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I did mention my foster brother, Austen, but he was never a turd like I told Doctor Williams. When he took the time to talk with me, he was usually nice. Austen's mom, my Foster, her name was Deanna, not Chanel-Doctor knew that, too. I made it up because names were always tough to remember. It was unremarkable and never stuck with me the way her soft face or generosity did. She always smelled really good, though, so I called her a perfume.
At first, it made no difference whether I knew her name or not. I didn't care. I was sure she was just like everybody else and would be done with me after a few months. But she turned out to be different. She was a little cooky-constantly locking away the kitchen knives and scissors since before I got there because her son, Austen, was a sleepwalker or some crazy shit like that-but she was genuinely nice to me.
Whenever I needed to, I'd ask Avery. And Jake sometimes, too. He already thought I was a weirdo and Avery never cared. Avery used to do this funny thing, when I asked her to remind me of someone's name, she'd always give me a word-sometimes one she made up-to rhyme with the sound of the Fosters name.
"I can't remember her name." I'd mutter, sulkily.
"What do you mean-a?" She'd grimace . . . and then I'd remember. Her name is Deanna.
When no one was around to ask I'd just call her Foster. Deanna didn't seem to mind. As far as Fosters went, she was okay. Maybe not the best, but my best.
12
-Angel
My bladder feels stretched beyond capacity. I'm squirming, trying to find relief. "I have to go to the bathroom."
It's the third time I've mentioned it. They always say they'll take you the first time around, but they just want to know one more thing. And before you know it, twenty minutes have passed. They just keep on with their questions or ask me to hold it until I get to a convenient stopping point.
I suppose that's kind of my fault, though. My audience has a schedule to keep and I've been going off-topic. My lawyer has cued me with not-so-subtle nods and looks, trying to urge me back in one direction or another. What he fails to understand is that I can't tell just one part of the story. I have to tell them everything. If I stick to just answering their questions, or skip over anything, I might miss something.
The quiet man that gives me the Diet Cokes has been standing between the cameras almost the whole time, just watching. Now, he slinks forward and snatches the remnants of my second can of soda as the woman with the tight bun and squared glasses leans to one side, edging toward the phone mounted on the wall.
She presses a button. A moment later, a crackly voice answers.
"Miss Patel needs a restroom break."
Finally.
Within seconds, the wide wooden door swings open. In its' frame stands two uniforms. One of them is a woman named Jo. She's very plain and has short brown hair with a prominent jaw-too prominent to be feminine. The second one, I don't recognize. He might be new. He doesn't have a name tag or badge.
New Guy steps in first and opens one cuff at a time, releasing me from my chair. He orders me onto my feet and takes me by the elbow, leading me out into the corridor. The walk to the restroom is quiet.
When I first got arrested, I used to think I needed to fill the silences. They seemed awkward, but so was the incessant talking. Now, I relish the quiet.
New Guy has to wait outside the bathroom door while Jo sees me inside. She waits at the open stall door, watching me pee. That used to make me nervous, too. It was hard, at first, to summon the suddenly scared urine down from my bladder. My first two weeks, I refused to poop. It's normal now. And damned depressing, too. As a kid, I never could have dreamed that I would one day be so at ease dropping the deuce for an audience. But today, it's only number one.
I am mid-stream when the echo of Avery's voice carries through the thin partition of the bathroom stall. A face slips into the small space where the front and side panels meet. It's only an inch or two wide, but it's enough to see the watery green of one eye, staring at me and the edge of her frown.
"Angel. For the millionth time, I'm sorry. Please just listen to me. I need you."
I take a deep breath, ignoring the way her voice cracks as she whimpers, "you're my only friend."
I usually take my time washing my hands, singing the alphabet song as I go, but not with her in here.
My hands are still damp when I'm back inside the room. I wipe the remnants of water on the wooly arms of my chair. Jo and New Guy take leave after making sure my restraints are nice and tight.
I adjust myself in my seat, trying to cross my legs beneath the table, but the chains at my ankles are too short. Both my feet go back to the floor as I'm reminded of where we left off.
And then, I continue . . . "When I walked into Sunny Vista Trailer Park, where I was staying with Deanna my Foster, I saw that Avery was already there, waiting for me."
And even though my hatred for her is more sure than tomorrow's sunrise, I keep my voice flat and even, recalling the blissful ignorance.
"She waved from a neighbors' porch."
+++
I was always a little jealous of Avery's tall, thin frame and the way she could rock smudged eyeliner. She was parked on a white plastic chair with her waif-like legs elegantly folded into it. The way she stylishly slouched reminded me of a casual Kate Moss-if she had black hair and green eyes. Avery's legs flew straight out as she jumped up to greet me with a hug.
