At Haywood, almost everything is provided for us. We can focus on our studies. But when I get out into the world on my own, how will I do it? I’m going to have so much more to worry about.

  So many girls my age can’t wait to get out on their own. They are counting the days until they leave home, anxious to have their own place and a space of their own. Take Trina for example. She can’t wait to leave Haywood. She tried to have herself discontinued from foster care when she turned sixteen. But after an exhaustive search, no one could be found to assume guardianship of her. No matter how hard they tried, the caseworkers couldn’t find extended family or close friends who might want to take her in. Trina told me how much it hurt, knowing that her mother or grandmother wouldn’t have anything to do with her even though she’d expected that they’d feel that way. What hurt even more was that there wasn’t even one significant relationship in her life that the caseworker could consider for placement. In the entire world, when it came down to it, Trina only had herself. We are so much more alike than I imagined. Throwaway girls, I like to call us.

  I’ve discovered that Haywood is also the closest thing to a support system I’ve had for a long time. When I’m on my own, who can I go to? My caseworker, Sharon, keeps telling me that I can contact her anytime, but I only see her every few months. She barely knows me. Somehow knowing that watching out for me is one of her job requirements, I have a hard time imagining us getting close. And that’s the other problem. Caseworkers change every five seconds, which means that there really isn’t an opportunity to get close to any of them. Don’t get me wrong, they’ve all been really nice to me over the years. It’s not their fault the system is the way it is.

  We’ve had two meetings so far about my exit from Haywood. I know that the next meeting will be my last. Because I don’t know what my future goals may be at this time, I tell them that I
want to focus on working for now. “Deadlines for applications for post-secondary education are approaching,” Sharon reminds me. “I’d hate for you to miss out on starting in the fall because your application didn’t make it in on time.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I know I should feel like the world is opening up to me, that I have so many choices for my future. But the thing is, I’ve never given the future much thought. How can I envision the future when I am trying to get through the present? Social services will pay for my apartment and my education until I’m twenty-one, as long as I’m going to school and working part of the time to help pay my expenses. I know there are kids that would die for this opportunity, but it’s just all so overwhelming to me. The women around the table are all looking at me expectantly. “I’ll give it some more thought,” I say.

  One of the women slides a package of brochures and information sheets from various post-secondary institutions. “These may help,” she says. I nod and add them to the sheets I’ve already been given.

  “Well, it looks like you’re almost ready,” Sharon says, smiling. The women start to rise from their seats. I smile halfheartedly at them and gather my information.

  Betty gives me a supportive squeeze when we get to the doorway of the conference room. “I guess we’ll both be leaving here soon, won’t we?” she says. She has recently announced her retirement and will be leaving just weeks after me. I nod and feel tears well up. Betty has a whole family to be with. She’s already planning to watch a few of her grandchildren part time after her retirement from Haywood. She’ll be surrounded by those she loves.

  I make my way back to the sleeping area. Trina is standing in the hallway waiting for me and she lights up when she sees me. “So, how did it go?” she says excitedly. “When are you officially outta here?” Trina turns eighteen a month after me and she’s determined that we’re going to live together once it’s her turn to leave.

  “I move into the apartment on June fifteenth,” I tell her. She squeals with delight and claps her hands.

  “It’s going to be so great getting out of here,” she says. “Just wait until I get out and we’re living together … then it’ll really be awesome!” She’s chattering non-stop, detailing all the things we’re going to do. I’m only half listening though. I’m trying to think of what my goals should be and whether I should even apply for school. What would I take? What have I wanted to be?

  I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. There’s only one thing I ever thought of doing with my life. It was something I loved, but gave up years ago: Writing. It was my escape. It allowed to me to dream up things I couldn’t see otherwise. It gave me hope. It filled me with such satisfaction that I could think of doing nothing else.

  Grief washes over me as I recall the last time I wrote anything. How I had convinced Mrs. Assaly to start drawing again because I couldn’t imagine how she could have stopped in the first place. Then came the long, fateful night when my whole world was shattered. Luke and Shelley never came home. And then I understood exactly why Mrs. Assaly had put down her pen once her husband died. Loss has a way of robbing us of more than just the people we love. I know this because I’ve never written since.

  “Andy, are you listening?” Trina says, turning to me. “Andy, what’s wrong?” she says, clearly stunned by the look on my face. “Why are you crying?” Tears fall uncontrollably down my face. Writing. It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do. But I have no idea if I can ever bring myself to do it again.

  Chapter 12

  November 2003

  I feel dead. I am a walking zombie, numb all the way through. In a flash, I have lost everything. Maybe it’s easier to never have loved after all, and then you can’t feel the pain of having lost it.

