Sweet Fix - Chapter One

Maggie

Sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by a brand new foster family, I decide this place sucks slightly less than the last three. Especially the food. It’s actually edible. The parents, Jane and Wes Kendal, tell me to call them by their first names. They told me that my first day here. Nice, huh? They’re super-duper friendly. I wanted to ask them what the fuck they thought I’d call them. Mom and Dad?

Doesn’t matter. In three days, I’m out of here. I haven’t decided where I’m going. All I know is I’m leaving Saturday.

When Social Services asked if I wanted to remain in the foster system for an extra year so I could graduate from high school, they didn’t tell me I’d be living with a bunch of little kids. They implied, very heavily, that I’d be in with kids just like me. Eighteen-year-olds who didn’t have enough credit to graduate. So I can’t really say they lied to me, but it feels like a lie, and it sucks living in a fast-food kiddie play area.

Jane and Wes aren’t that bad, though. They’re the first set of foster parents who act like they truly want me. Especially Jane. The problem is, they want everybody. Their house is full. Three bedrooms for five foster kids. I was the only girl so I got my own bedroom. The other four, all boys age eight and younger, are crammed in two small rooms, each with bunk beds.

I’ve been here two weeks and I know I can’t stay. Living with all these people is wearing me out. Even with my own room, I have zero privacy. The boys knock on my door all the time, wanting to know if I can build something with their Legos, or play Super Mario or, kill-me-now, Minecraft. Asking me why I don’t talk. Why everything I wear is black.

They found out I was born in Ireland. It was like I was born in outer space or something. Jane showed them Ireland on the map and told them about Leprechauns and the Blarney Stone and a bunch of other nonsense. Then they really started to pester me. I told them I knew nothing of Ireland, that I’d moved to the United States when I was little.

Yesterday, I asked Jane how she could stand living with them. She just laughed and told me I’d get used to the noise. Not fucking likely. Good thing I’ve managed to jack a few things to help me on the road.

First, I took one of the silver ladles from a punch bowl that sat on their dusty-covered buffet. Jane wasn’t one for housework so I was pretty sure she wouldn’t even notice one of the tarnished ladles was missing. Next, I found a pocket watch in a junk drawer. It didn’t work but I didn’t care. It’s worth something. This evening, Wes’s brother, Trig, came for dinner and left his wallet on the counter. I lightened it by a few twenties and set it right back where I found it.

Trig has given me funny looks during dinner, and I half-expect him to call me out, but he doesn’t say a word. Like everyone else, he keeps trying to get me to talk.

“So, Maggie, you excited about starting school next week?” he asks.

Fortunately, the band of circus monkeys all chime in about school shopping, new friends, old friends and how scary the gym teacher is.

I think that might divert the attention away from me, but he keeps his gaze on me, forcing me to shake my head in response. I narrow my eyes to warn him against asking more questions. Everyone wants to offer you their little form of therapy.

Let’s talk to the girl and get her to come out of her shell. She’ll feel so much better and then everything will be just fine.

In the other places, I managed to mostly stay off the radar because I didn’t act out like the other kids. No cutting. No drugs. No sleeping around. Here, being the only girl and the only teenager, I’m constantly in the spotlight. It feels like pity, and I don’t need it. I don’t need anything from anyone.

What else don’t I need? To go to the town’s little shit bag high school for my senior year. Social Services told me I’d go to a big school, one with lots of AP classes. I already know more than most teachers. I should be graduated by now, but…whoops…somewhere along the way one of my schools lost a year of credit.

My mother was an English professor, specializing in Irish Literature. Education was everything to her. She alternated between sending me to private school or dragging me to work with her and teaching me between classes. She claimed American public schools were rubbish. I have to agree. I’ve been in public school since she died, and can’t say I’ve learned much.

“Maybe you should go shopping,” Trig offers. “I’ve seen you three times and every time you’ve worn the same skinny jeans and hoodie.”

“Maggie only wears black things,” says the oldest circus monkey. I think his name is Michael. Mikey or something. He’s smiling, looking around the table like he’s proud of his little observation.

“And that’s just fine,” Jane says. “Eat your green beans, Michael. I made them the way you like them.”

I keep my head down and focus on dinner. Jane is a wonderful cook. I’ll give her that. This is, by far the best food I’ve had at any of the foster homes. The few I’ve been to have gotten their groceries from church pantries and shit like that so they can save a dime.

Not Jane. She buys everything fresh, going to the store every other day. She has a white erase board in the kitchen with Command Central scrawled across the top. She’s got lists written, categorized by the part of the store. Every morning, Wes writes something before he heads out to work. Something nauseating like a dozen kisses, or a bushel of hugs.

