In Control (The City Series)

by Crystal Serowka

  “Mind your own fucking business! It was your idea to foster all of these kids!” Mr. Henderson yelled back.

  The Hendersons had one biological child. The rest of us were “saved,” which is what Mrs. Henderson liked to call it every time one of the children asked for something.

  I saved you from that damn shelter. You’re lucky you even get to eat.

  I saved you from that hellish place. You’re lucky you aren’t sleeping on the floor with no blankets.

  In reality, we saved the Hendersons. It was because of the eight of us that they were getting paychecks from the state.

  I rounded the corner, wary of making my presence known. The Hendersons treated me the same way you’d treat a rat you had found in one of your cupboards. The moment you see it, you grab whatever weapon you can find and bash its head in.

  I spent 912 days trying to convince myself to run away, but running away was impossible when you had nowhere to run to.

  “Look who it is,” Mrs. Henderson turned in my direction, a disgusted look on her face, “the little girl who thinks she’s too good to live here.”

  I stepped into the kitchen, my feet sticking to the tattered tile. I kept my head down, biting on my tongue to keep from lashing out. It was too hard to cover bruises on my face.

  “G-good morning.”

  My stuttering response made Mr. Henderson focus on me. He studied my face for a few seconds too long before plopping down on one of the oak chairs and grabbing the sports section off the table.

  “Kingsley,” Mrs. Henderson always called my name as if just saying it made her head hurt, “hurry and eat your breakfast. The other kids will be down soon.”

  The dining table only sat ten. Since I was the worthless child (their words), I had to eat everything off of my plate before the other children came downstairs. The Hendersons explained my absence as me thinking I was too good to eat with the rest of them.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I ate the unflavored oatmeal out of the same chipped bowl I always used. My taste buds had become so accustomed to the lack of variety that even on the rare days where I’d get an apple, I was no longer able to enjoy the sweetness. I’d never had the luxury of drinking pop or eating ice cream. Seeing them on TV only prompted my stomach to crave the decadent treats.

  With my last spoonful of oatmeal, I heard the rest of the children bounding down the stairs, sounding like elephants stampeding toward the kitchen, eight different voices shouting over one another. Their enthusiasm for being in this house only proved that the Hendersons had yet to crush their spirits.

  I swiftly stood from the chair before the Hendersons could look my way and brought my bowl to the sink full of overflowing pots and pans. It was still early and my school day didn’t begin for another hour and a half, so I had to find something to do until then. The Hendersons wouldn’t allow Jenny or the other older children to watch me, and since the Hendersons left for work at seven each morning—Mrs. part-time at the local Goodwill and Mr. full-time at Bill’s Auto Care—I had no choice but to walk to school early and wait for one of the teachers to let me in.

  My backpack was hung in the closet, along with all of the others, each one battered from the years of reuse. I’d had mine since I was nine, and after four years, the holes had to be covered with duct tape. It was beginning to look like something from outer space and I was tempted to draw a face on it and make it look like a robot.

  “Kingsley, we need to have a discussion when you get home from school!” Mrs. Henderson called as I opened the door.

  I’d been good lately. I hadn’t talked back. I covered all my bruises and my smile never faltered. Still, I was terrified to find out what I’d done wrong this time. I nodded in response and stumbled out the front door. All day, my thoughts would be consumed with details of how I’d spent the last few days. I needed to figure out what I did wrong before talking with Mrs. Henderson. I needed to prepare myself and build up the right amount of adrenaline to get through each beating.

  As I walked down the street and watched the cars leave their driveways, I imagined I was one of the kids in the back seat. Safely belted in, bobbing along to the music that was playing on the radio. In my dreams, I had a real family. Real brothers and sisters. We would spend each day laughing and dancing. Our parents would openly tell us how proud they were. Instead of pushing me away, they’d hold me in their arms and protect me from the dangers of the world.

  In this fairytale, I wouldn’t have to wonder why my skin was brown and not porcelain like everyone else’s. My parents would explain to me why I didn’t have straight hair like the rest of the girls in my classroom. Mine curled in every direction and the only way to tame it was putting it in a tight bun, something I learned to do myself a few years ago.

