by W. H. Vega
“You’re the new girl, huh?” she says.
“That’s right,” I tell her, “My name’s—”
“Nadia,” she cuts me off, “They told us you were coming. I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve been outnumbered by the boys forever. I’m Conway, in case you were wondering.”
“That’s...an interesting name,” I say, “Where’s it from?”
“Beats me,” she says with a grin, “My parents were probably high or something when they picked it. For all I know they got it off a street sign. Or a bottle of laundry detergent. I’d ask them, but they ditched me when I was three, so...”
“I’m sorry,” I offer.
“That’s nice of you,” Conway says, “You’re a nice girl. I can tell. I haven’t met many nice girls.”
“You seem pretty nice yourself,” I say, smiling.
“Eh. I’m OK,” she shrugs, “Not like I’ve got much to compare myself to. Here, let me get that for you.”
She takes my backpack out of my hands and turns on her heel. I scramble to follow as Conway marches up the stairs. At least there’s someone in this house who doesn’t seem to disdain me. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s been nice to me like this off the bat. Could it be possible that I might actually have found a friend, at last?
“We get to share a room,” Conway says over her shoulder, leading me down a narrow hallway, “It’ll be like having a sleepover! Or...something. I’ve never actually had a sleepover with anyone, so I wouldn’t know for sure. But we can just pretend, I guess.”
She pushes open a door at the end of the hall and leads me into a little bedroom. A thick, fruity smell greets me as I step inside. The commingling scents of a dozen body sprays and shampoos hang heavy in the air. I blink around the space as Conway switches on a light. My eyes are instantly overwhelmed by the color pink. Everything I lay eyes on seems to be a shade of the girlish hue.
“What can I say,” my companion sighs, “I love pink. I hope you don’t mind...this has been my room for a while, so I’ve sort of settled in.”
“How long have you been with Paul and Nancy?” I ask, settling down onto one of two twin beds decked out in pink bedding.
“Uh...three years?” Conway says, planting herself on the other bed beside me. “Yeah. Three years. I got here when I was twelve. Before that, I was staying with these religious nuts a few counties over. Paul and Nancy may have their issues, but at least they don’t ever try and ship us off to Jesus camp.”
“Us?” I ask.
“Didn’t your social worker tell you anything about this house?” Conway asks.
“This was kind of a...hurried arrangement,” I tell her.
“Oh. Well, there are two other kids here,” she says, “I’m sure they’ll surface eventually.”
“Little kids?” I ask.
“Nah,” Conway says, “Paul and Nancy don’t like little kids. They only take in teenagers who can take care of themselves. We’re more like roommates than anything else, really. Could be worse, though. Imagine having foster parents who wanted to be all lovey dovey or whatever. Gross.”
“I guess you’re right,” I laugh, “Thank god we’ve been spared that, at least.”
Our conversation is suddenly drowned out by a throbbing, pounding sound, coming from somewhere deep in the house. Conway rolls her eyes and flops back on the bed. I listen closely, trying to figure out what that insane noise might be.
“Is the...uh...house about to explode or something?” I ask warily.
“Not quite,” Conway says, rolling on her side to face me, “That’s just the boys.”
“What are they doing, construction work?”
“I like you,” Conway says, “You’ve got a quick tongue. No, actually. They’re just listening to music.”
“That’s music?” I ask, “It sounds like two vacuum cleaners eating each other.”
“Come on,” my new friend says, lacing her fingers with mine, “See for yourself.”
The simple act of holding hands sparks something bittersweet inside of me. Now that I think about it...I don’t think I’ve been touched in even this simplest way for years. I’ve been skittish about any kind of contact since Daryl’s unwanted advances at the Goldstein’s house. You have to be careful, in this kind of environment. People are scared, and desperate, and lonely. It brings out the worst in some.
But for whatever reason, I don’t mind Conway’s touch. In fact...it’s kind of nice. I don’t know why, but I feel like I can trust her. Imagine that...an actual friend for the first time in years. Maybe there’s a happy birthday headed my way after all.
Conway leads me down the front staircase and down a shadowy hall. Up ahead, the glaringly fluorescent light of the kitchen shines bleakly. I sneak a peek into the tiled space and spot Nancy and Paul sitting at a worn wooden table. They have tall glasses of clear liquor in their hands, and they sip dispassionately as I look on. Nancy looks up and catches my eye with a bored grimace.
“Tell those idiots to be quiet,” she growls at me, swilling some booze.
“Yeah, yeah. We’ve got it, Nance,” Conway says, wrenching open a door leading down to the basement. As we head down the dusty stairs, I hear a slurring string of cusses spilling from Nancy’s lips. Conway’s brazen bravery amazes me.
“Aren’t you scared to talk to your foster parents like that?” I ask.
“Nah,” the small girl shrugs, “I’ve been with these guys long enough to know where the line is. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not planning on crossing it anytime soon. But you can’t take shit from people, otherwise you’d go nuts, right?”
“Right,” I agree.
