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“Sure.”
The boy named Shepherd grabbed a plastic chair from a nearby table, flipped it around, and straddled it next to me. You know, the way the bad boys always sit in the movies. A waft of musky body spray followed a second later and every sensor in my body ignited.
“Ah.” He pointed to the textbook. “Give me your pen.”
I did, and he highlighted the section entitled The War of 1812. “When they ask you to write a paper on a major turning point in America, choose this. I wrote a paper on it. I can give it to you.”
His eyes twinkled as he smiled at me.
“Okay.” I looked away for fear he’d see the blush on my cheeks. “Thanks.”
We pretended to read for a few minutes.
“How long have you been here?” he asked finally.
“Eight months.”
Eight months, eleven days, and four hours, to be exact.
“Is this your first time here?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lucky.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“This is one of the nicest children’s shelters in the area.”
One of the nicest? He had to be kidding.
“How many have you been in?” I asked.
“Five. This is my second time being transferred to this one.”
“Transferred?”
“The one I was in filled up. The longer you stay, the more they move you around.”
I blinked. I couldn’t imagine being shuttled between children’s shelters. Wasn’t being in one bad enough?
“How long have you been in the system?” I asked, feeling an immediate connection to him now.
“Six years.”
We stared at each other for a minute. There was no pity, no sympathy. No ‘I’m sorry, that’s awful.’ Because, to us, this was life. We didn’t know any different. We only knew what was. Abusive parents, horrific living conditions, neglect, famine, shame. Survival to us was becoming, quite literally, nothing. Silent, still, and out of sight. That was what childhood was to us.
People don’t understand that. It’s like being born with a disease, it sucks—you know this because society tells you it does—but you don’t know any different. You adapt because you have to. And while some of us are forced to stay in these abusive households, others are removed and entered into “the system.” The government becomes our parents. Our identity becomes tied to a case file and number. There, we are no longer told to be silent and hidden, in fact, we are pressured to talk to therapists, to engage with the other kids, to do chores, to participate. Here we will be shuffled from one facility to the next, from one foster home to the next, constantly moving, constantly meeting new faces, constantly being told that we’re safe despite not knowing a single person around us. There is no stability when you are in the system. None. Every day you wake up wondering when the rug will be pulled out from under you next, all the while dealing with however the trauma of the past has chosen to manifest in your body.
When I met Shepherd, he had been in the system for years. I’d only been in eight months. I was a newbie compared to him. A noob, he called me.
After helping prepare me for my social studies test, Shepherd closed the book, looked at me, and, inches from my face, said, “Stick with me kid. I’ll take care of you.”
Never, in my life, have I clung onto anything more than those five little words.
SIXTEEN
AMBER
