shake my head to clear it.
Carefully, Nazeera says, “I really think you should sit down for this.”
“I’m good.”
She frowns. For a second she looks almost hurt, but before I have a chance to feel bad about it, she shrugs. Turns away.
And what she says next nearly splits me in half.
I’m sitting on an orange chair in the hallway of a dimly lit building. The chair is made of cheap plastic, its edges coarse and unfinished. The floor is a shiny linoleum that occasionally sticks to the soles of my shoes. I know I’ve been breathing too loudly but I can’t help it. I sit on my hands and swing my legs under my seat.
Just then, a boy comes into view. His movements are so quiet I only notice him when he stops directly in front of me. He leans against the wall opposite me, his eyes focused on a point in the distance.
I study him for a moment.
He seems about my age, but he’s wearing a suit. There’s something strange about him; he’s so pale and stiff he seems close to dead.
“Hi,” I say, and try to smile. “Do you want to sit down?”
He doesn’t return my smile. He won’t even look at me. “I’d prefer to stand,” he says quietly.
“Okay.”
We’re both silent awhile.
Finally, he says, “You’re nervous.”
I nod. My eyes must be a little red from crying, but I’d been hoping no one would notice. “Are you here to get a new family, too?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I look away. Stop swinging my feet. I feel my bottom lip tremble and I bite it, hard. “Then why are you here?”
He shrugs. I see him glance, briefly, at the three empty chairs next to me, but he makes no effort to sit down. “My father made me come.”
“He made you come here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He stares at his shoes and frowns. “I don’t know.”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
And then, instead of answering me, he says, “Where are you from?”
“What do you mean?”
He looks up then, meets my eyes for the first time. He has such unusual eyes. They’re a light, clear green.
“You have an accent,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah.” I look at the floor. “I was born in New Zealand. That’s where I lived until my mum and dad died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I nod. Swing my legs again. I’m about to ask him another question when the door down the hall finally opens. A tall man in a navy suit walks out. He’s carrying a briefcase.
It’s Mr. Anderson, my social worker.
He beams at me. “You’re all set. Your new family is dying to meet you. We have a couple more things to do before you can go, but it won’t take too lon—”
I can’t hold it in anymore.
I start sobbing right there, all over the new dress he bought me. Sobs rack my body, tears hitting the orange chair, the sticky floor.
Mr. Anderson sets down his briefcase and laughs. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing to cry about. This is a great day! You should be happy!”
But I can’t speak.
I feel stuck, stuck to the seat. Like my lungs have been stuck together. I manage to calm the sobs but I’m suddenly hiccuping, tears spilling quietly down my cheeks. “I want—I want to go h-home—”
“You are going home,” he says, still smiling. “That’s the whole point.”
And then—
“Dad.”
I look up at the sound of his voice. So quiet and serious. It’s the boy with the green eyes. Mr. Anderson, I realize, is his father.
“She’s scared,” the boy says. And even though he’s talking to his dad, he’s looking at me. “She’s really scared.”
“Scared?” Mr. Anderson looks from me to his son, then back again. “What’s there to be scared of ?”
I scrub at my face. Try and fail to stop the tears.
“What’s her name?” the boy asks. He’s still staring at me, and this time, I stare back. There’s something in his eyes, something that makes me feel safe.
“This is Juliette,” Mr. Anderson says, and looks me over. “Tragic”—he sighs—“just like her namesake.”
Nazeera was right. I should’ve sat down.
I’m looking at my hands, watching a tremor work its way across my fingers. I nearly lose my grip on the stack of photos I’m clutching. The photos. The photos Nazeera passed around after telling us that Juliette is not who we think she is.
I can’t stop staring at the pictures.
A little brown girl and a little white girl running in a field, both of them smiling tiny-toothed smiles, long hair flying in the wind, small baskets full of strawberries swinging from their elbows.
Nazeera and Emmaline at the strawberry patch, it read on the back.
Little Nazeera being hugged, on either side, by two little white girls, all three of them laughing so hard they look like they’re about to fall over.
Ella
