by Amber Kizer
Mistress called me to her office as I stepped out of the steamy upstairs bathroom. She was in her usual double-polyester floral-nightmare blouse and plum–puke brown pants. With her hair scraped back slickly and too much orange blush, her already fat face looked even rounder, drawing attention to her third chin. She was brimming, in full form, not a hint that she’d worn a V-neck dress and nonsensible heels last night. I tuned back into her words before she noticed and punished me for not paying better attention. There were such things as pop quizzes around here; they usually ended with one of us kids getting popped.
Mistress harangued me. “I know you’ll be on your best behavior. People have high expectations for kids from Dunklebarger. So don’t get any ideas.” Her expression told me that the truth was one of those ideas I wasn’t supposed to get.
“Yes, ma’am.” I avoided eye contact, staring at the floor instead.
“Ms. Asura is one of my best friends.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I doubted that. But it might explain the way they always seemed to be in cahoots. I didn’t think Ms. Asura would be seen with someone as obese as Mistress since appearances seemed to matter so much to her.
“I’ll expect you to make up the work. No dawdling,” she barked.
“Yes, ma’am.” I peeked out from under my lashes. She’d turned toward the window with a softer, dreamier stance.
In a warm and fuzzy voice Mistress mused, “She’s such an optimistic person. She sees the good in everyone. I bet she’ll tell you about going after your dreams and ask you what you want to do with your life.”
I held my tongue because there didn’t seem to be a correct response. I had no idea what to say to this rumination.
With a snap, she turned back toward me. I dropped my eyes as quickly as I could. Mistress spit the next words with venom: “She’s lying. She’s paid to say nice things to you. It’s her job. We laugh about it later on the phone. All your stupid little wishes.” Mistress cackled, not requiring audience participation for her monologue. She settled into her desk chair and clicked on her computer screen. I had no idea what she spent so much time doing online; Nicole said it was something called FarmVille, and singles dating sites. But I’d also seen banking records and tables of numbers and names. The dating-sites idea made me nauseous; I couldn’t imagine the man who would be desperate enough to take her to dinner.
I kept my shoulders back and my knees locked, even as a wave of wooziness washed over me. The throb in my temple grew worse with each passing day. I hadn’t been dismissed yet, and so close to my outing I dreaded losing the privilege.
Mistress glanced at me over the tops of tiny gold-rimmed reading glasses. “I’m not going to be here forever, you know. I’m not the first headmistress and I won’t be the last. I’m going to retire to Tampa and live on the beach and watch my shows, with Klaus, every day. You’re stupid, Juliet, there’s no hope for you, but I’m smart and I have a plan. I’ve worked my whole life in this hole with you retards and I’m almost there. I have my nest egg incubated and it’s almost ready to hatch. Then, I’m out of here and you can all rot in hell if you’re lucky enough to get there. You have no idea what’s in store for your birthday.”
We weren’t the ones going to hell. But I kept my silence.
“Knock knock!” Ms. Asura opened the office door with a flourish and a cloud of scent that smelled like I imagined a faraway sultan’s palace might smell. Exotic. Overpowering. Spicy. “Ready, Juliet?”
“She’s ready.” Mistress answered for me. “Mind your manners, Juliet.” She and Ms. Asura shared a look I couldn’t interpret.
I nodded and followed Ms. Asura to her Mercedes. When she came with kids she drove a big white van, but when it was just her, it was this boxy, expensive-looking sports car.
Ms. Asura turned up music full of angry yelling, loud drums, and screaming guitars. She tapped her polished nails on the steering wheel. I thought I might vomit from the pain in my head, so we didn’t talk. The scent that had seemed exotic in the house felt completely overwhelming in the small confines of the car. The sun shone like French vanilla ice cream. It was cold outside; I’d draw attention if I rolled down the window. I tried breathing through my mouth instead of my nose and that helped a little.
