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I place my gym bag in the back leather seat and slip inside the driver’s side at the same time. Looking at him, I shut the door and press the ignition button as the engine of the powerful car revs to life.
“Didn’t you say you couldn’t be late, and your father was going to go ape shit? Putting the top down takes a couple of minutes, dude,” I mock.
“Just drive, asshole,” he belts out as we both laugh.
Rubi
I’M SITTING INthe office with my social worker, a high school official, a court liaison, and a man whom I didn’t know still existed. My sperm donor…also known as my father.
The smell of old wood and carpet makes the room feel even stuffier than it already is. I look out of the dirty, peach-colored blinds and take note of the sun streaming in through the window, the rays shining a spotlight on the white cup of tap water they offered me when they brought me here after my court hearing. It’s so bright I can see the dust particles floating in the air. You can tell no one cleans this place. It’s like every place I have been to since they took me away from my mother and stepfather when I was eleven years old. I thought what my parents did to me was bad, but being forced to leave my best friend was the worst thing ever. The rest I could live with…but that, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured.
The female court liaison shuffles papers in a manila file with my name in big black letters scrawled across it. Rubiana Murray. Most of my close friends call me Rubi, but there are only a handful of people I could call my friends nowadays, and they are all from juvenile detention, or floating around somewhere lost in the foster system. Some of the social workers, well, the nicer ones, call me Rubi Ray. When I was younger I wanted to be called something different, maybe a way to forget about my past. So, I shortened my name to Rubi Murray.
“Mr. Murray, are you aware of Rubiana’s history?” the court liaison asks.
No, of course not. He wouldn’t know shit about me or my history because this is the first time he’s seen me in I don’t even remember how long. Looking over at him now, I realize that he has the same dirty blonde hair that I have, but where his complexion is fair, mine is tan like my Colombian, meth-addicted mother.
“No.” His coffee-colored eyes glance in my direction, but I look straight ahead, ignoring him but still listening. I have learned how not to be seen but to always listen.
He looks down at the stack of papers that contain numerous incidences of my abuse, pictures that show how much my mother and stepfather neglected me, my arrests, the foster homes I have been in and out of, and most importantly, my psych evaluation. It even includes my stellar grades in high school, although they won’t focus on that. I’m not a genius, but I can manage good grades if I stay in one school long enough.
“Well, besides the fact that Rubiana has a juvenile record and will be turning eighteen in eight weeks, she has to stay under your supervision until she graduates high school as part of her sentencing from her last hearing. The judge ordered that if she didn’t abide by the terms of her sentencing, she would be tried as an adult and need to serve her time in a female correctional facility at the county level.”
“Do you understand what is at stake here, Rubiana?” The social worker from the Georgia department of child services addresses me in a stern tone.
I can see the court liaison shaking her head at the social worker to let it go with the questioning; The social worker’s brown suit jacket creased, and the spot of coffee that she spilled on her cream-colored blouse screaming at me. But still, I stay silent like I usually do.
They know that I’m not going to speak. I don’t break. Not anymore. The liaison was there the whole time I had therapy, and also at the hearing. I was curt and only spoke when I had no choice.
Everyone in this room—obviously not including my father—who has dealt with me and my case knows I will just sit here and let them make decisions for me because I’m technically still a minor and am a ward of the state. That is, unless the sperm donor seated to my right has decided to take me in and finally take responsibility because they found him and forced him to.
The last time I was abused, the pictures they took hit a soft spot with the judge. So they searched for my father, and the only relative they could find besides my mother and uncle was him. I was told he received a letter from officials with the State of Georgia, and I guess he finally grew a conscience. Why? I have no idea. So, the plot continually thickens.
What a fucking hero?
I could not care less at this point. One house is as good as a foster home, or even juvie. It’s a place where I can eat, sleep, finish school, and bide my time until I can legally be on my own and not have to serve time for the crimes I committed. Stealing mostly. It was easy, and no one ever got hurt.
So I sit there and I keep quiet, wear my black hoodie over my Dutch braids, and ignore everything that they are saying. It is all white noise to me. I’m just a charity case, and now they have found a way to dump it on someone else. One less expense for the State of Georgia. One less problem on their desk of files with pictures from my childhood that would make a grown man throw up.
“So…” The high school official from an elite academy whose name I recognize from across town, where I used to live with my piece of shit mother and stepfather, turns to me, giving me a fake smile, and addresses me. I know it’s the same school I heard about as a kid because of the royal blue uniform jacket with the gold Westlake Preparatory Academy logo stitched on the right breast pocket. My eyes focusing on her perfectly tailored dress shirt with blue stripes and her necklace of pearls hanging from a neck that has seen better days.
“Rubiana, I see that your grades when you actually attended school are good and that you have passed the state standardized test which will allow you to finish your senior year at Westlake Preparatory Academy.” I roll my eyes and look away. “I’m Mrs. Lane,” she places a hand over her chest to introduce herself. “And I am in charge of getting you enrolled. Your father–”
My head snaps up, and my jaw hardens as I point to the man I refuse to ever acknowledge as my father. Interrupting her, I say, “That man is not my father.” I look at his hard face knowing he is pissed off because I’m embarrassing him. Well, guess what? Too fucking bad. Where were you all my life? He has no right.”
“It’s okay, Rubi,” the social worker from children’s services says. “I understand you are angry.” She glances at Stephen Murray and continues. “Under the circumstances, we all understand that you have been dealt the short end of the stick, and many people have disappointed you and let you down, but Stephen Murray is your father. Genetic testing from each of you confirmed he is your biological father and is here to take custody of you and will remain as your guardian until all requirements from the court are met.”
I snort. More like they wished I never existed, like the asshole to my right obviously does, and his act of kindness is an act he’s putting on for who, I can’t imagine. Hell, maybe he is twisted like all the others, and he wants to stick his hands in the cookie jar. A small ounce of fear rises in my belly.
“Have you checked to see if he is a good fit to raise me? Ran a background check?”
“Are you serious?” Stephen, the sperm donor, growls.
I pull myself up from slouching in the uncomfortable chair as I turn to my right to face him. “Does it look like I’m not serious? How do I know you’re not perverted just like all the others?”
An audible gasp is heard around the room as I call out the very crimes that were committed against me for them all to hear.
“I know you have been through a lot, young lady, but I will not have you disrespect me in front of anyone. Are. We. Clear?” he says through clenched teeth.
