Living Soul

by S. B. Niccum

  This year has been no different, with the exception that his locker was next to Brandy’s and mine. I have enjoyed looking at his face almost every day, and this has been the highlight of my days—my life, really. Our conversations have now grown to include a nod, a hello or a good-bye.

  Half the girls in my school belong to the Ben Bradford fan club, Brandy’s brother, and the other half to the Alex Preston fan club. Brandy knows that I belong to the latter, and regularly elbows me in the ribs when he notices me. We giggle, and sigh, and daydream that perhaps one day Alex will be available and out of Genie’s hypnotic control; but last night’s dream was no daydream. This dream was unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced, it was vivid and life-like. I could have sworn that I was really having a conversation with Alex Preston. On my rooftop, all night long.

  Chapter 2

  I felt odd at school all day, like I was under a spell of sorts. I found it hard to focus in class and felt tired; the kind of tired that you feel in your chest and makes your legs feel like lead.

  At lunchtime, I found my locker surrounded by people. Wes and his friends were talking with Brandy, and Alex was there too, talking with his pals. I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath as I walked right in between them to reach my locker. None of Alex’s friends took notice of me, but Alex did. I could feel his gaze burrowing a trail of heat into the side of my face until a red streak ran up from the base of my neck to the top of my ears and touched my cheeks until they were so red that I felt like I was suffocating. I tried to focus on my lock’s combination, but I kept messing up and having to start over. “Get a grip!” I muttered through clenched teeth. He did vexing things like this sometimes, and I couldn’t help wonder if he did them out of sport or actual interest.

  Wes shoved me slightly in a form of greeting, but being shaky already, I lost my balance. Alex caught me before I hit the ground and his proximity gave me hot chills—if that was possible.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “No problem.” His voice sent new chills through my body and I shivered. This amused him and I felt him smile, but it exasperated me so I shot him an angry look as I straightened out and smoothed my crumpled shirt.

  “Oh…if it isn’t Foster Freak!” Genie taunted as she approached the scene with her pack of cheerleaders in stilettos. “Where do you shop foster-care? I think my dad wore that shirt in the seventies?” she taunted and draped herself over Alex’s shoulders, fumigating the area with her designer perfume. The smell was so strong that I couldn’t help cough a few times as the fumes went straight to my head, accentuating my already existing headache.

  “Don’t listen to her Tess!” Brooke, Brandy’s sister who was part of the Genie pack; stepped forward. “Besides, retro is coming back,” she added, then rolled her eyes, knowing that she had made it worse for me. At this comment, Genie broke out into an exaggerated laugh. Brooke was actually pretty decent, she usually tried to take my side, but I think it was mostly because her sister hung around with me.

  I winced at the pain in my head, and felt Alex’s reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a bit pale.” His eyes looked genuinely concerned and something else … not sure what, but I could swear that he was trying to convey something to me, but I just couldn’t fathom what.

  “I’m fine! I’m just allergic to insecure cheerleaders.”

  Alex chuckled, and noticing this, Genie stopped her forced laughter abruptly and zeroed in on me. “What did you say, you little … ”

  “Genie! How old are you?” Alex scolded and turned her by the shoulders and pushed her down the hall. Before following her crowd, Brooke mouthed an apology to me and smiled at her sister.

  “Wow! They really have it out for you don’t they? What did you ever do to get on her bad side?” Wes commented.

  “Nothing,” Brandy said defensively. “Genie is a jerk and that’s all there is to it! She looked back at the direction the popular pack was going. “Like it’s Tess’ fault she’s in foster care!”

  With my back against my locker, I slid all the way to the ground and ripped a bite out of my sandwich. The little group that surrounded me joined me on the floor where we ended up having our lunch. Their lively conversations didn’t interest me today; my mind was still caught up in that dream.

  In the fall I had tried out for the swim team and made it. Wes and I have practice together every day after school and then his mom gives me a ride home. Swimming always clears my head. I love it! I never had any formal instruction before so when I tried out, I didn’t even know if I could make it to the other end of the pool, but I did. One could say I took to swimming like a fish to water. It felt natural and I always feel better after a good practice. Sometimes I think through problems and some other times I just let my mind go blank; it almost feels as if my brain goes to sleep for the hour of practice.

  It was no different today; as I swam I let all my frustrations out in the water and they melted away in the wake of my kicks. When I got home I felt serene again and ready to face the dread that is life at Charlotte’s, but as I entered my room I found a brand new problem sprawled on the floor. Dorian was on the floor, crying. Not wailing like when he has a fit, but weeping, the most pitiful and sad cry I had ever heard. In the eight years that I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him cry. He has thrown fits and screamed so much that he’s passed out from sheer exhaustion, but he’s never cried.

  Dropping my bag on the floor, I rushed to his side and wrapped my arms around him. Immediately I was flooded with his emotions, I could feel his pain so keenly that it almost overwhelmed me. I don’t know why, but I can sense what other people feel, almost to the point that I feel it myself. This time though … I didn’t need to have empathy to know what this felt like. In fact, his grief overwhelmed me because I could relate. I’ve often felt the same way. His anguish though, was far deeper than mine and compounded by his knowledge of his limitations and his disability. I could express myself; he couldn’t.

