Griselda

 

Sandwiched in the back of the musty station wagon between her foster sister, Marisol, and the new kid, Holden, ten-year-old Griselda Schroeder could feel the sweat dripping from her neck, down her back, and into her butt crack. On the other side of Marisol sat Billy, who was fourteen, and had been living with the Fillmans longer than anyone else. Saying that Griselda hated Billy would be like sheep saying they hated wolves. Sure, they hated them, but they were terrified of them too.

When sixteen-year-old Marisol had moved in with them a year ago, it had been an unexpected blessing because she had, more or less, taken younger Griselda under her wing, calling her “lil’ sis,” braiding her hair, and showing Griselda how to wear makeup. Bigger than Billy and just as mean when she wanted to be, Marisol wasn’t someone the boy wanted to mess with. It had become more challenging for him to torment Griselda, though he still found ways to hurt and humiliate her. After all, Marisol was old enough to have an afternoon job—she simply wasn’t around all the time.

Holden had joined the mix three days ago, arriving at the Fillmans’ house with a black eye, split lip, and lots of attitude. Ten years old, just like her, he was smaller than Griselda, but scrappy, and very quiet his first day. She’d quickly discovered the reason: he stuttered. Badly.

On Holden’s first evening with the Fillmans, after checking that the coast was clear, Griselda had run to the shared bathroom in the upstairs hallway to brush her teeth only to find Billy and Holden getting into it. Billy, Holden’s new roommate, had stolen an Orioles ball cap out of the younger boy’s meager duffel bag, and was taunting Holden, holding it out of reach above his head. Holden jumped up several times, trying to reclaim the hat, but the third time, Billy punched him in the stomach with his free hand, and Holden fell to the floor, clutching at his belly.

Looking up at Billy with furious, churning eyes, Holden demanded, “G-g-give it t-t-to m-me!”

Billy froze for a moment, staring down at Holden in shock before a loud guffawing laugh made him double up.

“Holy shit!” he panted through loud, jagged laughter. “You’re a retard!”

Still spying on them from her spot in the hallway, Griselda felt helpless for Holden and furious with Billy, so she watched with a certain amount of satisfaction when Holden’s eyes widened with anger. He leaped to his feet and drew back both fists, pummeling every square inch of Billy’s body that he could reach. The fight turned vicious as the boys knocked over a table, which crashed to the floor, and within minutes Mrs. Fillman was pulling them away from each other. Once separated, she let Billy go and smacked Holden’s face. Hard.

“We ain’t had no trouble before you got here!” she yelled, clamping Holden’s ear in a painful grip. “Say you’re sorry to Billy.”

Holden’s mouth was a firm, tight, white line as he stared back at Billy, who bled from his lip, but he gave Holden a superior, expectant smirk. Griselda was captivated, riveted by Holden’s face as he stared back at Billy. His eyes were narrow and defiant, his nostrils flaring with every breath, his small fists balled by his sides. Mrs. Fillman yanked on his ear, and he flinched momentarily before clearing his expression to neutral.

“Say it, or I’ll call your social worker and have you removed.”

Holden continued to stare back at Billy, who crossed his arms over his chest, his smile fading. This smaller, younger boy had held his own in a way that Billy grudgingly respected, and finally Billy sighed, turning away from Holden and Mrs. Fillman.

“He’s sort of a dummy, Miz Fillman. He don’t talk right.”

Mrs. Fillman, who fancied handsome Billy and had become attached to him during the six years they’d lived together, jerked Holden’s ear again. “Look at me.”

Holden finally dropped Billy’s eyes and turned to look up at Mrs. Fillman.

“You start trouble again, you’re outta here. Clear?”

Holden stared back at her for a long, tense moment before finally nodding. Mrs. Fillman let go of Holden’s ear and placed her hands on her beefy hips, over her stained housedress, and grinned at Billy with yellowed teeth.

“Don’t forget we’re takin’ all of you to that park in West Virginia on Sunday,” she said, her voice changing from imperious to wheedling and needy. “A special outin’ on a river. Not all foster kids got such good foster parents, you know.”

“Can’t wait,” Billy answered, jerking back as Mrs. Fillman reached forward to tousle his hair, but giving her a forced smile to make up for recoiling.

“And you best not start any trouble,” she said, turning to Holden, her stubby finger a millimeter from his nose. “Ya get what ya get, and ya don’t get upset.”

He nodded at her again. Curtly. Without speaking.

As Mrs. Fillman left the room, she muttered, “Great. Another weirdo.” Catching sight of Griselda, she pursed her lips with general annoyance before heading back downstairs.

As Holden watched his foster mother go, his eyes suddenly shifted to Griselda, easily, casually, as though he’d known she was there all along. And then, in an act of bravado that shocked her ten-year-old heart, he winked at her, one side of his lips twitching up in the barest semblance of a smile.

She hadn’t gathered her courage to talk to Holden since then. At dinner, Holden had sat across from her two nights in a row, staring at her steadily, and Griselda found herself sneaking peeks at him, wondering about him, curious as to where he’d ultimately fit in with all of them, and hoping, though she’d never admit it, that he could be a friend. More than anything—more than anything else in the entire world—Griselda longed for a friend.

She glanced at him beside her in the car, looking at his dark blond hair, a little too long and curling up at the ends. His eye was still bruised, but his lip had healed a little over the past three days.

He turned to her slowly, casually—just as he had when she was standing in the hallway—and without saying a word, he raised an eyebrow, that lip quirking up again just a little. Caught, Griselda’s heart sped up. She shook her head with a jerk and looked down at her lap. Folding her sweaty hands, she promised herself not to look at him again.

He pushed his upper arm back just a little until it was pressed against the back of the vinyl seat, and flush with hers. Over the next few minutes their sweat combined until they were stuck to each other, but Griselda wouldn’t dream of moving her arm in a million, zillion years. It felt too good to be touched gently, too nice for words. Her heart thrummed with gratitude, and she clasped her fingers together tighter in her lap.

Looking straight ahead out the window, she saw the large blue, green, and yellow sign that read “Welcome to West Virginia.”