Of Foster Homes and Flies

by Lutzke, Chad

  I shake Carter awake. He’s a lot more chipper in the morning than I am, even gets out of bed easily. We head for the dining room, where the table is covered with a variety of breakfast foods to choose from. I sit in my usual guest spot and grab a piece of bacon.

  “Denny!” Carter’s Mom stops me. “I didn’t hear no grace.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Scofield.”

  Carter laughs at me and sits down. We both bow our heads and mumble a few words, different variations of thanks yous to God. I then finish what I started with the bacon and retrieve another piece, as well as some toast and hash browns. Like a nasty little reminder, a plate of recently toasted Pop-Tarts sits in the middle of it all. But as much as I love them, I don’t take one and I pretend they’re not there.

  Carter’s dad comes in and sits with us, smelling of aftershave and shampoo. He fills his plate, taking most of what is left, except for the Pop-Tarts.

  “You boys excited for summer?” Mr. Scofield says.

  “Excited for no school, not excited for the swamp air though.” Carter says.

  I roll my eyes at Carter.

  “I swear, boy. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were a tourist.” Mr. Scofield says.

  It actually makes me laugh, something I haven’t done in a few days. When all is said and done, I’m really going to miss the Scofields.

  5:40 p.m.

  Like most friends do, after two days of hanging out and fighting the heat, Carter and I grow tired of each other. We don’t argue or bicker. We just get bored and quiet. It happens even to the best of friends. And it certainly doesn’t help that I’m so distracted. It’s closing in on supper time and I don’t want to overstay my welcome, so I pack my bag before Mrs. Scofield has a chance to set me a place at the table, and I say goodbye to Carter.

  During the walk home, I imagine this is maybe how a drug addict feels as they come down from their high, forced to face reality. I want to stop at the tracks by my house, hop on a train and just go wherever it takes me. Anywhere but here, maybe somewhere cooler. The last two days have been nearly as hot as Friday, and according to the weather man it’s only getting worse. I think of Carter.

  I stop at Greek’s–a little store near my house–and grab a cold coke from the cooler. The guy at the counter is the same guy who’s always working. I assume it’s “Greek.” He’s got a wife beater on with the pits stained different shades of yellow like one of those paint swatches from the hardware store. His shoulders and eyebrows carry the majority of the hair on his body, and he’s got some kind of accent. I set $1.25 on the counter–money I’ve had in my bag for weeks.

  “Two bucks.” His voice is gruff, like he’s pushing too hard to talk.

  The price has gone up. He’s done this before. I think he changes his prices depending on the weather. I want to argue with him but I don’t. I’ve been in here enough to know this guy won’t budge so I take my money and leave. Behind me I can hear the hiss and pop of the cap as Greek opens the coke for himself, followed by a few gulps and an exaggerated, satisfactory sigh.

  I pull the door hard and the bells above it ring louder than usual. My way of lashing out, I guess.

  Once I’m outside a beautiful girl with long dark hair and a large backpack with a bedroll strapped on her back grabs my arm and says “Pretend you’re my brother and we have to go home.”

  I make some surprised and confused sound.

  “Just pretend...please.”

  Before I can get any more details, the door behind me opens, the bells ring, and out walks a scruffy middle-aged man that could use a shave and some Listerine.

  “There ya are, honey. You all set?”

  “I guess I have to go home.” The girl grabs a hold of my arm and pulls me toward her.

  “Who’s this runt?” The man says.

  “It’s my brother. He was just out looking for me. Our parents want us home for dinner.”

  “But you told me you were heading out west...you said all the way to the coast!”

  “Sorry, mister. I just needed a ride home, which is right here in…this town”

  I stand there, unsure of what to say. I don’t want to give away that she’s lying.

  “You don’t even know where you are, little lady. Do ya?”

