She looks so tired all the time lately. I feel like all she does is work, go to school, and take care of me…just like she has since our parents died. Hell, even before then. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t more of a mom to me than our own mother was or any foster parent since.
“You’re snorting pills now?” I ask nervously.
She sits up and scoots next to me, brushing my hair behind my shoulder. “I’ve got it under control, Lyd. You don’t need to worry about that. You just keep your grades up. Stay smart and stay out of trouble, okay? You’re gonna be the one who makes it, you know that? You’re gonna be the one who has a good life. I’m gonna make sure of it. I’ll be eighteen soon, and I’m getting us out of here. I’m gonna get an apartment with the money I’ve been saving from work, and I’m gonna get custody of you. We won’t have to live in another shitty foster home ever again.”
I lay my head on her shoulder, trying to believe her. All I ever dream about is a life away from here with her. Somewhere, where both of us are finally safe and happy.
2
Lydia
School has always been pretty easy for me. Well, the learning part at least. I don’t make friends…ever really. I just do my work and get through the day quietly until it’s time to go home. It’s easier that way.
My grades are perfect. They always have been. Schoolwork is how I can escape in my mind. It’s the only thing I have to distract me from everything else going on in my life.
I slide into an open seat in the back of my second-period math class, pulling out my textbook and opening to the page that’s written down on the whiteboard. I never talk to anyone in this class—or any of my classes. Mostly because I don’t have any friends in general, but also because there’s a bunch of boys in this class who are really mean to me, so I just try to keep my head down the whole period.
Right before the bell rings to start class, I see a girl walk in who hasn’t been in this class before. She walks over to our teacher and hands him a note.
She must be new. She has these really cute braids with hot pink beads at the ends that bounce when she moves, and a pink hoodie over her uniform that matchesperfectly. She also has perfect skin. Unlike most of the acne-covered faces kids had at this age, she has smooth, flawless brown skin and the best style. She doesn’t look like she belongs in a place like this. She’s so pretty and bright. It’s like she radiates happiness when everyone else around here is so…lackluster.
After talking to the teacher, she scans the room and sits down—right next to me.
“Hi!” she says as she puts her pink and purple backpack down on the floor beside her.
I blink, confused if she’s talking to me or someone else around us. “Hey?”
She brushes past my hesitation and just jumps into conversation with me like we’re friends. “I just moved here from Atlanta…” She looks around before leaning over to me. “Is it always this dull around here? Everyone seems so…boring.”
I laugh a little, caught off guard by her, and then nod. “Sadly, yeah.”
She leans back in her chair. “Ugh, well, I hopeyou’renot. I need someone to talk to or I’ll go a little crazy. I’m not a quiet person. Ihatewhen it’s quiet.”
I’m a little shocked by someone going out of their way to talk to me. No one at this school has everpurposelyhad a nice conversation with me before.
“What’s your name?”
“Um, Lydia,” I answer.
“Ohh, that’s a pretty name. You’re really pretty, too, Lydia. You match your name perfectly.” She giggles a little when she says that.
“I am?” I ask, kinda shocked. I don’t think anyone has ever complimented me outside of Camilla. I don’t know how to respond. I want to tell her she’s really pretty too,wayprettier than me.
“Yeah! What are you?”
“Huh?”
Whatam I? What does that even mean?
“Like, what race are you? You look white, but like, notfullwhite. Your hair is so dark and silky, and your brows. Geez, I wish I had perfect brows like yours. Do you use any makeup on them?”
I would normally feel super overwhelmed by a conversation like this, but for some reason…there’s something about her that draws me into anything she’s saying. I don’thatetalking to her. Iwantto talk to her.
“Um, yeah, my dad was white and Uruguayan, and my mom was just white, I think…so, mostly just white.”
“Was? What are they now? A different race?” she asks, teasingly.
I can’t help but laugh. “Um, no…they’re…um, dead.”
