people are so hot.”
“Cool,” I reply.
“I bet you’re
going to be stunning when you grow up,” Cheryl goes on, lighting a cigarette on
the butt of the one she’s just finished. “Just you wait. We’ll go shopping
together, get manicures, do the whole mother-daughter thing.”
It sounds great,
everything that Cheryl promises. For a time, I really believe her. I spent
another year living with Cheryl in her tiny, smoky apartment. But as I continue
to grow up, she doesn’t seem as thrilled with me as she promised. The more men
start to notice me, the less Cheryl likes me. By the time I’m fourteen, she
sends me packing to the next home with a bitter scowl on her face.
For the next ten
months, I live with some bible thumpers in rural Illinois. I ask to be taken
away from them when they start telling me that there are demons in my guts.
Right before my first exorcism is scheduled to go down, Miss MacCoy snatches me
away.
At fifteen, I’m
sent to live with the elderly Mrs. Tyson, who has about five other girls in her
home. When a cat fight breaks out over an allegedly stolen hairdryer, I get a
couple ribs broken and a bad black eye. Just before my sixteenth birthday, I
find myself back in Miss MacCoy’s office, without a home once more.
“Does everyone
move around this much?” I ask, tucking my long blonde hair behind my ear.
“Mostly,” she
says.
“So, where am I
off to next?” I ask with a sigh.
“We were able to
find a place last minute,” she tells me. “You’ll be staying with Paul and Nancy
Daniels. They’ve already got a few kids staying with them, so you’ll have
plenty of company.”
“Oh goody.”
“I know it’s
been a rough ride,” Miss MacCoy says earnestly, “But I’ve got a good feeling
about this place.”
“Whatever you
say,” I tell her, tucking my knees into my chest. “Wherever I’m going can’t
possibly be worse than where I’ve been.”
Someday, maybe
I’ll learn to stop thinking things like that. After everything I’ve been
through, you think I’d have better sense. If there’s one thing growing up as a
foster kid has taught me, it’s that where you’re going is almost guaranteed to
be worse than where you were before. The devil you know, right?
And so, for my
sweet sixteenth, I get a new dysfunctional family, gift wrapped just for me.
Not exactly what I would have wished for, but then again, when do wishes ever
come true?
Two
Nadia
Sweet Sixteen.
For what seems
like the millionth time, I find myself in the passenger seat of Miss MacCoy’s
busted-up Honda Civic, on my way to another “home”.
The morning
dawned gray and unremarkable, the smell of impending rain hanging heavily in
the air. My dad used to tease me because days like these are actually my favorite.
I love the hours before a big storm hits more than anything—when the air itself
is charged and alive in your lungs.
Wherever I am,
whatever house I happen to be staying in, the sound of a storm raging outside
is always strangely comforting to me. Even now that the day is wrapping up, it
gives me a certain sense of ease.
“It’s my
birthday tomorrow,” I say, staring out at the run-down neighborhood as it races
by my window.
“Shit,” Miss
MacCoy mutters, glancing at me guiltily, “I should have remembered that. I’m
sorry.”
“It’s cool,” I
say, “You’ve got a ton of kids to look after. I wouldn't be able to keep them
all straight, either.”
“Still,” she
says, turning onto a street lined with craggy trees, “Happy almost-birthday,
Nadia. Anything special you’re hoping for this year?”
I let out a
little laugh. “Like what?”
“Come on,” the
social worker urges, “It’s your sweet sixteen! Aren’t you excited at all?”
“I dunno,” I
say, “Sure, I guess.”
“Well, maybe
this new home will be like something of a birthday present,” she says, peering
through the windshield, “Paul and Nancy are old vets. They’ve been foster
parents
“Cool,” I reply.
“I bet you’re
going to be stunning when you grow up,” Cheryl goes on, lighting a cigarette on
the butt of the one she’s just finished. “Just you wait. We’ll go shopping
together, get manicures, do the whole mother-daughter thing.”
It sounds great,
everything that Cheryl promises. For a time, I really believe her. I spent
another year living with Cheryl in her tiny, smoky apartment. But as I continue
to grow up, she doesn’t seem as thrilled with me as she promised. The more men
start to notice me, the less Cheryl likes me. By the time I’m fourteen, she
sends me packing to the next home with a bitter scowl on her face.
For the next ten
months, I live with some bible thumpers in rural Illinois. I ask to be taken
away from them when they start telling me that there are demons in my guts.
Right before my first exorcism is scheduled to go down, Miss MacCoy snatches me
away.
At fifteen, I’m
sent to live with the elderly Mrs. Tyson, who has about five other girls in her
home. When a cat fight breaks out over an allegedly stolen hairdryer, I get a
couple ribs broken and a bad black eye. Just before my sixteenth birthday, I
find myself back in Miss MacCoy’s office, without a home once more.
“Does everyone
move around this much?” I ask, tucking my long blonde hair behind my ear.
“Mostly,” she
says.
“So, where am I
off to next?” I ask with a sigh.
“We were able to
find a place last minute,” she tells me. “You’ll be staying with Paul and Nancy
Daniels. They’ve already got a few kids staying with them, so you’ll have
plenty of company.”
“Oh goody.”
“I know it’s
been a rough ride,” Miss MacCoy says earnestly, “But I’ve got a good feeling
about this place.”
“Whatever you
say,” I tell her, tucking my knees into my chest. “Wherever I’m going can’t
possibly be worse than where I’ve been.”
Someday, maybe
I’ll learn to stop thinking things like that. After everything I’ve been
through, you think I’d have better sense. If there’s one thing growing up as a
foster kid has taught me, it’s that where you’re going is almost guaranteed to
be worse than where you were before. The devil you know, right?
And so, for my
sweet sixteenth, I get a new dysfunctional family, gift wrapped just for me.
Not exactly what I would have wished for, but then again, when do wishes ever
come true?
Two
Nadia
Sweet Sixteen.
For what seems
like the millionth time, I find myself in the passenger seat of Miss MacCoy’s
busted-up Honda Civic, on my way to another “home”.
The morning
dawned gray and unremarkable, the smell of impending rain hanging heavily in
the air. My dad used to tease me because days like these are actually my favorite.
I love the hours before a big storm hits more than anything—when the air itself
is charged and alive in your lungs.
Wherever I am,
whatever house I happen to be staying in, the sound of a storm raging outside
is always strangely comforting to me. Even now that the day is wrapping up, it
gives me a certain sense of ease.
“It’s my
birthday tomorrow,” I say, staring out at the run-down neighborhood as it races
by my window.
“Shit,” Miss
MacCoy mutters, glancing at me guiltily, “I should have remembered that. I’m
sorry.”
“It’s cool,” I
say, “You’ve got a ton of kids to look after. I wouldn't be able to keep them
all straight, either.”
“Still,” she
says, turning onto a street lined with craggy trees, “Happy almost-birthday,
Nadia. Anything special you’re hoping for this year?”
I let out a
little laugh. “Like what?”
“Come on,” the
social worker urges, “It’s your sweet sixteen! Aren’t you excited at all?”
“I dunno,” I
say, “Sure, I guess.”
“Well, maybe
this new home will be like something of a birthday present,” she says, peering
through the windshield, “Paul and Nancy are old vets. They’ve been foster
parents