  The guy is growing irritated. I can tell because he’s squinting his eyes and his nostrils get real big. I can’t tell what kind of trouble the girl’s in, but I can tell she doesn’t really know the guy. And he doesn’t really know her either. I decide to test my acting skills. “I told you, Sis...Mom and Dad are waiting. You want to get grounded again?” I tug at the girl like it’s urgent and turn to walk away. She follows.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She waves to the guy and we take off running down the road.

  The man stays behind and yells. “Ya whore tease!” Then gets in his truck and drives away.

  “Thanks, kid. That perv was starting to creep me out.”

  The girl can tell I’m confused so she explains herself.

  “I am going out west...all the way to the coast. I’ve got cousins in Ventura, and they’re waitin’ on me. But I ain’t takin’ no ride from no man like that, tryin’ to get in my pants.”

  “So you’re hitchhiking there?”

  “Got to, kid. No money. Come on...let’s go back.”

  I’m envious. She’s doing exactly what I’d love to do, had I the guts to. The girl starts heading back to Greek’s and I ask her where she’s going.

  “I saw you tryin’ to buy a coke. Ain’t you thirsty?”

  I catch up to her. “Yeah, but you don’t have money. And neither do I.”

  She flashes a twenty-dollar bill. “Yeah, but pervo did.” Then she laughs and picks up her pace, making it harder for me to catch up.

  I tell her that I don’t want to show my face in the store, that I don’t care much for Greek, and she gets it. So she heads in the store and walks out with two cokes and two submarine sandwiches wrapped in plastic. She hands me a coke and one of the sandwiches and thanks me again for helping her get away from “pervo.”

  “Thanks, but you didn’t have to buy all this.” I say it as I unwrap the sandwich like I’d never eaten before, not realizing how hungry I am and thankful it’s not another TV dinner or PB&J. We both sit down on the curb and eat our sandwiches and drink our cokes.

  I look the girl up and down. Her jeans and T-shirt and what’s in them tell me she could be anywhere from sixteen to twenty-four, but she sounds young. She also sounds harmless and approachable so I decide to just ask her.

  “I told pervo I’m fourteen, was hoping it would keep his eyes off me, but no such luck. I’m really seventeen, eighteen in August. How about you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  I want to lie and tell her I’m older. “Twelve.” But I don’t.

  “I’m Sam.” She holds out her hand for me to shake it. I suddenly realize I’ve never shook a girl’s hand before and I'm not sure whether to squeeze firmly or be gentle.

  “I’m Denny.” I squeeze.

  She laughs a little. I can tell it’s because she knows I feel awkward, and maybe a little intimidated.

  “Did you run away from home?” I ask.

  “Nope. Got Dad’s blessing. I think he wanted me out of his hair anyway. I just graduated and now I’m off to greatness. Hopefully.”

  Most of my sandwich is gone and I’m working on my coke, while she’s just beginning. I feel like a glutton.

  “So.” I’m chewing fast, trying to get a few words out in between bites. “What’s in Ventura besides cousins?”

  “The beach, the sun.”

  “That it?”

  “You mean like do I have a plan?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Not really. I just know I’m done with Georgia...where I’m from.”

  “You’re not headed out there to be a movie star or a singer?”

  She laughs, this time not at me.

  “No. I’m not one of these delusional beauty queens who think they�
��re going to be the next Bridget Bardot.

  “Well you’re pretty enough.” It just kind of comes out.

  “Aww. Thanks, sweetie.” She smiles and musses up my hair. It reminds me that I’ve still got that awful straight-bangs thing going on.

  “So what’s your story?” She asks.

  I stuff the last bit of the sandwich in my mouth. It gives me a minute to think. I don’t like to lie. Ever. But maybe leaving details out isn’t really lying. And I won’t be doing her any favors by spilling my guts.

  “I’ve lived here my whole life. Nothing special.”

  “So what do you do here besides voodoo and Mardi Gras?”