  In this fairytale, my childhood wouldn’t be tainted. I wouldn’t be ruined.

  I realized my fantasies would never come true. I would never know who my real parents were or why they got rid of me. I’d asked the social workers about them, but the reasons I was given were never enough to satisfy my curiosity. I was beginning to think I was dropped off on the doorstep of the children’s shelter and no one had ever even seen my parents.

  The Hendersons lived only a few blocks from the school, so even when it was freezing outside, walking wasn’t a big deal. I enjoyed the time alone, strolling the streets of Brooklyn, listening to the birds chirp in the trees. As I roamed past the small shops, I amused myself by making up stories. I always wrote them down, but Mr. Henderson told me that no one would ever want to read them. My secret notebook became filled with fairytales that I’d never show anyone else.

  I rounded the corner of the street, making it just in time for the walk signal. My bag was weighed down with four textbooks that had to be returned. It was the end of the school year, and today was my last day as an eighth grader. I knew that before the day was over, I would cry over missing my English teacher, Mrs. Wilkinson. Over the school year, I’d grown close to her. By giving me words of encouragement, praising my essays on classics like Lord of the Flies and To Kill a Mockingbird, she made me feel like maybe I was special.

  There was still an hour before the school buses would arrive, so I sat on the top of the steps, making myself comfortable. I pulled out my notebook, turning to the very last page. Staring at the black sketch made my heart sink. The ballerina was in the midst of twirling, her hair floating through the air as she turned on the tips of her toes. She didn’t have a face yet. Each time I tried lifting my pencil to draw it, I started to cry. I’d never be able to replicate Ms. Cole’s full lips or her almond shaped eyes.

  I was four years old when I first shook Ms. Cole’s hand. She was the pretty lady that taught ballet, and I’d always spy on her class while waiting for my foster mom to finish with her receptionist duties. One day, Ms. Cole discovered that I’d been watching her teach and asked me if I wanted to try dancing. She pulled me into her classroom and told me that if I wanted to be a ballerina, I had to learn how to walk like one. She proceeded by showing me what it looked like, and my jaw fell to the floor. Her back was straight, her head held high, and her slightly bent arms were out to each side. She walked across the floor as if she was floating. She walked as if she owned the world. From that day on, I wanted to be just like her. I went to her class almost every day, mimicking her moves, studying every technique. It didn’t take long for me to catch on, and Ms. Cole announced to the rest of the class that I was the star.

  The happiness I had felt had an expiration date. Six years later, while Ms. Cole walked to her car in the middle of the night, she was murdered. It was around the same time that my foster mom gave me back to the children’s home, claiming that I was too messed up for her to deal with.

  I observed my work, trailing my eyes over the soft lines that formed Ms. Cole’s arms. She was a thin woman. Her arms were long and I remember always wanting to hold mine up the way she did, so glamorous, as if they were reaching for the sky. I was tempted to crumple up the sheet of paper and
throw it away. Ballet was a thing of the past, and drawing Ms. Cole would never bring her back. Just as I was about to tear the paper from the spine, a voice interrupted me. I jerked my head up, instinctively covering my drawing from view.

  “Why are you always here so early?” Porter Henning was standing right in front of me; so close that I could reach out and touch him.

  The first day of eighth grade, a boy I’d never seen walked into the classroom and awoke my sleeping heart.

  “Listen up, boys and girls,” Mrs. Wilkinson had announced. “We’ve got a new student! This is Porter Henning, and he’ll be joining us this year.” She turned to Porter and asked if he wanted to share anything about himself with the class.

  Porter cleared his throat, nervously cracking his knuckles one at a time. “I just moved from Indiana...umm...this place seems pretty cool.” He smiled at me for a moment before his eyes flickered over everyone else.

  He smiled at me. It wasn’t the kind of smile I wore, though. His was full of life and it made each and every one of my gloomy days shine bright from the effortless gesture. Porter’s smile showed true sincerity; it blew my fake one out of the water.

  From that moment, I loved him. His curly, golden blond hair that swept across his forehead, his deep, blue eyes that were prettier than anything I’d ever seen, his smile. When he smiled at me, it soaked through my skin, bathing my heart in warmth.

