Rich as they are, don’t they have medicine for that “calcifying”? My stomach is rolling again. I don’t want to be around some sick baby, but I’m not going to say so. I shrug instead and wait.
Foster Lady doesn’t say anything for a moment, then nods and keeps moving down the hall. “A bathroom,” she announces, gesturing to her right. “My and Russell’s bedroom,” she says, tapping a set of white double doors to her left.
The hall continues, and there’s another set of double doors. “The family room,” she says, and opens the doors with a silent “Ta-da!”
It’s another big room, almost as big as the living room, except this has some kind of wood tiles on the floor, and the ceiling is made out of wood. There’s another fireplace, with rocks up the wall instead of bricks; there’s a narrow doorway that shows another toilet; and there’s a mixture of futon couches and fat brown plaid things. They’re the ugliest couches I’ve ever seen. So are the recliner chairs, ugly and battered, but this room at least looks like a room I can get comfortable with. In the corner near the bathroom is a sliding glass door with a little deck that looks over the backyard, which has a bunch of grass and—
“You have a swimming pool?” I practically press my face against the glass.
“Go ahead and open the door, Dess,” Foster Lady says with a laugh, and I do. It’s warm outside, warm enough for me to put my feet in the water. A pool! God, these people are rich—stupid rich. The group home was big, yeah, but it’s a whole building for ten girls, plus an office for staff. I remember the motel me and Trish and Baby lived in. Nobody from this house ever lived like that, all jammed up in one room.
“Do you have a suit, Dess?”
I shrug. I never needed a suit. When did Trish and me ever go swimming, except in our clothes in the fountain in front of the mall?
“We keep two or three suits for guests. You can use one until we can get you a suit of your own. Our only rule about the pool is that either Russell or I need to be with you the first time you use it, and if you can’t swim—”
“I know how,” I interrupt. I didn’t think black people could, though. Granny Doris took me to the city pool when I was little. There was a black kid there, screaming, ’cause he was scared to go in. Granny Doris said it’s because they sink.
“—if you can’t swim, you absolutely cannot be in the water alone. One of us must be with you. That’s a serious hard-and-fast rule, Dess—for your own safety.” Foster Lady waits a moment as I take in the yard, then turn and look at the room again. There are tall bookshelves stuffed with books on either side of the fireplace, and all around the edges of the room there are pictures on the walls, in frames, of people—old black people, and kids, black and white and brown. Tons of kids. There’s a big table in the corner that might be for pool or something. For the first time since I got out of the van, I’m feeling something other than jumpy.
“Are you ready to see your room, Dess?”
I don’t like how she says that—like it’s really my room, mine, and not a room in her house. I roll my eyes and follow Foster Lady to a door on the other side of the family room. “This is it,” she says, and gestures for me to go inside.
It’s middle-sized, with plain white walls. The bed has a tall frame made out of wood that looks like bleached-out telephone poles. There’s a nightstand made out of the same bleached-out wood. There’s a lamp on it with a lampshade that looks like it was made out of an old globe. The window has white blinds and a green-painted windowsill. There’s a short white bookshelf beneath the window and, on the bed, a pale green comforter with two pillows, each with a dark green stripe. On the wall above the bed there’s a wooden shelf painted the same green as the windowsill.
“I hope you like green,” the foster lady says.
I shrug. “Whatever.” Inside, my stomach is knotting. This is nice…way nicer than any room I’ve ever stayed in.
My first foster mother was like this—nice. At least the first day, before she started whining all the time because I pissed the bed a little. She never put me in a room this nice, though. It makes my neck tight. My plastic bag crinkles as I clutch it closer.
Foster Lady shows me the closet, which has a towel-cloth bathrobe hanging from a hook. There’s a tag on it—it’s brand-new. She points out the white dresser at one end of the closet, and all the hooks and hangers and places to put a lot of clothes I don’t have at the other end. “And this is your bathroom, which you share with our daughter, Hope,” she says, and pushes open another sliding door I didn’t notice, built into the wall. Inside the bathroom there’s a plain white tile counter with two sinks and a mirrored medicine cabinet above each sink. A short wall made out of glass bricks divides a bathtub and a shower stall from the rest of the room, and on a rack next to the tub are shelves of yellow and green towels.
