Why did I have to come here?
Heavy footsteps thud up the stairs, and I hold my breath, waiting for them to pass, but they stall.
A knock pounds against the door and tension runs through my body. I lay so still that I’m not even sure if I’m breathing anymore. Should I say something?
The decision is made for me as the door cracks open a smidge. A boy pops in his head and frowns when he sees me in bed already. “Are you sleeping?”
My eyes are open, so clearly not. But I just shake my head.
He opens the door a bit farther and hovers in the archway. He’s tall and skinny with shaggy brown hair like some of the guys on the TV shows I would secretly watch at my friends’ houses. “Gina said they got another one,” he says flatly.
Gina. The lady who’s supposed to be my new mom. But she told me to call her Gina.
I sit up, the blanket pooling on my lap, and brush the tangled hair away from my face. My Aunt Irene braided it for me this morning, but pieces have fallen out all day.
And she’s no longer around to fix them.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Aspen,” I whisper.
“Aspen,” he repeats, testing my name out for himself. “When did you get here?”
“I don’t know, a little bit ago.”
“How old are you?”
“Ten.”
He scoffs. “They got years to milk money out of you then,” he says, almost to himself.
What does that mean?
A bunch of questions bubble up in my throat. How longhas he been here? He called the lady Gina too, so that’s probably not his mom either. What happened to his parents? How old is he? Is he going to go to the same school that I do, or is he at the bigger school? Are the other kids here nice?
But I swallow them all down and pick at a loose thread on the blanket.
“If you get hungry, just come and tell me,” he says. “I’ll make sure you get something to eat.”
“Do we not all eat dinner together?” At Aunt Irene and Uncle Peter’s, we ate dinner together every night at 6:00 pm. If you missed grace, you didn’t eat.
He laughs like I said something funny, and I frown. “My room’s next to yours. Just knock on the door if you need to.” He reaches for the door and takes a step back, like he’s going to leave.
“Wait,” I call out, then immediately shrink back at the demand I just issued. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“It’s Reid.” He glances at the two unpacked suitcases that sit in the corner of the room. “Took me a long time to unpack my bags too, Penny. Don’t feel bad about it.” With that, he closes the door and a moment later, I hear the door next to mine slam shut. The walls are thin enough that I can hear him sliding open a dresser drawer and then shutting it.
Penny. He called me Penny.
I’ve never had a nickname before. Despite everything, it makes me want to smile.
He said he’d get me food if I’m hungry, but there’s no room for hunger with the massive pit that’s been sitting in my stomach since this morning when all my things got packed.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to keep the rising sobs at bay, when the faint sound of a guitar tugs at my attention. My ears perk up at it, and I roll onto my side toward the shared wall. It sounds like one of those acoustic guitars, but I don’t recognize the song he’s playing. We only listened to worship music at home.
That’s not your home anymore.
The muscles in my throat grow tight and painful, and I will every ounce of energy into listening to the music. Maybe if I focus on that, there will be nothing left to think about why I’m here.