Three
Nadia
Him
The blaring music gets louder with every step we take, until the staircase opens up into the basement. I peer around the small space and can’t help but smile. Multi-colored Christmas lights hang along the ceiling, charmingly mismatched furniture populates every spare inch, and scores of quirky keepsakes are scattered throughout. The basement is the ultimate teenage hangout that I’ve always imagined sharing with my nonexistent friends.
It takes me a minute to notice that Conway and I have company. I spot two pairs of sneakers peeking out from beneath a heap of beanbag chairs, and realize that they must belong to my new foster brothers. The music fades down suddenly as Conway adjusts the stereo’s volume, and indignant cries rise up from somewhere around the disembodied feet.
“What the hell, Con?” a boy’s voice groans from the floor, “We’re trying to listen to some goddamn music.”
“Turn it back up, for Christ’s sake,” says a second voice from under the rubble.
“Nancy’s going to come down here and rip you each a new asshole if you don’t keep it down,” Conway says, “And where the hell are your manners, anyway? You just gonna sit there and not say hello to our new housemate?”
Two faces comically pop up out of the pile, and I fight to stifle a laugh. The boy nearest me picks himself up from the ground and gives me a critical once over. He’s taller that I would have expected, for someone my age. He definitely clears six feet, and it doesn’t seem like he’s done growing, either. A fitted black tank top and dark jeans cling to his body in just the right way.
I have to say, he’s pretty fit. I don’t often find myself in the company of cute guys, and I’m not entirely sure how to handle myself. I’m relieved to see that, despite his manly physique, this guy still has something of a baby face.
“She’s cute,” the boy says, folding his muscular arms over his chest.
“I’m standing right here,” I remind him.
“That you are,” he says, grinning crookedly. “Your name’s Nadia, right?”
“That’s right. And what do they call you? The Hulk?”
“Funny,” he says, “But no. I’m Garrick.”
“Nice to meet you, Garrick,” I say, extending my hand. I immediately feel like an idiot as the other kids burst out into involuntary laughte
r.
“You’re so sweet,” Garrick says, pulling me into a crushing bear hug, “We don’t see sweet very often around here.”
“Thanks...I guess,” I say, extracting myself from Garrick’s embrace. As I step away from him, my eyes fall on my other new housemate. I feel my heart throw itself against my ribcage as he straightens up and levels his eyes at me.
I’ve never thought this about anyone before, especially not a boy, but he is...just beautiful. He’s not as crazy tall as Garrick, but he seems much older. His hair is sandy blonde and just a little bit shaggy, and even in the low light of the basement I can see a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His intent eyes are a dark green, and as I meet his gaze it’s like they’re bottomless. I can tell just by looking at him that he’s had a particularly rough go.
The gorgeous boy tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugs a little bit. His plain white tee is just fitted enough that I can see how defined his chest his between his broad shoulders. Just as my eyes start to wander down his well-balanced body, I realize that I’ve been staring at him like a goddamn idiot. Heat rushes to my face as I snap my jaw back into place. I must look like a such a freak, already.
“I’m Trace,” the boy says, lifting one corner of his mouth just a hair. A man of few words, I suppose.
“H-hey, Trace,” I stammer, smiling nervously.
Garrick steps around me to throw on some new music as Conway sinks down into a well-loved armchair. I watch as Trace reaches into his back pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo. He tucks a smoke between his lips and flips open the lighter in one swift motion. Clearly, he’s not new to cancer sticks.
“Want one?” he asks, offering the pack to me.
“Oh. No thanks,” I saw, lowering myself onto a rickety rocking chair across the room from him. “I don’t smoke.”
“Anything?” Conway asks, her eyes wide.
“Not really,” I say.
“Weird...” Garrick says, cranking up the stereo’s volume once more. The hardcore metal that was playing when we first came down has been replaced with gangster rap. I personally prefer Top 40, but I have a feeling that these kids aren’t really into Taylor Swift.
“We’ve got beer too. And whiskey,” Trace continues, taking a pull of his smoke. I smile sheepishly, and he lets out a low groan. “Don’t tell me you don’t drink either?”
“Sorry,” I say, “Guess I’m kind of a prude about all that stuff.”
“How the hell do you get through the day?” Garrick asks. “This is the only thing any of us look forward to. Sitting around together, having a couple of drinks, getting stoned out of our goddamn minds, and waiting until our eighteenth birthdays roll around.”
“Eight more months for me,” Trace says with a smile, “And thank the fucking lord.”
“Don’t take the lord’s name in vain,” Conway sniffs, “And give me one of those cigarettes. I’m jonesing like nobody’s business.”
“Maybe you’re a Jesus freak like Conway here, then?” Garrick says, “One of those abstinence-only types?”
“How does believing in God make me a freak?” Conway asks.
“If it doesn’t make you a freak, it makes you a goddamn moron,” Trace says. “Look around. You think there’s some guy up there who has a plan for us? If there is, he must be a real dick to have stuck us all in here.”
“Amen,” I say sarcastically. Trace nods in approval, and I can feel my hands begin to tremble a little bit. Something about him sets me on edge, in the best way possible. I’d better watch myself around this one. The last thing I need is to get a massive crush on my new foster brother. That must be against some kind of rule.
“How much longer do you have, Nadia?” Garrick asks, pulling a hidden flask from among a stack of CDs.
