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“So if you aren’t a painter, what are you?” Mrs. Collins asks.
Logan and I tore through fifty new things through October and November and we’ve started on number one hundred. “I like baking. Thanks by the way. For helping me get into those classes.”
That volunteer, it turns out, visits once a week, and through Mrs. Collins I’m baking every Thursday.
“There’s a culinary school here in Louisville that you might want to check out. I can find you an application if you want.”
I’m silent as I stare at the ceiling and finally work up the courage to ask. “Will they consider me since I’m a convicted drug dealer and have spent the past few months in a detention center? I know my records will be sealed since I’m a minor, but won’t they figure out I was here?”
Mrs. Collins shifts and I sit up. This chick is rock solid on body language and when she does anything out of the ordinary, it means Mars is about to collide with Earth.
“What?” I ask.
“I know you made certain demands with your arrest.”
“Uh-huh.” Don’t liking where this is headed.
“You’ve been a model inmate, Abby.”
“I broke things.”
“Because you lost your grandmother and you were grieving. Everyone knows this.”
I’m immediately shaking my head. “No
one is allowed to put me up for early release. Give it to my roommate. She could solve the drought in the West with the amount of tears this chick has shed.” I place a hand on my chest. “And I lost my grandmother. What does that say?”
“You’ve used the resources here wisely. The staff all sees how you’re working to improve yourself.”
“Yep. Improve. So I need to stay and improve some more.”
“What are you scared about with leaving here?”
“Nothing.” I stand and begin to pace, thinking of Logan when he’s angry.
Mrs. Collins is watching me. A damn hawk on a mouse and I’m aware I need to rein in the body language, but this was not part of the plan.
“Something frightens you about leaving? What is it?”
I halt and turn to her. “I can’t do a shitty foster home. I’m capable of a lot. I can possibly survive zombie apocalypses, but I cannot do a shitty foster home. My dad did not make the sacrifices he did so I could be treated like shit.”
Mrs. Collins nods because we’ve talked about my dad and my mom and that’s only because Noah confirmed everything I said would always stay private.
“What if I told you you’ll be in a good home? One I’ve checked out myself.”
“I’ll tell you my luck isn’t that good and anyone is capable of faking anything for a half hour. Keep me in here.”
Mrs. Collins closes the folder on her lap and leans forward. “It’s already been decided. The city needs the room for inmates that need to be in here and you’re not one of those people.”
“Aw, hell no,” I roar. “I trusted this freaking system to help me out.”
“There’s a lot of requirements,” she continues like I’m not throwing a fit like a two-year-old. “You’ll still continue to see me. You’ll have to check in often with your social worker.”
“No!” I stomp my foot.
“It doesn’t matter, Abby. It’s done. This was your exit interview and you’re leaving for your new foster home today.”
I collapse back to the couch and feel like the world just swallowed me whole.
