Welcome Home Page 13

“Take your seats, kiddos,” Mrs. Beckett calls down the stairs.

  The kitchen is loud and crowded, but weirdly controlled. The smell coming from the stove makes my stomach rumble so hard I’m sure they all can hear it.

  Except they’re all engrossed in conversation. Each kid looks so different that I have no idea how everyone fits together.

  “The three on the left are mine,” Mrs. Beckett says. “Zeke is my oldest.” She inclines her head toward a boy with rich, olive-toned skin, just a shade or two lighter than mine. “He’s seventeen now, but he’s been with us since he was ten months old.”

  “Next is Xavier.” She nods toward the one with his back to me. “He’ll be fifteen next week. He’s been with us for almost eleven years.” He’s a big kid, at least as tall as Zeke, but broader, too. He has a soft, coffee-and-cream complexion.

  “And last is Gabriel.” He looks enough like Mrs. Beckett that I wonder. “He’s thirteen now. We got him when he was about two.”

  Three foster brothers about my age is a lot to take in.

  I tilt my head up, waiting for an explanation for the other kids.

  “Oh.” She laughs a little. “The others are the Jacksons. They live next door. Elijah, Jeremiah, and Olivia. They’re all together a lot.”

  Five boys and the girl. No wonder she’s staring at me with excitement bordering on desperation.

  No wonder I feel it, too.

  Mrs. Beckett hands me a plate heaped with food and points me toward an open chair. “They’re all used to visitors,” she says. “Kiddos, this is Aprillia.”

  “’Sup,” Xavier says as I take the seat across from him.

  “Where you from?” Zeke says.

  “Boyle Heights.”

  “Nice.” He jerks his head toward Gabe. “He’s got some family out there.”

  I want to ask why he’s here if he has real family, but instead I keep my eyes on the plate.

  God, this woman makes homemade garlic bread. I want to be grateful, but this resentment is forcing its way up. Why can’t my Mama keep it together to make me spaghetti and meatballs? Why did these kids get out and get this life?

  I don’t want this life. I want my life. I want my life to look like this. I shouldn’t want this life. I should want my mama. But this spaghetti tastes like heaven, and I haven’t had anything fresh to eat since the last time I went to school.

  I might as well enjoy it for the next thirty days. Or however long I’m here.

  I risk a peek at the girl—Olivia—but she looks away every time our eyes catch. Just as awkward as I am.

  If she’s half as cool as the thick earrings, braids, and nerd glasses lead me to believe, this placement might not be terrible.

  But hope is a jagged thing and cuts deep when I hold too tight.

  And it’s not as if I can say, “I love your vibe. Can we be besties?”

  So rather than answer the questions burning in my gut, I push my dinner around the plate while she does the same and we occasionally exchange self-conscious glances.

  One of the boys shoots a spit wad at her and she jumps up from her seat. “Gross!”

  “Wasn’t me,” Eli says.

  She glares at her brother, but he just points at Zeke.

  “I suck at spitballs and you know it,” the oldest of the Becketts says.

  She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Everything okay?” Mrs. Beckett asks, sticking her head in from the living room, where she’s still talking with Jessica.

  “Fine.” Olivia gives her a tight smile.

  Mrs. Beckett shoots a withering look at Zeke. “I hope you’re being welcoming to our guest . . . making her feel like part of the family.”

  Olivia snorts.

  “I’m fine,” I insist. “Thank you. For dinner. Mrs. Beckett.”

  She smiles. “Let us know if you need anything.” With a final warning glare at the boys, she glides back into the living room.

  “It was Eli,” I say, making a split-second decision. I should be making allies with the kids I’m actually living with, but I have to side with her.

  “I knew it!” She turns on her brother.

  “So?” He glares back at her. “What are you going to do about it, Liv?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I interject, folding my hands on the table and smiling serenely.

  Eli lowers his fork.

  Olivia stifles a snicker, and we exchange a look that almost makes me giggle, too.

  The boys hurry to finish and drop their plates in the sink. The dishes clatter together and they just get louder. The back door slams shut, and quiet descends.

  It’s just me and Olivia.

  “Boys.” She rolls her eyes. “You know?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. I definitely know.” I can’t quite suppress a shiver of fear. “They okay?”

  Her face falls. “Oh, yeah. They’re obnoxious, but they’re good guys.”

  I flick my eyes up, and there’s a moment when we both completely understand without having to speak the unspeakable.

  God, this girl knows me.

  “Aprillia . . . that’s pretty,” she says, her eyes roaming the room.

  “Thanks. My dad rode Aprillia motorcycles.”

  She crinkles up her nose. “That is so freaking cool.”

  “Sure.” My smile fades. “Mama says the only thing he loved more than his bike was me. I just wasn’t enough to keep him off it. And I’d rather have him than a cool name.”

  She blinks, reeling a little. I’m about to apologize when she clears her throat.

  “I was named after my grandma Olivia,” she says. “But everyone calls me Livie. Not like anyone would mix us up. She died before I was born.”

  The awkward, too-full silence falls again. I can’t take whatever this thing is between us.