  I laugh at the absurdity of it–me spilling the blood of chickens, putting too much faith in idols and trinkets and tossing about beads for boobs and then realize, despite having lived here my whole life, I don’t know much at all about New Orleans. “Not a lot. I ride bikes with my friend, Carter, play games and read. A lot of reading, actually.”

  “Really? You ever read The Temple of Gold?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “What do you read?”

  “Mostly Sci-Fi, adventure, a little bit of horror.”

  “Here.” She opens a backpack she was carrying, pulls out a scuffed up paperback copy of The Temple of Gold by William Goldman and hands it to me. “You may not get it right away cuz you’re young, but try it anyway.”

  I take the book, flip it over and read the back. “Coming of age...is this like Catcher in the Rye?”

  She makes a funny noise–one of disgust. “No way. I’d never pass that trash onto anyone. Trust me. This one’s good.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” I take the book and put it in my bag.

  “Looks like you’re packed to go somewhere.”

  “I stayed the night at Carter’s.”

  “Were you on your way home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aren’t your parents expecting you?”

  Never again.

  “No. My mom’s a drunk. She’s passed out already.” It just comes out, almost like I didn’t have a choice. And it’s partially true, anyway. Sort of. Sam looks at me the same way most people do–Ron, Aunt Sunny, Carter’s parents–with pity.

  “I wanna swing. Are there any parks around here with swings?”

  “Yeah, over at Kemper Park.”

  “You wanna show me where?”

  By now, I’m feeling uncomfortable. This gorgeous girl I don’t even know buys me dinner, gives me a book and then wants me to go to the park with her. I seem to be on a roll with my assertiveness so I just say what I’m thinking.

  “Why are you being so nice to me? The food and drink…the book.”

  “I take it you’re not used to that.”

  I think of Carter and his parents and Ron and Aunt Sunny. “People are nice to me, just not strangers.”

  “Am I scaring you?”

  Now I laugh, embarrassed. “No.”

  “Well can you at least point me in the direction of the park?”

  Am I scared? Of what, that she’ll hit me in the back of the head with her pack and steal my $1.25? She can have it. That we’ll get to the park and I’ll be ambushed and kidnapped? It’s not such a bad idea; I doubt they’ll take me to an orphanage, where I’m forced to eat butter sandwiches. Or am I afraid that I don’t deserve to be loved or cared for. After all, I’m the one ignoring their deceased mother. Just like she did me.

  “No, I’ll take you.” As she finishes the last of her sandwich, I stand up and extend my hand. She smiles and says “you’re quite the gentlemen, Mr. Denny,” and we leave Greek’s parking lot for Kemper Park.

  As we get close to the park, Sam can see the swings in the distance and lets out a girly yip sound and then runs toward them. I can tell she probably hasn’t been on one in years. She grabs a swing, jumps in and launches herself–her head tilted back, eyes closed and a wide smile that shows a little girl shining through. She’s free. So free that I can feel it just watching her. I start wondering what her story is, what she’s been through that a ride on a playground swing really does it for her. She opens her eyes and sees me watching. I’m smiling. It’s contagious. She asks me to join her and I do. My eyes closed, my head titled back.

  For the moment, we’re both free.

  There’s no breeze but we make our own, our hair brushed back in rhythmic swoops–the air filled with pond water, grass, and the sound of nearby frogs.

  “Thanks for bringing me, Denny.”

  My smile grows larger. “Yup.” I don’t recall having this much fun on a swing before, almost like I’ve never really paid attention. Or maybe I paid too much and never let go.

  For another ten minutes we enjoy the silence between us, the chatter of the frogs and the hypnotic squeak of the chains. I open my eyes and Sam has slowed to a near stop, kicking the dirt below her, deepening the grooves made by countless children.

  “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  I slam my feet into the dirt and stop the swing. “What do you mean?”

  “Nobody should have to live like that, with a parent who loves a bottle more than they do their own child.”

  “It’s okay. It could be worse, I guess.”

  “That’s a great attitude, Denny. Not a lot of people have that. I can tell you’re a strong kid, a smart one too.”