  Larry and Sandra Puhler are my new foster parents. I am in a tiny house in a dilapidated part of town, not too far from where I remember living with my mother. Including me, there are three foster kids here, and we all share a room. There are two sets of bunk beds in our tiny bedroom. They take up so much space that our clothes have to be kept in the closet because there is no room for a dresser. Larry and Sandra also have three kids of their own. Two of them are babies and they sleep in the basement with Larry and Sandra while the other one, who is six, has her own room beside ours. The house is packed to the brim with furniture and various knick-knacks. Larry’s penchant for junk, or what he thinks is collecting, has filled this house to capacity. The house has a hot plate, a microwave, and a small refrigerator. The stove is sitting broken in the corner of the kitchen. There are no elaborate dinners being made in this house, simply ready-to-eat meals that can be stirred in a pot or warmed in the microwave. There is no dining table to speak of. We just eat wherever a seat can be found. It’s such a far cry from my life with Luke and Shelley that it makes the pain of losing them that much worse.

  Larry and Sandra are nice enough, I guess. I mean they don’t really talk much to the kids. Larry is out of work a lot of the time, taking odd jobs here and there. Groceries are a big deal here, and food leaves the house just as quickly as it comes in. For once in my life, I don’t care about food. Whenever it’s time to eat, all I can think of is Shelley cooking in her beautiful kitchen and the love that went into those meals. I can’t bring myself to put much into my mouth. When I do, it’s tasteless.

  My new school is a joke. I don’t even pay attention half the time. I don’t understand what the point is. What do I care about science and math? Long division is a waste of my time. Something divided by something always leaves you a little something or nothing at all. Isn’t that all I need to know?

  Many of my classmates are in the same boat as me. They couldn’t care less about learning, so I fit right in. Sometimes we cut class by leaving during afternoon recess. No one calls home to tell our parents. It’s like it’s considered a bonus if we show up at all. Once upon a time I would have felt guilty for cutting class and slacking off in school. I can only imagine how Luke and Shelley would have reacted if I’d done this sort of thing at my old school. I could never have done that to them though. I was so desperate for their love and approval; I would have died if they had shown any disappointment in me.

  It’s a funny thing when no one is looking for you. You can disappear for hours at a time and have no one to answer to, which is good because I’m in no mood to answer to anybody. If anything, I want someone to answer to me for once and tell me why the only people I’ve ever truly loved have been taken from me forever. But no one discusses this with me. No one has the answers.

  The two other foster children who live with me are both twelve. They are twins whose names are Hunter and Stephanie. They’ve been with the Puhlers for about six months. They don’t mind it here because they are free to do as they please. Both of them skip school all the time and spend hours away from the house. At first I barely noticed because I was grateful for the privacy.

  “Wanna come with us?” Stephanie asks me one night. Everyone has just finished eating macaroni and cheese and once again I’ve skipped the meal to stay in my room. “We’re heading out for a bit,” she says. Stephanie has long brown hair that she pulls into a ponytail and teases until it’s full and fluffy. She’s a pretty girl, but she wears a ton of makeup day and night. It’s so thick it looks like a mask and when I look at her I want to scrape it off just to see what she looks like underneath. Hunter is waiting outside our bedroom window. Curiosity about how they spend their time gets the best of me, and I nod and jump down from my bed. Stephanie smiles and takes me by the hand. Hunter’s face registers surprise when he sees me following Stephanie but he quickly smiles.

  “Cool,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  I walk with them, unsure of our destination. It’s already dark. Being that it is late fall there is a definite chill in the air. Winter is fast approaching. The streets are pretty quiet except for a few clusters of kids. Most of them are our age or teenagers. Some of them look tough and walk with a swagger. Some of them seem to be looking
for someone to stare down. But I’m not intimidated. There’s nothing that anyone can do to me that will hurt more than what I’ve just been through. Try your best, I think. You got nothing.

  Stephanie and Hunter are talking amongst themselves, swearing and spitting as they walk. Stephanie pulls a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and turns to offer me one. I’ve never smoked before. I shake my head no and jam my hands in my pockets. She shrugs and lights one up. The smoke blows into my face, stinging my eyes and nostrils. I can’t even stand the smell, let alone how they might taste.

  Just as we’re about to round the corner, another group of teens appear and make their way towards us. Stephanie nudges Hunter and our walking slows.

  “Hunter!” the tall one of the group calls. Hunter waves at him and makes his way towards him.

  “Wassup?” Hunter says. They do some kind of handshake and bump shoulders.

  “Just chillin’,” the tall one says. He’s talking to Hunter but staring at me. “Who’s this?” he says.

  “Aw, that’s Bernice,” Stephanie says. “She’s livin’ with us.”

  He takes a walk around me and runs his finger down my arm. “Welcome,” he says admiringly. I flinch at his touch and shoot him a dirty look. “A feisty one,” he says. The others laugh.

  “She’s cool, Marcus,” Stephanie says. She narrows her eyes at him and gives Hunter a look for them to move along. Hunter clears his throat.

  “See you around,” he says, nodding at Marcus and his crew. They all nod back and we continue down the sidewalk. Stephanie immediately starts talking.

  “That’s Marcus. He’s a big deal around here. He’s running a lot of stuff on the streets,” Stephanie whispers. I have no idea what she means exactly, but I know enough to figure out that Marcus is someone who is used to being respected.