  “Okay.” I take in a deep breath. “I have to ask. Your shirt? Do you actually know The Classic Crime?”

  She snaps her head up. “Are you kidding? They’re my favorite band ever.”

  “No way!” I practically jump out of my seat. “I cannot believe you’ve even heard of them.”

  She adjusts her glasses. “Phoenix got me through a lot of things.”

  “Closer Than We Think is my anthem,” I say. “Makes me feel less alone.”

  Her eyes settle on mine for the first time, really, truly looking into my soul. “You’re not alone.” Her words rush out. “You’ve got me.”

  “Sure.” My smile falters. “For as long as I’m here.”

  She slides over next to me. “As long as you’re here.”

  Suddenly, thirty days doesn’t seem like very long.

  “How are things going?” Jessica asks, looking up from her folder. My file is way too thick for fifteen years.

  I shift in my chair. Mrs. Beckett gave us the kitchen, shooing the boys into the backyard. I appreciate the privacy, but I don’t know what to do with myself while this strange woman, who knows far too many personal details of my life, tries to assess me.

  They always tell me it’s okay, that I can relax. But I’m literally being judged. These people who are caring for me are being judged. My mama is being judged.

  How are things going? So simple, and yet . . .

  “Good.” I force the single syllable out.

  She gives me a look. Not the patronizing pity I usually get. Or the disinterested apathy from the seasoned vets. No, this is the kind of sass my mama gives me.

  I break into a smile. “I’m really good. How is my mama?”

  Jessica sets down her pen. “I wish I could tell you.”

  I pull my eyelids shut. I knew this would be a bad one. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

  “We don’t know that.” Her tone is clipped, and she folds her hands on the table.

  �
��Can I at least stay here?”

  She looks away. “You know we always prefer to place you with family.”

  “Yeah, but my grandma is dead. Who are you going to stick me with?” How can I explain to her that these people, these kids I’ve known less than a week, already feel like family? That I finally feel like I’m home?

  “Aprillia.” She sets her hand over mine. “You know I’m looking out for you, for what’s best for you. That’s my job. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

  I let out the breath I’m holding hostage. She’s right. She’s one of the good ones. “I just want to stop moving.”

  Twenty-three days left. If they can’t find a relative willing to take me in twenty-three days, I can stay.

  Jagged, jagged hope.

  “I know.” For a second, it sounds like her voice is cracking, but she clears her throat and picks up her pen, all business again. “All right. Things are going well here at home. How is the new school? Are you settling in?”

  And there we go, diving into the mundane minutia of my life, because no detail is private anymore. That’s what happens when your worst moments are preserved in a case file. Kind of hard to define boundaries after that.

  “Things are good,” I reiterate.

  Now I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Twenty-three days.

  I’m not entirely sure how this friend thing is supposed to work. I’ve gotten by figuring out which kids will help me survive and which ones will hurt me, but it’s not as if I’m inviting people over to watch my mama shoot up. Foster care rules don’t even allow sleepovers.

  But Livie is on her way over to watch a movie while the boys are all next-door.

  I don’t even know what movie to watch. The odds of us actually having the same nerdy taste in movies are slim to none.

  She knocks on the kitchen door, and I jump up from my spot on the couch.

  I take a couple of deep breaths. This is normal. It’s not my normal, but it’s normal.

  “I brought cookies,” she says, holding up a plastic-wrapped plate. “What are we watching?”

  “Well . . .” I nod toward the giant, overly bright screen. I’ve highlighted my favorite of The Lord of the Rings movies. It’s a stretch, but maybe, just maybe, she’s into long, epic fantasy.

  “Perfect!” She flops down beside me and grabs a cookie.

  “I know it’s long,” I say, trying to give her an out. “We could watch something else.”

  “No way!” She shakes her head. “These movies are flawless. I just can’t get anyone to watch them with me anymore.”

  I place my hand against my heart. “I will always watch this movie with you. Anytime. Anywhere.” Then my stomach clenches. Sixteen days left. “As long as I’m here.”

  Livie gives me a weak half smile. She too knows that this won’t last.

  From the first epic swell of the score, the vast sweep of towering, snow-capped mountains, I’m lost in this world again. A world where good and evil make sense and villains can be defeated and even the most insignificant characters matter.

  Livie sighs. “The costumes in this movie make me so happy.”

  “I’m still jealous of all the Elvish braids.”

  “I can braid your hair.”

  “Seriously?”

  She points to her own head. “Seriously.” She pauses. “If that’s okay? I remember one of the Becketts’ kids couldn’t take his locs out, even when they got itchy. His bio mom didn’t want them cut.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I look away. “Foster rules at their best. But my mama doesn’t care.”

  She chuckles and I try to laugh, too, but it’s forced.

  “Anyway,” she looks at her hands, “I like doing hair.”

  “Cool.” I slide to the floor in front of her, and she lets my lackluster locks loose from my ponytail.

  I relax as she runs her fingers along my scalp. She works at my hair in sections, parting, twisting, and twirling it into braids. I don’t even know what she’s turning it into, and I don’t care. It seems to take forever, while armies battle and hearts break.

  “Is this what normal kids do?” I ask, when she taps my shoulder to signal she’s done.

