Chapter Three

2008

The First Hello

 

 

 

 

“Megan!”

Dread fills me, the unwelcome knot twisting inside my stomach, bringing goose bumps to the surface of my skin. Whenever he yells for me like that, he wants something. I’m in the middle of writing a paper that’s due tomorrow and I really don’t have time for whatever it is that he’s about to ask me to do. I pad downstairs, making sure any evidence of my attitude is gone by the time I walk into the living room.

“We just found out the state is givin’ us a new kid. Some emergency shit, so he’ll be here in a couple hours. Get the house cleaned and make sure everything is in order.” My father doesn’t wait for my response before he looks back at the TV.

I roll my eyes and try not to stomp on the stairs as I go back to my room. Another kid? I can barely take care of the three we already have, let alone another one. It’s already a mission to keep on top of school. How am I going to do that with another person to run around after?

My parents are registered foster parents. To the social workers, they have the perfect home for these kids and are the ideal people to see them through this tough time in their lives.

In reality, that couldn’t be further from the truth.

I’m the one who takes care of them and the house. I’m the one who drops three-year-old Hannah to and from daycare. My parents aren’t the ones who wash and iron the clothes Joey and Timmy change into before I drop both of them off at grade school. Timmy is twelve and can get himself dressed, but at only five years old, Joey still needs help with buttons and shoelaces. And all of that happens before I can even think about heading to school.

When I get home I help the boys with their homework, then cook dinner and make sure their lunches are packed for the next day. No one is more amazed than me that my grades are as good as they are because I barely have time to study and do homework. My parents go out a lot and leave me home to babysit. They never ask.

Not that it matters. I don’t have friends, so I wouldn’t have plans anyway.

The window is open so I can hear the kids playing outside. The weekends are when I try to get ahead on my schoolwork, laying everything for the week ahead out on my desk and working through each assignment or task before putting them aside for the week ahead. I have even come up with a color coding system, each of us have our own color and then there is a color for mutual events. I hope the new kid is older so he won’t need as much help as Hannah and Joey.

The clock chimes and I pack my things away, heading downstairs to start making dinner. Not that there’s much deciding to be done. Our dinners are usually a rotation of unhealthy, cheap options. I’m not skinny like the girls at school and I know a big part of that is because I can’t afford to buy healthy food with the little money my mom gives me to get groceries. She and my dad eat out most nights. Why would they care what we eat?

They weren’t always like this. Before Timmy came our house was different; Mom cooked, Dad went to work. When we sat down to eat dinner at night, they talked to me. When they said I would be getting a brother, I was really excited.

Until he came.

With the money they were getting from the state, they realized they could go out and do more things they wanted to do. Slowly but surely, more and more responsibility fell on me. Each time we were given another kid, they became more absent, and through no decision of my own, I was slowly understanding what being a teen mom was like.

And it was hard.

I grab a couple of boxes of mac and cheese and a can of peas, even though I know they won’t get eaten. The kids hate vegetables but I try to give them some healthy stuff in whatever small way I can.

As the water heats up I open my book on the table, desperately trying to finish my paper, pushing everything to one side when the kids come in to eat. They feast like gannets, and the only things left are the peas. I sigh and take the bowls to the sink, wash and put them away so things are nice for the social worker.

The doorbell rings and I hear my parents greet someone, taking them into the living room. I pull out my book again, one ear on what’s being said. Their voices are low enough that I can’t hear much. After a short while, I hear them move back out into the hall, the social worker telling my parents she’ll be in touch and check in.

She won’t.

The system has so many holes that if you aren’t outright abusing your kids or starving them, you are seen as a great parent.

I hear footsteps and look up to greet my new sibling, but I freeze. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Standing in front of me is a boy about my age, his hair is buzzed and he wears ripped jeans and a black T-shirt.

He quickly looks away. “Any food around?”

I stand up abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over. “We just finished eating, but there’s some leftover mac and cheese and vegetables, if you want?”

A laugh escapes him. “I’m good.”

An awkward silence fills the room, until the sound of the front door opening and closing steals it. My parents are gone.

As the silence creeps back in, the new boy tugs at the hem of his shirt, not meeting my eyes as he asks, “You know where my room is?”

I nod emphatically. “Upstairs there are three rooms, my room, Hannah’s room, and the boys’ room. I’m guessing you’re supposed to be in there. They haven’t gotten a bed yet but if you look in the hallway closet you’ll find an air mattress. I can set it up for you, if you want?”

When he doesn’t answer, I start to walk upstairs. After a couple beats I hear him following behind me, the creak on the third step up giving him away. He doesn’t offer to help when he sees me struggling with the mattress, which tells me a lot about him. I drag it down the hallway and into the boys’ room, sliding it across the carpet next to Timmy’s bed. Timmy looks up from his comic book, but on seeing the new boy behind me his eyes return to the cartoon. He’s done this a few times now. Joey, who was playing with trucks on the rug, comes over and starts messing with the pump.

“Nothing like being a sardine.”

“I’m sure it won’t be for long.” I shrug, trying to look on the bright side.

“Six months. As soon as I turn eighteen I’ll be able to get the hell out of here.”

I connect the pump and start to inflate the mattress. “They moved you here only for six months?”

“Well, it was this place or juvie. Which would you have picked?” He raises an eyebrow, then shakes his head. “Right. You’ve probably never been in trouble in your whole life. You wouldn’t understand the real world, princess.”

His voice is so full of anger and hatred, and it hits me square in the chest. Why would he assume I have it easy, just because I live with my parents? The image of the pump becomes blurry and I blink back the tears. “You don’t know anything about me.”

I wish the sentence had come out strong and brave, but it was barely a whisper as I duck my head and slip past him, leaving the mattress only half inflated. I should feel bad, but he can do it himself. I’m done helping ungrateful people.

“Not like I want to either.” His voice carries down the hall, chasing me into my room. I slam the door behind me and drop my face into my pillow.

He was definitely not what I expected. The way he looked at me, almost as if he was looking through me, is the same way people at school do.

Like I’m invisible.

Which suits me fine because, if I’m honest, most days I wish I were.