  Porter became friends with everyone quickly, always high-fiving the other students in the hallways and huddling with his guy friends by the lockers. I was envious that he’d been here for such a short time, yet everyone knew and loved him. Especially the girls. I tried talking to him a few times throughout the year, but every time I got close to tapping his shoulder, I felt like I was going to be sick. It was safer admiring him from afar, so for the entire year, that’s what I did.

  “Excuse me?” I finally answered, surprised I could find my voice.

  “You’re always here so early, always sitting by yourself. Why?” Porter repeated.

  “Oh, well...” I looked down at the cement steps, squeezing my eyes shut, searching for an answer. “I...”

  He laughed and walked toward me, grabbing a seat on the lower step. “Don’t worry about it. I was just curious.” He turned and smiled the exact smile that I fell in love with ten months ago.

  “Because I have to be.”

  Porter nodded his head and turned away. His back faced me, and I stared at the freckles that covered his neck.

  “Why are you so early?” I quietly asked, knowing Porter always got to school as soon as the arrival bell rang. Never early, never late. Always precisely on time.

  “My dad had some kind of conference thing, so my mom had to drive me. Of course, she couldn’t be late for her morning yoga, so here I am.” He was still facing forward, but by his response, I knew his smile had vanished.

  “I’ve seen yoga on the TV before. It looks hard.”

  He sighed. “It’s stupid.”

  A few silent seconds passed, and I racked my brain for something to say. The more time that passed, the more I feared him standing up and walking away.

  “How do you know I’m always here early if you never are?” I asked.

  He turned to face me, his blue eyes shining bright. “My dad takes me to Cafe Grumpy for breakfast every morning around the same time. We pass the school and I always see you sitting here on the steps.”

  “Oh,” I answered quietly. “I’ve never been there, but it seems really nice.” My stomach growled just thinking about food. I’d gotten used to only eating a small bowl of oatmeal each morning, but the mere thought of breakfast, of being able to eat an entire muffin, made my mouth water. Sometimes, I would take the long way home and peek in the windows of Cafe Grumpy. I could only imagine how incredible the chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins tasted.

  “It’s delicious; you’ll have to try it sometime.” He touched his fingers to his lips and snapped them together as he moved his hand away.

  “What was that? Was that some kind of sign?” I asked.

  “It was sign language. I was saying delicious.” He laughed and did the movement again.

  I joined in, mimicking him the best I could.

  “No,” he smiled, grabbing my fingers, “you have to make the number eight. Like this.”

  He was touching my hand.

  He placed my thumb over my middle finger and straightened my other fingers. “Now, keep your fingers together and touch your thumb to your lips, then just move it away.”

  I did as he instructed, not able to focus on anything else but his touch. His hand held onto my wrist for a few seconds longer, and I swore I felt my heart burst straight through my chest. I’d never been touched so gently in my life.

  “So, Kingsley, don’t you get bored sitting out here by yourself every morning?” Porter asked, studying my face.

  I felt my jaw drop and brought my hand up to see if it actually had. My mouth was closed, but I was in complete shock that Porter had said my name. He knew my name.

  “I-I’m used to it, I guess,” I stuttered.

  “Gotcha. I’d be bored out of my mind if I had to be here so early all the time.” He laughed, his eyes still focused on mine.

  I smiled and looked at the ground, not having any words left. My crush on Porter had grown so much since the first day of school. I wanted him to be my first date, my first kiss, my first everything. I wanted him to warm my hands on cold nights, softly blowing heat onto my numb fingers. We could run through sprinklers with all our clothes on and eat ice cream until our brains froze. Most of all, I just wanted to call him mine because I never had anything of my own.

  “Hey,” Porter reached out his hand and touched my knee, “are you all right?”

  My gaze fixed on his fingers. He was touching my knee, and if I could have formed coherent thoughts, they’d be shouting how incredible it felt having skin to skin contact with the boy I’d admired for so long.

  “Y-yeah,” I replied, “I’m fine.”

  His fingers left my skin, and I was tempted to reach for his hand and put it back on my knee. The simple touch had my heart performing a dizzying dance that I never wanted to stop.

