1
Elliott
Age 10
“Wake up!”
The sound of my current foster mother breaks me from my dreams, the only place I feel safe.
Her voice echoes through the house, and she’s opening and closing all the bedroom doors where the other girls sleep.
I have been at this foster house for only a month now. It feels different from the others. I mean, it’s bad like the rest, but something is off about it, too. It makes me feel uncomfortable, and I don’t know why. There are only girls here, which is fine, butthere are a lot.
Other girls scramble in their rooms, their hurried steps muffled by the walls that separate us.
I scoot to the end of my mattress that lies on the floor of the walk-in closet.
I wasn’t allowed a room. My foster mother said my foster dad made me his “new favorite.” She said that means I have to stay close. So, the closet, it is. They took the door off its hinges to “keep an eye on me.” I don’t know how I am hisfavoriteif I am here, hungry and alone every day. I thought favorite things are treated better than this.
“Hurry up! Don’t make me wait!” my foster mom hisses from somewhere in the hallway.
She does this every time someone comes to visit, yelling and stomping through the house.
I stand fast—too fast, I guess, because my head sways. The walls get blurry for a second. I put my hand on the wall to keep from falling back onto the mattress.
The emptiness in my stomach comes to life. I try to think about when I last ate.
I remember when my foster dad was complaining about the bread because only the ends of the loaf were left. He was throwing a fit, yelling,How can I make a decent sandwich out of the ass ends?I just can’t remember how long ago that was, maybe a few days ago.
I peek my head out of the closet, making sure no one is in here. I risk taking a few steps to see what is going on. The bedroom door is cracked open already, so I turn to see girls rushing down the hall past the master room where I am.
“Wh-What is going on?” I whisper, keeping my head low, not wanting my foster mother to hear me.
The same oversized shirt I have been wearing since I arrived hangs down off my shoulder.
One girl catches my eyes, stopping by the door. I don’t know her name. I don’t know any of their names. It’s hard to get to know people when you are stuck in a whole different room all day.
Her pigtails sway as she faces me. She is wearing a pretty pink dress that ruffles at the bottom. On her feet are some shiny white shoes. I wish I had something as cute as that.
I brush some of my messy hair behind my ears. She looks scared, so I take a step back, not wanting to get her in any trouble. I don’t ever want to cause trouble at homes like this.
“Adoptions. Someone is here to pick one of us,” she whispers fast before running away.
Her shoes tapping the stairs echoes through the hall.
My heart booms in my chest but then I remember they won’t even see me.
A slamming car door outside catches my attention. I tiptoe over there. When I look over the windowpane, a couple is standing outside of their car.
They look like they are from a movie. The lady is wearing a pretty light-brown skirt and a cream top. Her blonde hair is brushed back into a perfect bun. Her makeup is done like a princess. The man isn’t wearing the same colors as the pretty lady. He is wearing a dark, fancy suit. My stomachhurts again probably because I am hungry or because I want to be part of their world.
Before I go back to the closet, the back door of the car swings open, and I see a boy step out. He doesn’t look my age, more like the older kids in the house. I stare at him.
His icy-blonde hair is combed to the side, with a few strands loose over his forehead. His cheeks are high, and he has a sad look on his face.
He is beautiful.
Is that the right way to say it? Can boys be beautiful? I don’t know, but that’s what I think he is... beautiful.
