with all the FBI and police background checks, plus training. Becoming spies probably would’ve been less traumatic.
I didn’t think Mom and Liz would be allowed to become foster parents because there are laws in place regarding gay people and stuff like marriage and adoption. At least Louisiana isn’t as strict as other states. My moms met the qualifications to become certified even if they got attitude from a few people. I think it might’ve helped that Liz grew up in the foster care system, “aging out” at the age of eighteen without ever getting adopted.
My mother’s illness was a concern too, but lupus isn’t communicable and her doctor approved the documentation. We all had to prove we were free from contagious diseases. I never thought the certification process would end, but here we are now. One big happy family.
The bus is warm. Stuffy. Delia pulls her wild, curly hair into a ponytail. Her curls are so tight and thick that the hair on top of her head looks like waves from the Gulf of Mexico. She smacks her gum and then whispers, “Well, you survived today.”
I’m still fighting back the tears, so I nod again—this time yes.
“Want to hang out?” Delia asks as the bus gets close to her stop on New Orleans Street. Delia doesn’t know about my plans. She’d tell me to let it go.
“Thanks, but my mom’s forcing me to study French.” It isn’t a complete lie.
“Okay,” she says as the bus brakes. “I’ll call you later about the Intervention.”
“Sure.” I watch as she sidesteps past all the knees jutting out in the bus aisle. After I broke down on the phone with her last night, Delia made plans for her mom to take us to Prien Lake Mall tomorrow at noon. Mom said fine as long as she didn’t have to drive us since she has plans with Cherish. I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.
The bus driver takes off quickly after Delia and another girl exit, throwing my head back on the seat. I can’t wait to get home. Only three more stops and one day before the Intervention. I start picturing pretty gowns.
Delia’s sister, Rashell, took the two of us shopping for her senior prom. She let us try on dresses too and listened to our opinions about which gown she should buy. When Rashell moved to New York for college, Delia and I had our first Intervention, trying on prom dresses in her honor at JCPenney. We named the shopping trip an Intervention after watching some after school special about a girl who intervened in her best friend’s drug abuse. Delia isn’t a meth addict (gum maybe) or depressed, although she did keep crying about how no guys were ever interested in her and how lonely it was without Rashell.
“Mom?” I call out as I unlock our front door. Whew! No answer. Fortunately Mom and Cherish are still dealing with foster stuff. Liz is busy at work.
“Hi, Sassy.” Her tail turbo-wags when I toss her a Milk-Bone from underneath the kitchen island. Before eating her treat, she tosses it in the air and rolls on it first.
My stomach grumbles and even Mom’s flaxseed oat snacks sound tasty, but time is ticking away.
I don’t dare flip on the light in Cherish’s room, though it isn’t technically her room. It used to be my grandmother’s room, my mother’s mother, when she visited. This wasn’t often because she didn’t agree with Mom and Liz’s lifestyle. If she were still alive, she’d freak out that they’re foster parents. I can almost hear her hoarse voice say, “That’s not right. Unnatural, I tell you.”
A small spray of sunshine peeks through the closed blinds revealing neatly arranged piles of paper on Cherish’s desk—my old desk. I dig through the stacks to find my iPod. I could ask Mom and Liz to reimburse me like they did before with the DVDs, but they had saved up for weeks to buy it for my birthday. I know they get money for being foster parents, but they’re constantly buying stuff for Cherish. At her last foster home, she didn’t have many things, so Mom and Liz make sure she has everything she needs and more. From what they’ve said, her previous foster mother would feed her biological kids first, and it was too bad if there wasn’t food left over for Cherish and the other foster kid. Cherish had never had brand-new clothes before coming to our house. Liz took her shopping the very next day. Despite her rough past, I still think Cherish should be responsible for her actions.
In Cherish’s homework pile, I find a handwritten essay Mom has helped her write about François Barbé-Marbois. He may have negotiated the Louisiana Purchase, but to me his French name is like nails on a chalkboard. I crumple the essay.
Going through her stack of things, I also find an engraved pen that used to belong to my father. Mom had passed it on to me so I’d have something of his besides genes. I hadn’t realized it was missing. I stuff it into my pocket.
I try not to shuffle the tubes of lipstick or lip gloss in her organized makeup drawer. I keep the furniture in place so it won’t look obvious someone raided her stuff. But I still can’t find my iPod. It’s probably long gone by now, so I’ll have to take something valuable of hers.
There’s a whole stack of untouched school supplies Mom bought for her when she moved in. Things weren’t nearly as complicated then. Delia’s sister, Rashell, was home from college for Christmas break and I was still excited about fulfilling my dream of becoming a sister and making a difference in someone’s life. Mom and Liz had wanted to foster younger children, but they got word about a teen, same age as me, in desperate need of placement. From what I could gather, the girl had been abused by her stepfather in the past and didn’t exactly mind my family’s “special” circumstances. She liked that Liz had been in foster care most of her life too. Things moved forward, and I wanted more than anything else to be the sister this girl desperately needed. We even had cute sistery names: Calli and Cherish.
In the closet Cherish’s new clothes are grouped by school colors. Hunter green. White. Navy blue.
There isn’t anything valuable enough of hers to lift. I get so frantic that I dig through her underwear drawer. She has a colorful collection of thongs. My moms must not care. Delia’s mom lets her wear thongs, but my mother told me I can’t wear them until I’m at least sixteen. Too mature, she said. I’m mature, but Mom doesn’t seem to agree.
Digging carefully through the lace and the zebra patterns, I find something valuable enough. When I grab the necklace and dangle it from my hands, I realize there’s a locket attached. The picture inside is hard to make out, a faded image of an older woman.
Even in the darkened room, the gold necklace sparkles. I wonder how much I’ll get for it at a pawn shop.
I swallow hard and leave her room as organized as I found it.
Back in my room, the crumpled essay shreds easily, reminding me of the hurricane shredding the aluminum on our front porch. The wind didn’t have a purpose, but I do. I’m finally fighting back.
So why don’t I feel better about it? Ripping the essay should’ve been satisfying, but there is a knot in my throat.
I’ve never done something so wrong on purpose.
I bury the essay remains deep in my trashcan. Liz will be surprised when I volunteer to dump the trash tonight.
My fingers clasp the necklace until the metal is the same temperature as my hand. After thinking about it, I decide the perfect hiding place is the 3 Musketeers box under my bed.
I eat a chocolate bar so fast I can barely taste it, and I set the necklace inside of the silvery wrapper to disguise it.
