Well look at that, another thing learned from my mother.
“Clearly you don’t want to be here, Ms. Carver. Every time I issue a warning you come back twice as hard.”
When a slow grin stretches across my face, he clears his throat and looks away.
“This is your third high school in eighteen months and honestly, you’re lucky you lasted here so long.”
“Am I... Mr. Folk?” I drop back against the seat. “You sure you’re not—”
“Stop.” He glares before sighing. “This is serious. You’ve got the entire school’s attention now. I can’t make this go away.”
I roll my eyes. “Just get on with it already. Where to next?”
He eyes me a moment before folding his hands and leaning forward against the desk. “I made a call.”
My eyes slice to his.
“Your social worker—”
“I don’t have a social worker.”
“Apparently you do. She contacted me a few months back and—”
“Months?”
“Raven, listen—”
Right then, the secretary ushers in some dark-haired lady wearing slacks and a button-down. She reaches over the desk to shake the principal’s hand.
“Mr. Folk, I’m Maria Vega.”
“Ms. Vega, I appreciate you coming so quickly.” He turns to me as does she.
“Hey there.” She gives a fake hello, her roaming eyes and tight-lipped smile more curious than anything. “Do you mind if we talk for a bit?”
I don’t bother speaking. No matter what I do or don’t say here, she’s already got me figured out as far as she’s concerned.
“Mr. Folk and I have been in contact over the last semester. He’s briefed me on your home situation and past issues, and at this time, we think it’s best you be removed from your mother’s care.”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. ‘My mother’s care’ she says. Please.
The woman stares at me for a moment before sighing. She’s quick to lose the sweet, caring woman act. “Look, I get it. You don’t care what I have to say, fine. But we are removing you from the home. I’ll take you to grab your things and then it’s a day’s trip to your new housing. It’s a bit different, you being as old as you are, but we have a safe place for you.”
“Yeah? They make cookies and tuck you in at bedtime? Or is that job left to the man there who creeps into the little girls’ rooms at night?”
The woman’s eyes narrow and Mr. Folk sighs. “Is there something you need to tell me, Ms. Carver?”
“Nothing you’d care about.”
Her eyes jump to the small, fading cut below my left eye. “Try me.”
“Pass.” I hop to my feet, stepping close to her. “I’ll be waiting out front.”
“You’ll wait right here if you want to avoid that girl’s parents who are standing a few feet outside this door.”
“You’re mistaking me for someone who gives a shit.” With that, I shove past the woman and walk toward the front of the student office, toward the loving mother and father of the little bitch who ran her mouth. I look from the girl to her parents, finding all their glares on me, their body language showing exactly what they think of me.
Dirty.
Used.
Worthless.
And they’re not wrong.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble to myself as I scan the yard.
Ms. Vega shifts toward me. “You’ll get used to it.”
“What the fuck is this place?”
“This is the Bray house.”
“Looks like Michael Myer’s house.”
She laughs lightly, then looks again, a frown taking over her face. “Well shit, it does. I never noticed before.”
The porch is dipping at the center, likely from wood rot, the white paint chipping like large splinters. It’s a perfect square, two small windows on each side of the door mirroring the two on the upper story, a creepy, awning beneath them.
“It seems small, but it widens toward the back.”
Small is a trailer with only enough space for a personal size fridge, one-sided sink, and two outlets for hot plates or a toaster oven.
“Anyway, this is a home for kids getting ready to age out, and a few younger ones who had issues with standard style parenting. It’s for the kids who are more ... challenging.”
“So there’s a bunch of punks living here?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s a bunch of punks at the high school. This place is cake compared.”
“Sounds fantastic,” I deadpan.
With a resigned sigh, Ms. Vega says, “Let’s go.”
She drags the duffle bag she loaned me behind her as she walks up, and I force my feet to follow.