We found a parking place near the coffee shop. Parents with strollers and toddlers chatted and giggled up and down the sidewalks. The foster-kid hazard was that all we saw were happy families those few times we were out. I heard once that pregnant ladies always saw pregnant ladies, or people with a certain car only saw those kinds of cars. It was the same for us, only opposite: we didn’t have a family so we saw them everywhere.
This was the type of coffee shop I had walked by, peering from under my lashes at the people sitting at tables, laughing, talking, and sipping frothy drinks with no cares. I’d never been in one. I stuffed my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie and shuffled my feet. Losing a shoe was not an option.
Ms. Asura kept smiling at me, her eyes twinkling, and if anything my continued discomfort only made her smile more. Maybe she was trying to reassure me with each twist of her lips?
The scent of fresh coffee, warm milk, yeasty doughnuts, and cakes reminded me that I’d skipped eating breakfast even though I’d cooked for everyone else. My stomach growled. It was so loud I clutched it in embarrassment.
Ms. Asura either didn’t hear it or pretended not to. “Do you know what you’d like?”
“I—” I read the menu boards, not understanding most of the words. Is this English? There were moments when I knew how sheltered I’d been, when I looked up and realized months had passed by without my leaving DG. Most of the time, I was too busy and too tired to notice. This was one of the times I felt every second I hadn’t been in school, or in a mall, or with a family of my own.
Ms. Asura patted my shoulder. Her face was patient, but the throats clearing behind us made me point at the larger-than-life sign standing by the counter. I didn’t even read the description. I just wanted everyone to stop staring at me.
“Are you sure?” she asked me.
I nodded. I didn’t have a clue what it was: a clear mug full of purple berries and chocolate swimming in coffee, smothered in whipped cream and drizzled with more chocolate. I wasn’t sure if it was a drink or a dessert.
“Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll get the drinks?” Ms. Asura sent me toward a table for two in the back corner. She chatted with a couple of men in business suits like she’d known them forever.
I tried not to let awe blanket my face, but I’m fairly certain I looked like a hick in the big city for the first time. This was what normal looked like—so very normal. The green monster burned in me when I watched a gaggle of girls my age prance by the windows giggling. After about ten minutes Ms. Asura joined me with a expectant gleam in her eyes.
“People in this town are so nice. It’s quaint enough to feel small and close enough to Indianapolis to offer anonymity if desired.” Ms. Asura set down my drink and hers, glancing at the men, who smiled and winked.
“Do you know them?” I asked.
“Those men? No, that’s what I mean. Friendly, friendly, friendly.” She smiled and took a sip. The top of her coffee had a heart shape in the foam. She pointed it out to me. “Cute.”
The table we sat at had a glass top under which people put business cards and signs and notices. Smack in the middle was the flyer the glass man had brought by DG.
I must have gasped or made a noise, because Ms. Asura straightened immediately. “What is it?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” But my pulse fluttered wildly.
She lost her smile and turned to get a better look at the signage. “An open house at a glass studio? Do you like glass art?”
“No, I d-don’t really know,” I stuttered, and started balling up the straw wrappers.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “It seemed like you recognized the sign. Have you met this man?”
“I—”
As if a switch
had been thrown, she relaxed and went back to grinning at me like a girlfriend. “It’s not a crime to talk to people, Juliet.” She sipped and sat back in her chair.
“He came by Dunklebarger, but I didn’t say anything to—”
Her smile grew. “Say no more. It’ll be our secret! What did he want?”
I shrugged. “Just to invite people to a party.”
“Did he call it a party?” Her voice sharpened.
“Uh, no. I guess not. I don’t remember. I told him when to come back to speak with Mistress.”
“Maybe I’ll have to pay a visit to this nonparty. Sounds like loads of fun.” She hummed. “Tell me more about you.” Each word lost more of its patina of sincerity.
I began to doubt if she really cared. “Uh—”
“What are your dreams? Hopes? Where do you see yourself in ten years? Twenty?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t have time to dream. I didn’t have the energy to hope. I never saw past today except to wish for a different tomorrow.