At the group home, our bathroom had two sinks, two shower stalls, two toilets, and no tub. I had to share with three other girls, though.
“In this house, our bedrooms are personal, private spaces.” Foster Lady is waving her arms again, her earrings jangling. “And there’s a lock on this door, so you can use the bathroom in privacy. In the morning, you might be okay with brushing your teeth at the same time Hope is brushing hers—or you might not. You’ll need to work that out.”
She steps back into my room. “You and Hope are responsible for keeping your separate rooms and this bathroom clean. It might work for you to make a schedule about whose turn it is to clean the toilet and the shower and the tub—or it might be easier for each of you to clean it right when you get out. You’ll have to work that out, or else I will—and I’m sure you’d much rather work it out yourselves.” Foster Lady smiles, but there’s a look of determination around those white teeth. Maybe it’s not her husband who yells when someone makes a mess. She probably thinks I have trashy habits, like some of the girls in the group home. Rich folks always think the rest of us are nasty. How much you want to bet there are cameras up here, to make sure I don’t steal anything?
Foster Lady stands and beams at me. I look away. I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Am I supposed to say thank you or something?
“Do you have any questions for me, Dess?” She just looks too eager, too happy to answer anything.
“Nope.”
Foster Lady says, “Why don’t I go check on Hope and Austin and give you a few minutes to yourself? Then we’ll talk about the house rules.”
I shrug. I don’t need but five minutes to put my stuff in a drawer and find a place to put up my sewing kit. But I’m not going to unpack anything yet. As soon as she gets out of my face, I’m going to check on Baby myself.
“Afterward, I’d like to go over some of what Mrs. Farris told me, and we can talk about your new caseworker—”
“Mom?”
Foster Lady’s face lights up. “Oh, good, Hope,” she says, and ducks into the bathroom. “Did we wake you? Feeling better?”
“I was just getting up. I’m fine.” The voice is low and sleep-fogged. I shift to where I can see through the bathroom and into the bedroom on the other side. Foster Lady is all bent over, hugging someone.
I step back, throat closing. I’m not ready to meet Foster Lady’s “real” kid. I’m not sure how to play this family thing.
I look away, concentrating on rubbing the weird burning feeling in the middle of my chest. I don’t get this. If Foster Lady’s already got a kid, why’s she got Austin and me? Why’s she got the sick baby? With this big old house, she doesn’t need the money.
“Come and meet your new foster sister,” Foster Lady says.
Oh, here we go.
The girl looks right at me, and her eyes get all wide. She’s darker than Foster Lady and shorter, but thick like her, with a crinkly mess of puffy hair in a sloppy bun. She’s all baby fat and big cow eyes, which I’m about to slap out of her damn head if she doesn’t stop staring at me.
“What are you looking at?” I snarl at the same time that she blurts out, “
Um…I’m Hope. Hi.”
“Um, I’m Hope. Hi,” Hope said, trying to rearrange her face to cover her surprise.
So this was Austin’s real sister—his birth sister. This girl, with her pale-blue eyes and dragon-lady nails, looked nothing like Austin, whose skin was a sandy brown, whose eyes were a dark hazel, and whose hair was tightly furled golden-brown curls. Hope searched for any trace of resemblance to Austin’s sharp-chinned, round-headed adorableness in the single wary eye, ringed hard with liner, that glared out at her from beneath the sweep of stiff, blond bangs. Half siblings could still look alike, but…no, nothing.
“This is Dess Matthews.” Mom looped an arm around Hope again, as if she, too, could feel the instant arc of tension. “Dess, we haven’t had foster siblings close to Hope’s age in our family before, but it turns out this is especially good timing, since one of Hope’s best friends just moved out of the country. You can keep each other company for a few weeks.” She beamed at them, and Hope responded with a tepid smile. Mom was being way too enthusiastic. “Dess loves to read, Hope. You two have that in common.”