  Dorian is autistic and savant; he hardly ever talks and often has tantrums, though they seem to be getting less frequent as he grows up. He’s a year younger than me and came to live with us just two years after I got here. I share a room with him, much against all state regulations, but there was no other way … so Charlotte relented. She didn’t want to send Dorian back, because children with special needs bring in more money—and Charlotte is in it for the money. She’s open about this with us, but would kill us if we told anyone.

  Dorian’s first day with us was very interesting. At the time, I was sharing this room with Agatha, and Dorian was going to get the recently vacated bedroom. But Dorian would have nothing to do with that room; he clawed and screamed until he passed out from the exertion. He wouldn’t go to anybody or let anyone come near him—except for me.

  When he first saw Agatha, his eyes grew big with fear and he took refuge behind me. I thought he showed excellent judgment, but Charlotte saw it as him being difficult, and declared him “the hardest money ever earned.” Then she confirmed herself a saint for taking on such children, and left me to handle the situation.

  Agatha loved being feared. It always encouraged her when she saw fear in someone’s eyes; so she tried to torment Dorian by coming closer to me, with hands in clawing shape and teeth bared, while emitting a low growl. Dorian whimpered like a wounded animal and this made my blood boil, so from that moment, I took it upon myself to protect him from Agatha. I feel it’s my duty because I know her way of thinking and for some strange reason, I feel uniquely qualified to deal with her.

  By nature, I’m not violent, but when she was in range I lifted one of my legs up and with the base of my foot I pushed her as hard as I could on the stomach. As she was going down, I grabbed Dorian’s hand and his little bag and barricaded us both in my bedroom. Agatha pounded on the door until Charlotte could bear the noise no more and had to get involved. On seeing that Dorian was determined to stay with me and in this room only, she made Agatha tak
e the spare room and Dorian and I have been here ever since.

  “If you two insist on being together, then—then … I make you personally responsible for him; and keep him out of trouble!” Charlotte shouted, as if any of it was my fault. So from that day on, Charlotte relinquished all responsibility of Dorian on me—then a seven year old—and has basked in the warm glow of sainthood ever since.

  The room Dorian and I share is the smallest and the most uncomfortable room in the house. It’s like a little attic that has been transformed into a bedroom, just so Charlotte could fit more kids in the house and run her “Foster Care” business. But Dorian and I like the room; it has some perks that can’t be denied, it’s secluded and has a tiny window that looks out onto the roof of the wrap-around porch, where Dorian and I like to sit and hang out…and where Alex visited me last night…in my dream.

  Dorian doesn’t let anyone touch him but me, and he’s not very talkative. He expresses himself through his drawings, which are exact replicas of things or people he has either only seen once or never seen at all. He only draws with No. 2 pencils and fresh un-used, crisp white Hammermill copy paper that he carries around everywhere he goes. He is black, tall for his age, skinny, and has been bounced around from foster home to foster home since he was a baby, this being the longest home he’s been in his whole life.

  On the floor, he rocked his body back and forth rhythmically as he often did when having one of his fits. But this one, I could tell was different. He seemed beaten. His hands were covering his face, and a gray shroud surrounded him. I tried to lift his head, but he wouldn’t let me see him.

  With effort, I pulled him to my chest and held him tight rocking along with him. As I did all this, I felt like I was in a movie, when they move in slow motion. Everything around me felt strangely familiar. I felt destined for this moment, and I knew what would happen next as if I had done this very same thing in another life.

  “I’ll always take care of you,” I told him, and as I was saying those words I felt an echo within me. Like déjà vu, but different.

  I knew the cause of this breakdown; it was long coming. He had borne the burden of loneliness far too long, and today … he met his quota. Like me, he had no family, like me, he got no love, and like me, he was all alone in this world—that is an overwhelming feeling for anyone—and much greater for a kid like him.

  Hot tears sprung to my own eyes as I held him; I could feel his pain, my pain…our pain. We were all alone, and in less than three years I would be turned out of this house and I would have to fend for myself for the rest of my life. I didn’t have relatives waiting for me, I didn’t have friends that had promised to help me out—I had nothing, and neither did he. What would become of me? What would become of Dorian? What would become of us?

  My heart filled with love toward him, sisterly and maternal love all at once. I realized that he was the only person in the world that I loved like family. This caused some more tears to fall, as I understood the full significance of it; then it hit me! I guess they call it an epiphany—when you realize something all at once. I was his family and I would take care of him. But to accomplish this, I would have to sacrifice all the normal teenage games, dramas, and dreams.

  The thought sobered me and my tears dried up. My breathing became steady and filled with determination. I could see a path forming before me, a path that did not include parties and proms; but study and preparation. I would have to be ready for the realities that would greet Dorian and me right after high school. I had no money for college, so I would need to get scholarships and a few loans too. I had no idea how I would accomplish all of this, but I would have to find out and quickly. All of a sudden, I realized that three years might not be enough time, but that was all I had, because once I turned eighteen I would be homeless … me … homeless.