“Every girl dreams of something or someone. You can tell me. Is there a boy waiting for you, perhaps? What do you most want to become in this world?”
My face burned at her mention of a boy. I assumed she’d read the postcards she delivered and knew about Kirian, but I hated sharing that with an adult. “I guess—” I racked my mind for a plausible something. Anything. I finally blurted, “A mom.”
“You want kids? I don’t know what I’d do without mine.”
“You have kids?”
Startled, she sloshed her coffee. “No, no. Not officially. But I’ve built a family much the way you will with people who value me and take care of—” She broke off. “What job will you do?”
“I think I’ll be a mom full-time.” I was drawing on conversations and dreams I’d shared with Kirian to answer these questions. I wasn’t connected to these answers on a personal level. Not anymore.
“You want to be a mom? That’s all?” Her face fell.
“Sure.” I latched onto that.
She seemed disappointed. “That sounds like your— Only a mom? I see you as so much more than a mother. An actress, or a politician, or a lawyer.”
Why was being a mom, a real mom, the kind who put their children first and protected them and played with them and loved them forever—why was that less than being an actress or a lawyer? I didn’t ask. Her answer might make me mad. I didn’t think there was anything more impressive in this world than being a good—great—mom. Nothing. But to keep the conversation moving I caved. “A teacher?”
Her face took on a calculating expression. “Teacher. That sounds intriguing. I can see that. So, you’ll need college. That’s the benefit to a placement at Dunklebarger—you have a savings account.”
I played with the whipped cream on top of my drink. “A what?”
Surprised, she asked, “Haven’t I told you this? You’re so mature for your age, but we usually don’t tell kids before they’re sixteen. You get paid for your work helping around the house. It goes into a savings account.”
I’d never heard this. “Really?” I licked more cream off the top with a plastic stirrer.
She seemed genuinely upset with my ignorance. “Yes, absolutely. You didn’t think you were doing all that work for nothing, did you? They don’t tell the little kids—they want you to learn the value of hard work, have a work ethic before you find out. That sort of thing.”
“Oh.” Really? Were the beatings our Christmas bonuses? The more she talked, the more I felt like a player in a game with rules I didn’t know.
She tapped bloodred nails on the glass tabletop. “But you’ll need your GED to apply to colleges.”
“Uh-huh.” Not happening soon.
“There’s two years until you can apply, so plenty of time. Have you given any thought to the next stage in your life?”
I inhaled and pretended I was brave. “I’d like to stay at Dunklebarger until I’m eighteen.”
Her face fell and she appeared sorry, reaching a hand out to me. “Oh, honey, that’s just not possible.”
“But—but—” I stuttered as tears threatened. I had to make her understand. “Can’t you make an exception? Just until I’m eighteen? Who will look after the kids?”
“Silly, I know you think your job as the eldest child there is an important one, and I’m sure the kids love you, but they’ll be fine. You’re not their guardian—they have one, and they have me, and there will be new kids coming in soon.”
“But—”
“Juliet, I’ve been doing my job for years. Much longer than I look old enough to be. And every teenager I see says the same thing. Human beings don’t like change. We resist it. I want you to stop resisting it. Change isn’t the enemy. Go with it. You’ll never know unless you take risks, Juliet. Trust me. I’m on your side.”
I gulped my Grande Blackberry-Swirl Mocha Supreme and scalded my tongue, my throat, all the way down to my stomach. The coughing racked my frame and shook the table.
“Slow down.” Ms. Asura handed me napkins and waited until I’d gotten my breath back. “There’s something else bothering you, I can sense it.”
I hesitated. Do I trust her? I know better. One last time. Try again. For Bodie. Nicole. Sema. The nameless to come.
“Juliet, I can’t do my job unless you trust me. Please let me help.” She reached out and touched my hand, gently, comfortingly.
