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I wonder if I should take them now. All of them. Then I wouldn’t have to face another damn day feeling as though the ground is about to crack apart beneath me. Face the world being friendless again. Alone. Always alone. I hate it, but can’t admit it aloud.
“Ayden.”
Mrs. Gregory is standing in the doorway with her blonde hair pulled up, wearing a hesitant expression. She has on a red apron over jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. She looks like a typical mom, yet her warming, comforting demeanor is unfamiliar to me.
“I was coming to wake you up for school”—she tentatively steps foot into the room, glancing around at everything still neatly in place like it was yesterday. I haven’t dared touch anything except the bed—“but it looks like you’re already ready.”
I nod as I drop the bottle into the duffel bag and quickly fasten the zipper. Her eyes track my movements, and I half expect her to ask me what I’m doing, but she doesn’t.
“Do you want some breakfast?” She points over her shoulder at the doorway. “I made chocolate chip pancakes.”
I rake my hand through my shaggy black hair as I spring to my feet and fumble for my tattered backpack on the floor. “Sure, ma’am.”
She frowns. “Ayden, you don’t need to call me ma’am.”
I seal my lips together and remain silent. I've never been much of a talker, nor do I feel comfortable calling her anything but ma’am. Yes, they’re officially adopting me now, but we’ll see how long that lasts. I give them a week until they want to send me back.
She stiffly smiles then signals for me to follow her as she starts for the door. “Come on. Let’s get some breakfast in you while Kale’s getting ready. I’ll have Ethan drive you all to school. He takes the rest of the kids a little bit later since junior high starts later than the high school.”
I nod, slinging the handle of my bag over my shoulder. “Okay.”
She seems unnerved by my one-word responses, but I don’t know how to give her more.
She pauses when we reach the arch of the kitchen doorway. “Are you sure you’re up for school? Because you could always skip a few days and start next week when you’re a little bit used to things. And I could take you shopping for some new clothes.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’m used to stuff already. And I’m fine with my clothes.”
She offers me a sad smile. “If that’s what you want.”
I freeze, thrown off balance. I’m pretty certain that’s the first time someone has said something like that to me. “Yeah, that’s … what I want.”
She whisks into the kitchen, crossing the length of the large room and heading toward the stainless steel stove. The entire house is big and sparkly—fancy. I feel very uncomfortable, because all the other homes I’ve been in have been small, dull, and broken.
“I’ll see if Lyric wants to ride with you,” she says as she refastens the tie on her apron. “She’s a junior like you. It might be nice to know someone your age.”
The suggestion makes me uneasy. Lyric made me feel out of my element yesterday with her blunt, bold attitude. Plus, her green eyes are so unbelievably intense that I had trouble looking away from them. I think I came off even more insane than I normally do. Still, after all the staring, the damn girl seemed determined to be my friend. I haven’t had much in the line of friends, and wouldn’t even know what to do with one, but I still agreed to be hers, figuring I’d only be here for a week, so keeping my promise wouldn’t matter.
“Are you okay with that?” Mrs. Gregory begins stirring batter in a bowl.
I nod as I take a seat at the rectangular table in the nook. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
I can tell she’s about to explode from my limited answers. I wait for her to yell at me—it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been yelled at by an adult for my silence. Instead, she offers me pancakes, so many that I feel fuller than I ever have, as if she whole-heartedly believes that pancakes are the way to cure my silence.
I wish they were.
Chocolate chips to heal a broken soul.
Cure hunger.
Cure the past.
Cure my amnesia.
Lyric had warned me yesterday, though, that Mrs. Gregory would be like this. That she runs her own catering business on the weekends and loves to do experimental cooking for the family whenever she can.
After I assure Mrs. Gregory that I’m stuffed, she ushers Mr. Gregory, Kale, and I out the door, shoving a granola bar and banana in Kale’s hand.
“Oh, and remember you have therapy later today,” Mrs. Gregory subtly reminds me on my way out.
I nod, even though I’m not a fan of the idea, and follow Kale and Gregory out the door. We get into a bulky black sedan that seems more like a chauffeur car than a family vehicle. Then, Mr. Gregory backs down the driveway, pausing at the street where he lays on the horn, staring at the neighbors’ house.
“You should get along with Lyric just fine. She’s a very outgoing girl.” That’s all he says. He was the same way yesterday. A man of few words. I think I might kind of like him.
I fasten my seatbelt while we all wait in silence. A couple of minutes later, a very bouncy Lyric comes bounding out of the house with her backpack on. The girl walks like she’s on crack, all bouncy and full of sunshine. I find myself both envious and mesmerized by it—by her.
Her long blonde hair is down and blowing in the breeze. She’s wearing red cut-offs with a long-sleeved black shirt that has netting for the sleeves. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of person she is. At first glance, I might have gone with Goth—minus the blond hair—but after watching her smile and chat yesterday, she seems too cheery for that type of crowd. Cheerleader doesn’t seem right either. Neither does a jock.
“Hello, everyone,” Lyric singsongs as she hoists herself into the backseat of the sedan and scoots in next to Kale. She has a violin case in one hand and a Pop Tart in the other.
Orchestra freak? Wouldn’t have guessed that.
“Morning, Lyric,” Mr. Gregory replies as she slams the car door. He backs out onto the road and drives down the street, past the two-story homes, and toward the stop sign. “What’s your dad up to today?”
Lyric briefly flashes Kale a smile, who goes as stiff as a board, then she buckles her seatbelt and peers up front at me.
I realize I’m staring again. I tell myself to look away, but like yesterday, I’m too curious to listen to myself.
“Not much,” she tells Mr. Gregory as she munches on her breakfast. “I think he’s going to go down to his studio and rock out for a little while. Why? You thinking about having an old man jam session?”
Mr. Gregory shakes his head, but I can tell he’s trying really hard not to smile. “I’m not that old, Lyric.”
She pats him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”
He rolls his eyes. “So, how are the drums coming along?”
She shrugs as she unzips her backpack. “Good. Although I still think I’m way better at the guitar and violin. The drums are fun, though, for letting some steam off.”
So she plays the guitar, drums, and violin. Okay, she’s not an orchestra freak, just a hardcore music freak. It makes me like her more.
While I don’t know how to play any instrument, listening to music is a huge outlet for me and got me through a lot of hard times. Plus, it drowns out screaming really well.
“And how about the lyric writing?” he asks as he veers the sedan onto the main road that centers the small, upper class neighborhood.
She retrieves a pack of gum then sets the bag aside. “Not that great, but I blame it on my parents. They’ve made my life too easy, and I have absolutely nothing to write about.”
“You could always write about the easy stuff,” he suggests, looking at me for some reason, as if he knows my not-so-easy secrets.
She pops a piece of gum into her mouth then offers one to Kale, who quickly shakes his head. “I don’t want to be that kind of a songwriter.