  “Can I tell you something?” Porter asked.

  “Of course.”

  Our eyes met and I could have sworn fireworks filled the sky. I didn’t know what he was going to say, but my stomach was already doing flips so big, it could have put Cirque du Soleil to shame.

  Before he had the chance to say anything else, his name was called.

  “I-I gotta go, but I’ll see ya later, Kingsley.” He stood up, but before running off, gave me one last smile.

  Porter sat just three seats behind me in class, but now, knowing what his touch felt like, I couldn’t bear to even be that far from him. My knee, my fingers, my heart were still tingling from his warm touch. I couldn’t believe that I wasted all school year without having the courage to talk to him.

  Today, I was happy. I was actually convinced that I’d have more days of smiles and laughs. I grabbed my notebook and pen, turned to a blank sheet of paper, and began drawing the sign for delicious.

  I never wanted to forget the feeling of his skin on mine.

  It took me exactly fifteen seconds to walk to the elevator. Ten seconds later, I was dodging shoulders, pushing myself through the bustling crowds of New York. Four minutes passed and I was two blocks away from him. I don’t know why I was rushing. I knew no matter how far or how fast I walked, I wouldn’t escape the feeling that I was losing everything.

  I climbed the steps to my apartment building, hoping Trish wasn’t home to see me this way. Other than the time I was accepted into Juilliard, I’d never shown much emotion in front of Trish; for as long as I’d been in her care, my mood has always stayed rather somber.

  I was happy school had ended and I could dent my own furniture rather than damaging Juilliard’s property. I needed to destroy something, anything. Smash it in. Tear it to s
hreds. Leave it in pieces...much like myself.

  The apartment building I’d been living in since Trish adopted me was sickeningly nice. The entryway looked as if Martha Stewart threw up over everything. I hated the potted plants that sat on each side of the door. I hated the bulletin board hung with announcements of resident get-togethers and thank you cards from the office staff. Between the bright yellow walls and the textured hardwood floors (free of any shoe marks), I had to hold myself back from grabbing the black Sharpie in my purse and scribbling down words that would make Howard Stern blush. I was in no mood to be surrounded by such a happy color, by such a joyous looking room, so I hurried up the stairs to the fifth floor.

  As soon as I realized I was alone in the apartment, I let out a bloodcurdling scream. I knew it may have alerted Mrs. Jenkins next door, but I didn’t care. The scream had been building inside of me from the moment Wren asked if I wanted to join him in the Hamptons. I screamed again, because once wasn’t enough. Immediately, I felt relief wash over me. In those seconds of releasing the pent up stress, I was able to forget all of my troubles and instead, focus my energy on punctuating the air with my voice. My entire body shook and it was comforting to feel like I had regained control.

  Wanting to keep the rush of adrenaline going, I pushed the magazines off the coffee table, watching as all five of them scattered on the hardwood floor. The small mess didn’t satisfy my anger, so I continued, chucking the throw pillows from the chairs across the room. I sank into the black chenille couch and stared down at my bare feet. Not even an hour ago, they were wrapped in Wren’s sheets, comforted by the presence of his body. My mind was screaming at me, telling me that I had made a huge mistake in turning Wren’s invitation down, reminding me that I should stop being so terrified and stop setting myself up for the fall when I might not even be standing near a cliff. I shut the voices out, not allowing regret to sink its teeth into me. Regret brought on doubt, and if doubt clouded my judgment, I’d run back to Wren’s place and tell him how much I needed him.

  Trish must have been at work, which I was thankful for. She was a nurse, which meant I’d have the place to myself for the rest of the night. If she were here, she would demand I tell her what happened and I really didn’t want to talk about it now. When I first moved in with her, she’d try asking me questions about my life. Where was I born? What were my past households like? Every question was answered with one of my own. Why did you decide to adopt a fifteen year old? What’s in it for you? Throughout my early years, a handful of people tried getting to know me, asking the same questions that Trish had asked. Back then, I was less guarded, so I answered them with gusto. It was when every single one of them vanished from my life that I pledged to never open myself up like that again.