  The image of being a vagrant in rags filled me with a stubborn determination to do all in my power to become a successful person and to provide for us. His past might have been miserable, and so might his present, but his future would not be—not if I could help it!

  Once the resolution was made, the trance I was in ended; and I felt like a prophecy had been fulfilled. Now it was up to me to put it into effect.

  During History, Brandy and I braided friendship bracelets. We had made enough to supply the whole school with one, but I only kept two, and they were identical. I grabbed the bracelets out of my backpack and put one in his hand.

  “I want you to take this. It is a sister bracelet, I have a brother bracelet—see?” I showed him the other bracelet as I slipped it onto my wrist. “This means we are family and that we’re not alone. You’ll come and live with me when you turn eighteen and we’ll be a family, okay?” He nodded in response.

  I held him until his sobs subsided, then we crawled out the window and sat in our spot on the roof. Winter was ending and the crisp night had a warm spring breeze blowing our way. Tonight we were rewarded not only with a clear star-filled sky, but with one of those huge, full, Texas moons as well. I set us up with all the necessary items: my homework, his pencils, paper, and the radio—tuned to his favorite radio station. Dorian refused to listen to any type of music other than classical, so that’s what we listened to every night.

  In silence we listened to the fluid sounds of Copeland’s Appalachian Spring—fitting for this time of year. Dorian seemed satisfied by my earlier proposition, but now I was anxious. I had made him a promise, and now, I had to fulfill it!

  He looked more at ease, as his No. 2 pencil moved fast across the page. He was lost in a world of his own, his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were moving almost as fast as his hand. I looked at my books and picked them up with a new respect. From now on, these books would be my life. No more foolish dreams of Alex, no more friendship bracelets, no more fun—I had a full ride scholarship to get and I only had two years and four months to get it.

  The rest of my sophomore year ended quite uneventfully. I did manage to get my grades up, and finished with a sparkling 4.0! I also did fairly well in swimming, which only meant longer practices for me next year. This made Wes extremely happy, since he had improved his times as well. It was with great pride that he told me that he would drive me home after practice next year, because by then he would have his license.

  While he walked me home from swimming, he talked my ear off about his dilemma between soccer and swimming. Apparently he had to choose one or the other and was at a crossroads. I listened, not so much attentively as obligingly, to his plight. It seemed somehow ridiculous to me now, that such a thing would bring so much distress to his life. …But I guess that’s what normal teenagers worry about. His plight only made me feel more distant from him and my peers, but of course, I couldn’t tell him that.

  Whenever possible I tried to keep my foster life and my school life separate, not out of shame, but sanity. Besides, I knew that the realities of my life would shock them and would cause them to pity me. I knew their lives were not perfect, but they were a marked improvement on mine.

  Wes goes home every day to a house full of boys, where the dad coaches the many Little League teams and the mom provides large amounts of food to keep her boys happily buzzing around her kitchen. Brandy goes home to a large house, plays tennis with her mom on their backyard court, and eats organic tofu for dinner.

  I on the other hand, ride the bus to Charlotte’s, with Agatha tormenting me the whole way. Then I do my laundry, clean the bathrooms and the kitchen, and cook Hamburger Helper for dinner; all while trying to ignore Agatha’s snide remarks and purposeful hindrances to my cleaning efforts, just to get me in trouble with Charlotte.

  None of my friends from school would ever imagine what the intricacies of living with Agatha are. At school no one likes her and she is a loner, her mousy blond hair is always dirty, and she never, ever smiles. At home however, she is a tyrant. She ruins, steals, or vandalizes anything that she can get her hands on. I have learned to keep careful track of all my b
elongings and have them under lock and key. I have to hastily do my and Dorian’s laundry so that Agatha doesn’t put bleach or something in with our wash to ruin it. I also have to keep her physically away from Dorian, because he is an easy target for her.

  On the dining room wall, Charlotte has an impressive chore chart that she proudly displays, but which is completely ignored by Agatha. Charlotte is afraid to confront her on this score so somehow I have been stuck with all her chores as well. Dinner has always been my job, ever since, well … ever since Agatha laced our food with laxatives and other things that have made us sick. So Dorian and I cover the chore chart, while Agatha walks around and messes things up on purpose.

  This is my world, and I can’t be blamed for keeping it from my friends. They wouldn’t understand it, they would feel sorry for me, then they would treat me differently and I’m already different enough. School is my only link to the real world and if I want to have some semblance of a normal teenage life, I need to keep the two worlds separate.

  Sometimes though, the two worlds collide. Earlier this year, Brandy and I were having lunch by our lockers—we hated the cafeteria because it smelled funny—and I had noticed that down the hall, a new group of girls had started gathering there for lunch as well. One of them was a huge girl named, Amanda, who didn’t just act like a pig, but was one in a previous life. She wasn’t just big, she was buff too, and most likely stronger than half the football team.

  I saw Agatha pass by with her usual scowl on her face. I ignored her, as always, but then I looked up with a jerk. I had that odd feeling I got now and then, like déjà vu on steroids. I looked down the hall and I noticed that Amanda was looking like a bull about to charge; only Agatha didn’t see it.