Reading? Hope glanced at Dess, at her perfect manicure and skinny jeans. She likes to read? Probably only Vogue. I doubt she’s into weredragons or nanobots and dirigibles.
The brief, awkward silence continued as the girl studied Hope as well. Hope’s eyes moved from the girl’s cold expression to the black plastic garbage bag she was clutching to the pristine white canvas ballet flats on her feet. She hadn’t expected Austin’s sister to be white and blond—obviously bleached—or that she’d be so much older. Hadn’t Mom said they’d be in the same grade? Maybe Dess had been held back, since she had to be older than fifteen. She was much taller and seriously built. Maybe she was wearing a padded bra?
Unfriendly eyes. Hope realized, with a twitch and a glance away, that she’d been staring, and now the girl’s hostility was almost palpable. As usual, Mom was still talking, pleasant little nothings that both girls were ignoring. Hope felt her heart pinch a little as an expectation she hadn’t even known she’d had faded and died. They wouldn’t be instant best friends. Austin’s sister wouldn’t replace Savannah in the hollow space in Hope’s heart. No matter what Mom said, they had nothing at all in common.
But Hope knew the drill: she’d been the foster sister to an endless parade of scared, angry, confused little kids, and her job was to be friendly and open. She smiled as her mother reached a pause in her getting-to-know-you spiel. “Nice to meet you. You’re from North Highlands, right?”
The girl shrugged, the jerky twitch her only movement, then said, “I’m from West Texas. North Highlands is just where my last placement was.”
“Texas. Oh. Cool.” Hope cleared her throat and smiled, then caught a sidelong glance at herself in the mirror above the sink and cringed. Way to make a first impression—hair rumpled, sheet-creased and shiny-faced, and not wearing a bra. Meeting anyone for the first time, standing in the bathroom, being squeezed to death by your mother? Awkward. Worse, Hope could feel a zit coming on right next to her nose. And now Mom was prodding her in the back, so Hope gave another polite smile and tried to find something to say. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dess,” she repeated lamely. “If you need anything, just knock on my door.”
The girl ignored this and jerked her chin at Hope’s mother. “You going to leave Baby in the car all day?”
Baby? Hope blinked. What baby? Did Dess have one? Or was she talking about Austin?
Hope’s mother looked up and smiled, relaxing her grip on Hope’s shoulders. “I promise, Austin can get out by himself, but if it makes you feel better, Dess, I’ll go and unbelt him now.” She checked her watch. “The little turkey should be just about ready to wake up anyway.” She turned back to Hope. “Keep an eye on Austin for me while Dess and I go pick up Jamaira, please. He’s just going to want his snack and his trucks.”
“Okay,” Hope said with a sigh. So much for finishing her nap. Oh, well, Austin was easy, as long as you weren’t trying to get him to do anything except what he wanted to do. “Oh, Mom? Aunt uh…Henry said he might swing by after dinner.”
Mom beamed. “Aw, sure he will. Henry’s such a softie, checking up on you.”
“No, he’s my good auntie who promised me he’d be my ibuprofen hookup if my crazy mother”—Hope dropped her voice, but Dess was walking away—“tried to make me do yoga or something for cramps. I’m serious, Mom. Aromatherapy candles and meditation are not a cure for cramps.”
Mom snorted, smoothing a hand over Hope’s snarly bedhead. “Okay, let’s compromise. How about a little something for the pain and this great primrose tea I found? Dess, would you like a cup of…” Her mother paused, then frowned at the empty doorway. “I guess she’s gone to get Austin. Hope, come give the boy his snack, please. Maybe some apples and a cheese stick? And make yourself some tea. Odessa—Dess—and I need some time.”
—
Hope smiled as her father came through the hallway from the garage, loosening his tie and pulling his shirttails out of his slacks. On hearing the door close, Austin barreled out of his room, sliding across the kitchen floor in his socks. “Hey, Dad!”
“Hey, big man!” Mr. Carter gave an exaggerated grunt as Austin threw himself against his legs for the catch-and-release type of hug he preferred. “How was school, Hope?”