Wes is an accountant and as buttoned-down as they get. He’s told me that he was making nothing but mistakes but the day he met Jane, he started walking the straight and narrow. Her father’s a pastor. He and his wife do missionary work somewhere in Africa. This, Wes shared thirty seconds after meeting me. Like I wanted to know.

I didn’t.

His brother clearly hasn’t found a good woman yet. He thinks I need to dress differently? I’d like to point out that with his jeans, motorcycle boots and wrinkly t-shirt that looks like he just rolled out of bed, he’s hardly a fashion statement. His arms are covered in ink. He’s got a scar that spans his face from his forehead, across the bridge of his nose and down to his cheekbone.

I wonder how he got the scar. There’s a story for sure – but I won’t be asking for any details. I’m not interested in starting a conversation with a man who looks like a thug four times over. He’s all muscle and brawn and barely clears the top of doorframes. He’s a mechanic but looks like a bouncer. Or a body guard maybe.

He and Wes couldn’t be more different and remembering the twenties I stole from him, my heart jack-hammers. Something told me not to touch his stuff, but another part forged ahead. I’m hoping Jane won’t let him hurt me if he notices he’s forty dollars poorer.

In the middle of dinner, Trig and I both reach for the last bread roll at the exact same moment. I jerk my hand back. His gaze fixes heavily on me while he pulls the roll apart. I watch as he slathers it with butter. To my amazement, he sets the bread on the side of my plate. His eyes are intense, daring me to refuse his offering.

I seriously can’t believe this guy just fixed a roll for me. The monkeys always act like he’s the best and he’s caring with them in a gruff sort of way but he’s never really done anything for me. This is just a little weird. On the other hand, do I care? This is the last of Jane’s wonderful dinner rolls, if he wants to give it away, who am I to argue?

Jane asks him something about a noise her car is making and he looks away. The moment is gone. Thank fuck. I quickly down the roll and excuse myself from the table.

Over the next few days, I make my plans. Tucked in my wallet is an ID I stole from a student teacher at my last school. Jessica Worthington-Hawkins. Aged twenty-one. Why her name is hyphenated I’m not sure and it’s a pain in the ass, but if I let my hair go back to red, we sort of look the same. With her driver’s license, I’ll be able to get a job serving drinks in Vegas.

I know of two other girls who took off for Vegas and got jobs as cocktail waitresses. They had to dress like hookers but they made two hundred in tips a night, and that was on slow nights.

On Friday night, we sit down to dinner and I feel a flicker of remorse for leaving, mostly for Jane. She can’t have her own kids and puts her heart and soul into taking care of the boys. She even gave up her fancy job at some big company to do this foster mom gig. It’ll really hurt her when I leave, like she’s failed or something. I know that. But that won’t keep me here.

She’s never taken in a teen-aged girl and tries her best to be cool and hip. She gave me a gift card to go shopping when I’m ready. She makes special desserts, so I can put a little meat on my bones. And she asked Trig to pick me up a cell phone, so we can keep in touch.

Apparently, Trig has connections and can get deals on all sorts of stuff. I’m so sure. He probably slams shopkeepers against the wall and tells them exactly what kind of deal they’re going to give him. When he hands me the phone, he smirks. Like I should fall down thanking him, kiss the hem of his torn jeans or whatever.

But, I have to say, I love this phone. This is the first phone I’ve ever had. I stay up late and load it with apps and ring tones and all kinds of stuff. It’s pretty freaking awesome.

I keep thinking about Jane. I feel really guilty that I’m leaving. Tomorrow the whole family will be gone for hours to Michael’s baseball game. While they’re out I’ll finish packing and get out of here.

Jane tried so hard. I wish she wouldn’t have made such an effort. It’d be easier to leave. I’ve been trying to be invisible and she kept shining a search beam right down on me, trying to engage with me. Hovering. Meddling. Smothering.

She’s my fourth foster mom. The first one was a Bible thumper and liked to talk about submitting to her husband. I lasted three weeks with them. They called me demon-spawn. I called them Dumb and Dumber.

The next foster mom sent me back too, saying I was too much for her to handle. The third one acted nice enough. She was a lawyer. Funny. Smart. But when the agency offered her and her husband a newborn boy, she sent me back too, saying she had her hands full.

Easy come. Easy go.

I hardly sleep all night, thinking about Jane, and playing with my new phone.

Saturday morning comes and Wes and Jane leave with the circus monkeys, off to watch Michael play in his first select league tournament. Wes is at least as excited as the boys. He’s into all the boy craziness. The house is noisy chaos, giving me a headache, and then they’re gone. The silence is a little unnerving. I stand by the window and watch the taillights disappear around the corner.

A pang squeezes my heart. Where that comes from I don’t know. I push it aside. I have to get out of here. The Kendal’s already have the four boys and I’ve been there and done that. They’ll start out interested in me, but the boys will always have priority. When I fuck up, and I always fuck up, they’ll tell me good-bye. See-ya. Sucks being you.