  “I don’t know about normal,” Livie slides down beside me and nudges my shoulder, “But it’s what I do.”

  “I like your normal better than mine.”

  “Maybe this is it.” She wraps her arm around mine. “Maybe you’ll get to stay this time.”

  “Maybe.” A slow smile drifts across my face. “Just sixteen more days.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “CPS has sixteen days left to find a relative. If they can’t find anyone within thirty days of placement, I get to stay here.”

  She leans her head against my shoulder. “Sixteen days.”

  The front door bangs shut and I pause my folding, staring at the shirt as Livie thunders up the stairs.

  She skids to a halt in my doorway, braids in chaos and eyes wide. “No.” It comes out as a whimper.

  I meet her eyes, resignation weighing me down. “I don’t get a choice.”

  “But you’ve never met these people.”

  I roll a shoulder. “They’re my dad’s cousins. They’re family.”

  Like that’s supposed to mean something.

  Livie drops down beside me and takes my hands. “You’ve never even met them. We’re your family.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed, and my whole body crumples. “I know, Liv.” There’s so much pain. I don’t know what to say or what to do.

  “Twenty-seven days. I thought you were clear.” She hugs me so hard, like if she clings to me hard enough, Child Services can’t pull us apart.

  My gut twists. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.

  “Okay.” She straightens up and brushes aside a tear with the heel of her hand. “Okay. We’ll be okay.”

  I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I’ve made it this far.”

  “God, this sucks.” She shakes herself. “What do you need?”

  What do I need? Time. Home. Livie.

  But I nod toward the trash bag beside me. “I have to pack.”

  Livie frowns. “This is a trash bag.”

  “It’s what I have.”

  “No.” She jumps up. “No way. I am not letting my best friend leave with a trash bag.”

  “It’s what I came with.” I scramble to my feet, all my defenses flaring up.

  She swallows hard. “You’re taking all of us with you. So you’re not packing your stuff like it’s trash.” She starts digging through the top of my closet.

  “I don’t need you fixing things, Liv.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s not charity. Mrs. Beckett got this for you.” She shoves a purple duffle bag into my chest.

  I sigh, and she grins, like she’s won. Maybe she has.

  “So, packing?” She plants her hands on her hips and glares at me.

  “Yeah.” I hold the duffle bag for a second before kneeling again beside my stack of clothes.

  We set the last pair of socks inside, and I zip it closed with a deflating sense of finality.

  Twenty-seven days. All we got was twenty-seven days.

  For a moment, a brief, shining moment, I had a friend. And that moment gives me strength. That moment gives me hope. With all its jagged edges and beautiful pain.

  Hope hurts, but I’d rather hurt than be hopeless.

  And maybe that’s the point.

  Jenny Kaczorowski is the daughter of a social worker and grew up on stories of neglect, foster care, and adoption. As an adult, she’s still drawn to stories about the search for home, in all its many forms. She likes her heroines smart and quirky, her heroes nice, and her kisses sweet. Her Oceanside High series —The Art of Falling and The Trick to Landing—is
published with Bloomsbury Spark. Apart from writing, Jenny is an avid photographer, loves music despite no discernible musical talent, and harbors a deep-seated fear of goldfish. She lives near Los Angeles with her husband, son, and daughter. The four of them are always on the lookout for their next adventure.

  “This story is inspired by one little girl. I grew up surrounded by adoptive families and saw many sides of adoption and foster care through my dad’s career as a social worker. But it was this one little girl and her special friendship with my daughter that really brought it home for me. While we knew her for only a short time, the impact she made on our lives will last forever. I hope she finds this anthology someday and remembers how much love we have for her.”

  Ink Drips Black

  by Julie Leung

  There is a legend, whispered among the women who live near the Nan mountains, one that has been passed down for generations from mothers to daughters.

  If the child is male, he belongs by the hearth.

  If the child is female, she belongs to the mountain.

  When the woman saw that she had given birth to yet another squalling girl, ill-colored and unwilling to suck, she shed four tears of bitterness. Where they fell upon the child’s cheek, black moles appeared. The woman knew then that her daughter would be an unlucky one.

  She called out for her mother-in-law to come and take it away. Take it away before she could feel anything past the disappointment.

  Upon seeing the girl-child lying on the floor, the old woman sighed. The baby’s throat had grown hoarse from screaming for food and warmth. She scooped the infant up and placed it into a basket that she would bear upon her back. She paid no mind to the mother, who lay silently curled in her bed, facing away from the door.

  It was a hard journey to the mountain temple, perched high in the fog-laden tip of the highest peak. The old woman began early in the morning, climbing poorly carved stone stairs. She tiptoed across rotted bridges draped across canyons. Occasionally, she would step over a delicate set of bones, bleached white by the sun. Her own bones creaked in protest with every step. Many bearers had grown too tired or impatient. And the girls were either given to the river or left out to the elements.

  Along the way, the infant stopped crying. Her eyes opened and took in the majestic surroundings with silent wonder. The light feeding her in the ways her mother wouldn’t. The woman stifled a small smile at this. Perhaps, one day, the child might see more than the village had to offer.