Hope tilted her face for his kiss. “Meh.”
Her father yanked his tie over his head and tossed it on the counter. “Just ‘meh,’ huh? No strong women? Good-looking men? Nothing above average? Just ‘meh’?”
Hope shrugged. “I didn’t really stay long enough to find out.”
Dropping his neoprene lunch bag on the counter, Mr. Carter turned to his daughter with a worried frown. Rolling up the sleeve of his striped blue dress shirt, he put his bare wrist on her forehead. “You sick?”
Hope pulled his arm away and kissed it before wrapping it around herself for a hug. “No, and you know it’s scientifically impossible to tell if someone has a fever by putting your arm on their head.”
“It worked for your grandma,” her father said, and looped his other arm around her. “What happened, sweet?”
“Just the usual school stuff plus…clothing malfunction. Woman stuff.”
“Woman stuff? Eww.” Her father peered into her face with a teasing smile. “You’re on your own with that, babe.”
“Thank you at least for not saying ‘Oh, honey,’ like Mom kept doing.” Hope held out her hand for his change as he emptied his pockets and then began unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m surprised she didn’t text you to pick me up. I could have used a lift.”
“She might have, but she knew I had meetings. Sorry, but I was completely useless all day long,” her father said, unbuckling his belt and tugging it from the loops on his slacks as he padded down the hall. “I hate meetings.”
Hope trailed after him, as was her ritual, pocketing the change he’d given her while he disappeared into his bedroom, shedding work clothes as he went. He emerged a few moments later in a pair of ratty jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt with the logo of a software company in orange and blue centered on the back. “Much better,” he declared. “What’s the news from Hong Kong? How’s our old friend Savannah?”
“Fine, I guess. The prefect introduced her to everyone in assembly today, and it was eighty-four and she couldn’t take off her blazer, because it’s part of the uniform.”
He shuddered. “Sounds horrible. Poor kid. You meet Odessa yet?”
“Yeah, I met her. I wonder if she and Austin are named after towns in Texas on purpose.” Hope shook her head in disbelief. “Mom called her Dess, though.”
“Hey, Austin,” Dad said, poking his head into the land of trucks and trains. “You have Hope and Maira and now another sister, buddy. How about that?”
“Defsa’s with Mama,” Austin said, and smashed his truck into a pile of blocks.
“Dessa,” Dad corrected him, coming down hard on the “s” sound. “They shoul
d be back soon,” he said, and headed for the kitchen. “Is it too hot to eat out back?”
“Nah,” Hope said, falling into her role as sous-chef. “I’m starving.”
—
They were halfway through dinner prep when Mom came home. She carried her diaper bag on one arm and swung Jamaira in her car seat up onto the counter with the other. Dad gave Mom his usual greeting—“Hey, beautiful!” and a quick hug and a kiss—and leaned over the car seat.
“There’s my baby princess,” he singsonged, and Jamaira, half-asleep, smiled sweetly at his voice. Hope, as always, felt her heart twist at Maira’s smile. Her attention, however, was on the doorway behind her mother as Dess slouched in, fists clutching the sleeves of her hoodie, arms crossed.
“Russell, this is Dessa Matthews,” Mom said.
Dad looked up and smiled. “Hello, nice to have you. I understand the name Odessa possibly comes from the Greek word odysseia, from which we gain the word ‘odyssey,’ which is a long and eventful journey. Have you had one of those today?”
Oh, Dad. Hope hunched her shoulders. She tried to see her father through Dess’s eyes—and winced. Dark, thin, and wiry, three inches shorter than Mom, with close-shaved hair and a graying goatee, Dad was wrapped in an apron that said “Just a Man with a Pan.” Now he was spouting crap that made him sound like some super-nerd on college Jeopardy! Dess probably thought he sounded stupid. Sometimes some of the older foster kids were hostile toward Dad. Mom said they didn’t trust men. Hope found her fingers tensing on her knife handle, wondering how Dess would react.
After staring for a long moment, Dess spoke. “You play that word app thing on your phone, huh?”
Peas and Carrots Page 3