This time I’m beating them to the punch.

Thirty minutes later, I’m already out of the neighborhood, and I’m on the access road to the highway, back pack over my shoulder, thumb held out. Vegas, here I come. A thrill shoots through me. A small, sharp thrill that’s way better than the heaviness I’ve felt all morning, like an anvil stuck in my chest.

I hadn’t planned on saying anything to Jane. But, now that I’m on my way, I’ve decided that when I get out of town, later this afternoon, I’ll send her a quick text.

My boots clump on the asphalt, the only sound around on the quiet morning. Walking feels good and my thoughts flow, a mixture of excitement and worry. It’s always exciting to go someplace new. My mother and I moved all the time, never staying in one place for long.

She refused to play the publish-or-perish game so she never got offered tenure, but sometimes we pulled up stakes just because she’d locked horns with another professor. One time, she resigned because the Dean of Humanities dissed James Joyce. Seriously. Mum was a hot head. We never stayed in one place for more than a couple of semesters, so when she died, I had nowhere to turn.

No friends or family who could take me in.

We came to the United States when I was only three months old, leaving all family behind. There’s nothing for us in Ireland, she would tell me when I asked about family. She especially didn’t want to discuss my father.

After she died I found out why. I came across the letters from her parents. They’d written to say how she’d shamed the family by having a baby out of wedlock. That they wanted nothing to do with her and her sin. Nor did the baby’s father. Reading the letters was like an acid bath. I lost my mother and a few days later lost something else. I can’t say exactly what it is, but there’s something inside me that’s missing, and it hurts.

Now I question everything and everyone. My own mother betrayed me by dying, and by what she did when she was alive, getting knocked up by someone who didn’t want either of us. If I couldn’t trust her to tell me the truth and to stay in my life, I can’t trust anyone. Rational? Maybe not. I don’t give a rat’s ass if it makes sense to anyone else. It makes sense to me.

Crossing a bridge, I glance down at the swirling waters passing below. The river splits a pasture with grazing cattle on both sides. Somewhere down that river is Trig’s home. How do I know? Michael has told me a dozen times. He told me the same thing every time we crossed this bridge, how much fun Trig’s place is in the summer and how we’ll swim and camp and help Trig with his horses. Yeah… no.

When a truck pulls over, my heart stutters. The last few days, I’ve been imagining some sweet-natured, middle-aged housewife offering me a ride. One who, for some reason, is heading to Vegas and wants company.

I stand about fifty feet back, debating what to do next. The roads are quiet and this is only the third vehicle I’ve seen. If I don’t take the ride, I could be walking a long damn time, but when no one gets out, I can’t help the panic that flares.

I draw closer and a man’s voice calls out a greeting. “Hey, need a ride?”

He sounds cheerful. Helpful. Maybe he wants someone to talk to on the way. The driver’s side door opens. I take a few steps and stop abruptly when I recognize the man getting out of the truck. His powerful build. His swagger and cocky smirk.

Trig Kendal.

He prowls closer, his movements fluid, focused, predatory. I’m aware of my vulnerability, out here in the middle of nowhere. My feet are rooted to the ground. I can’t move as he strolls down the road.

Coaxing air into my lungs, I try to shake off my terror as he draws closer. Despite the scars, or maybe because of the scars, he’s handsome. Tall and muscular, I’m sure he has women throwing themselves at him, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay. The other girls I’ve known in foster care talk about crossing paths with bad men. If you haven’t met one yet, you will eventually. That’s the consensus.

“Hey, don’t look so scared. You want a ride or what?”

His mouth curves into a slow smile and his rugged features transform from slightly menacing to attractive. Very. I might take a moment to admire him – if he weren’t so freaking huge. He’s got to be six-three or four. As he draws closer, his physique makes me feel small and defenseless. I’m not used to feeling this vulnerable, ever. A moment ago, I felt brave but now I’m anything but.

I wrap my hands around the straps of my backpack. This morning I packed a few tops and an extra pair of jeans. Nothing to defend myself. If I tried to hit him with the backpack, it would bounce off his hard body like a rubber ball hitting concrete.

Stopping a few feet in front of me, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “I told them not to take you in.”

His disdainful tone yanks me out of my daze and my fear. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His brows lift. “Oh, she talks.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

“I told them they’d end up with some hormonal, pissy girl who wouldn’t appreciate them.” He steps forward, so close I can see the dark flecks in his blue eyes.

Slowly, he lifts his hand to show me a wad of bills. There’s at least a hundred, and he waves them in front of my face. “I wouldn’t feel right about you setting out with so little in your wallet. How about we add this to the forty you stole?”