  I decide to tell her about the spelling bee. I share with her how much I’ve studied for it, about Dad’s trophies and how last year I never even tried.

  “I’m proud of you. I think you’re going to win first place.”

  I can’t tell if she’s just being nice or convinced I'll really win.

  “That’d be nice. But honestly, if I can manage to just bring any ribbon home I’ll be happy.”

  An idea enters my head that I’m embarrassed for voicing as soon as the last word is out.

  “Do you want to come to it?...to the spelling bee?”

  “I’d love to, Denny, but I need to keep moving. I told my cousins I’d be there by next week. They think I’m taking a bus...so does my dad.”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “There’s no adventure in that. This trip for me is more than just moving from one state to another”

  “Aren’t you afraid...of people...like that one guy?”

  “Nah. I can handle creeps like that.”

  I start to wonder how much of life Sam has experienced, how much of the ugly she’s seen. I feel a burden for her, and a deep worry that maybe she’s too good for this world, that it’ll eat her alive. Helping strangers along the way, trusting those who should never be trusted. She doesn’t seem to have any reserve about her. What you see is what you get. And though the world needs more people like Sam, maybe not in the form of an attractive and naive teenaged girl who isn’t half as prepared as she thinks she is.

  I show Sam the pond on the other side of the park. We walk around it a few times, talking–about school, future plans and goals. And Sam tells me what Georgia is like and how she worked for nearly two years at a diner. She tells me about some of the people she met there, like one guy who would order black coffee, fill it with honey and raisins and then dump it on his waffles. She says he’d tip her $10.00 and a fortune cookie. Every morning. And a single mother with her four children who would come in throughout the week and order only toast with water, but Sam would always give them extras like eggs and hash browns and bacon and she never told the mother that toast wasn’t supposed to come with anything else. She says she never wanted to embarrass the mother, make her feel like she wasn’t doing good enough for her kids.

  I can tell that Sam has a genuine love for people and looks for ways to contribute, to help out. And even those who have done her wrong she just walks away from–no seeking revenge or wishing ill will–she just moves on and rids herself of them. She calls those people “toxic.” It makes sense.

  We end up sitting down under a giant weeping willow–the biggest one I’ve ever seen–and by now it’s dark and
the moon is out and the frogs are still talking and the water is placid and mirroring the entire sky on its surface. It’s what some would call romantic, I suppose.

  Sam starts talking about the irony of both of us carrying bedding on us–me with my pillow, and her with her bedroll–and here we are under the moon at night, and nature has provided a canopy and a place to lay our heads. We’re sharing my pillow and her blanket and now we’re holding hands. Then Sam starts talking about destiny and stuff–most of which kind of goes over my head. But it’s deep and it’s amazing, and even though I don’t get most of it, it’s beautiful to hear. Like poetry.

  If I were older I suppose we’d be kissing under this moon, but we’re content lying here, talking–two kids caught up in different stages of their lives, looking ahead through the bleak fog of the present into a future that beams bright with promise. In this moment we have exactly what we want.

  The night draws on and it must be getting late because I’m sleepy. And then Sam squeezes my hand and says “G’night, Denny. Sweet Dreams.” I tell her goodnight and wish her sweet dreams back, and then I start to cry. But she has no idea. I turn away from her and I’m holding my breath, really choking back, and I know if I don’t then I’ll really lose it. I feel tears running down my cheeks and onto my pillow, and it gets harder to hold still, and with her so close to me I get nervous that she can tell. And then I know she can, because she turns toward me and puts her arm around me and squeezes, holding me. And she doesn’t say a word. Like she understands. I try and tell her about Mom being dead and how I haven’t done anything about it, but I can’t say the words without screaming them in uncomfortable sobs so I just shut my mouth and let Sam hold me, stroking my hair and whispering that everything will be okay. And that’s how I fall asleep–in the comfort of Sam’s arms, to the sound of her naive, angelic voice.