“Until what?”
“Until you’re free, obviously.”
“Oh...until I turn eighteen, you mean? Two years, tomorrow.”
“Huh?” Garrick says.
“Oh my god,” Conway squeals, letting out a puff of smoke, “Is tomorrow your birthday? Your sixteenth freakin’ birthday?”
“Guilty,” I tell her.
“That’s so cool!” she says excitedly, “We can have a sweet sixteen for you!”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“Are you kidding? It’ll be the most exciting thing to happen around here in forever.”
“I can’t even remember the last time someone acknowledged my birthday...” I say, “Since my parents, I mean.”
“They still kickin’?” Garrick asks.
My chest tightens painfully, but I manage to keep a straight face. “No,” I tell him, “No, they died when I was twelve. Car accident.”
“Drunk?” Garrick asks.
“No!” I say, more forcefully than I meant to, “No, of course not. Someone hit them. Never found out who.”
“Why aren’t you with your grandparents or something, then?” he presses.
“I don’t know who they are. It was just me and my parents.”
“That’s so rough...” Conway says sympathetically. “I was only three when my parents gave me up. I can’t remember anything about them. I think they were super young, though. Way too young to have a kid. I don’t really blame them for wanting to get rid of me, I just wish they would have done it when I was a baby so I would have had a shot at getting adopted.”
“Hey, I was only a couple of months old when I got thrown into foster hell,” Garrick says, “It didn’t help me any.”
“Well no shit,” Conway says, “Who would want to adopt a baby as ugly as you?”
Garrick chucks a CD at Conway’s head, but she ducks and misses it without skipping a beat. I turn to Trace, waiting to hear his one-sentence life story.
“Are your parents gone too?” I ask him. He shoots me look, and the others fall dead silent. Clearly, this is not a topic of discussion that we’re going to be touching on tonight. “I’m sorry. That was rude,” I say.
“No worries,” Trace says, crushing out his cigarette. He brushes past me, crossing the room, and I can’t help but let my eyes linger on him. His jeans are cut just right, and I have to say that I like the way he looks in them.
I feel like a creep, ogling him like this, but it’s like my eyes are addicted to the sight of him. I’m sure I’ll get over it once I’ve been here a couple of days. I’d better, anyway. I don’t want to be the weird, clingy girl in the house. I’m already the odd girl out because I don’t drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney.
Trace cranks the music up to an earsplitting level, and I have to sit on my hands to keep from throwing them over my ears. The others don’t even seem to mind the noise. Probably, they’re used to far worse chaos than this.
I try to imagine spending my entire life bouncing from one foster home to another, like they have. I wonder whether it would have been better than having loving parents for twelve years, only to have them snatched away. Maybe, if I never knew what I was missing, I wouldn’t still miss them so much.
A sudden bright light sears my eyes, shocking me out of my reverie. I blink up at the harsh fluorescents overhead and watch as my housemates’ eyes snap toward the stairwell. Nobody moves a muscle as Paul’s burly form lumbers drunkenly into the space. His face is beet red, his eyes swimming.
The other three kids still stock still as Paul scans the room, and their alertness scares me more than Paul does. If even Garrick and Trace can be rendered silent just by this guy’s presence, he must not be someone piss off.
My new foster father storms across the basement toward the stereo. Before anyone can say a word, he’s taken the machine in his thick, solid hands and hurled it against the concrete wall. I let out a little shriek as the stereo cracks against the hard surface, sending little shards of metal and plastic everywhere.
“What the hell, Paul?” Trace shouts, dragged out of his silence, “Do you know how long I saved up for that thing? What’s your problem?�
��
“Shut the fuck up, kid,” Paul snarls, glaring at Trace, “We told you...to turn down...the God damn music.”
“You didn’t have to break it, asshole,” Trace says, squaring off with Paul across the room.
“Watch your mouth,” Paul says, taking a menacing step forward.
“Or what?” Trace challenges him, “You gonna hit me? I dare you to try. I’ll have child services here before you can even think about sobering up for a hot second. You don’t want that, do you Paul?”
“Don’t threaten me in my own house, you ungrateful little prick,” Paul says.
“Name calling, huh? Pretty immature,” Trace grins, “If you’re so tough, just hit me. Come on. Be a man.”
“I don’t hit children,” Paul says, his voice gravelly, “But you’ll be grown soon enough. And I’ll have your sorry ass on the curb in three seconds flat. See how long it takes before you get to be a dirty fucking junkie just like your worthless parents.”
Garrick flies to Trace just in time to hold him back. Trace thrashes against his friend, trying like hell to get to Paul. I watch in silent horror, sure that Paul is about to get his throat ripped out. But Trace forces deep breath after deep breath into his body, and manages to get a hold of himself.
“Pathetic as always,” Paul laughs, “You girls, go upstairs. I want all of you in bed like good little kiddies.”
“It’s only, like, ten o’clock,” Conway complains.
“Go. Upstairs. Now,” Paul says.
Conway rolls her eyes and stands, nodding to me to follow her lead. I hurry after my new foster sister, stealing a glance at Trace as I go. He’s practically trembling with frustrated rage, and I don’t blame him.