“Mistress beats us.” I rushed the words out. The overly sweet drink turned sour in my stomach. The moment I’d said the words, I wanted to take them back.
She snatched her hand back as if I’d burned her. I watched her pale beneath her makeup and narrow her eyes. “I’m disappointed, Juliet. I thought we’d had this conversation before. Discipline isn’t the same as abuse.”
“But—”
“In all my years working with kids placed at Dunklebarger, I’ve never heard such an allegation. I’m shocked. Shocked.” She crossed her legs and leaned toward me across the table. Her eyes turned beady and assessing.
“But—”
“I thought more of you. You aren’t getting your way, so you’re going to sabotage the whole place? You could ruin lives, saying this. Ruin your future. Poof! Your future can disappear.”
“Uh—” I couldn’t get more than a sound out of my mouth. My face burned with shame.
“This is serious. Very, very serious. You’ve gone and ruined my day with this terrible lie.” She sighed. “I was going to get us cookies, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
She pouted. “Are you wrong? Did I mishear you?”
“Yes, I’m wrong.” I shrank deep inside myself. “We were talking about my going to college to become a teacher.”
Her smile broke across her face like sunrise on a cold morning. She prattled on about tests, courses, and colleges in the state with wonderful programs for teachers. I think she asked questions; I answered with one- or two-word answers. But all I felt turning over in my head was that I’d failed. All of them. Every kid after me. I’d failed to be brave. To make a case. To show her the wounds on my back and make her take me seriously.
I finished my coffee without tasting it and listened to her prattle on before dropping me back off at DG.
I thanked her and she told me she’d see me soon.
I failed.
Again.
Always.
I watched as my family burned. I am a coward.
Spectavi cum familia mea arderet. Ignavus sum.
Luca Lenci
CHAPTER 24
“Tens, turn around.” I grabbed his collar and pushed it down to peer at his skin. Streaks of red bumps and fluid-filled blisters lined his neck, disappearing down below, on his back and over his shoulders. “Do they itch?”
“Yeah, they feel more like stings, though.”
“I don’t think so.” Seeing his back made my own start to itch. I was one of those people who should never go to medical school—give me a list of symptoms and I t
otally start thinking I have them. When Sammy came home with lice in preschool I walked around scratching my scalp for weeks. Of course, once Mom poisoned the house the lice crawled into my hair to die.
“Not a big deal.” Tens brushed me off. “I’ll be fine.” He rubbed his thigh.
My back and forearms burned too.
“Tens?”
“Yeah?”
“Humor me and look down my shirt, will you?” I turned, already pushing up my sleeves. I gasped.
My forearms were ugly masses of blisters.
“Oh no. Is that what my back looks like?” Tens held my hands, then quickly lifted my shirt. “Your back, too.”
He dropped his jeans. The backs of both legs were mottled with red streaks.
“Poison ivy is bad, right?”
“Maybe it’s not that.” Tens scratched his back on the wall like a bear at a tree trunk. “I’ve had it and it wasn’t this bad.”
“I’m calling Joi.” I picked up the phone and realized the palms of my hands were also affected. “Crap!” I dialed. “Joi? What does poison ivy look like?”
Tens heard her squawk from across the room.
“Joi?” No answer, just a dial tone. “I think she must be on her way over.”
“It’s on your forehead.” Tens pointed at my face.
I was peering at my body in the bathroom mirror when Joi stomped into the cottage carrying an enormous basket of supplies.
“You need to get all your clothes off. There’s no saving them. It’s in the sap. Take a cold shower. We’re a bit late now, but it still might help. And if you touch it again, you’ll start again. Take a shower, put on your undies, apply this cream, then put these on.” She held out mittens, a pink pair with a black and white kitten knitted into it and a pair with an alligator wearing a cowboy hat.
“Why?”
“You’ll itch while you sleep. These’ll make sure you don’t scratch so much you get secondary infections or scar those pretty faces. Take a Benadryl—it’ll make you drowsy, but it may help a little.”
