I bolt to my feet when the judge calls my name. Aaron puts a light hand on my shoulder, a polite suggestion to calm the fuck down.
“This application is unusual. Can you explain your circumstances?”
Can you explain what that’s supposed to mean? “I’m Sierra’s sister.”
“Yes, I can read that from the form. How do you support yourself?”
“I work in a club. Serving drinks and waiting tables.”
“Your application says you work in a dairy.”
My startled eyes move to Aaron, then drop to the floor. “Until recently. I changed jobs when I got a better offer.” No, that sounds flighty. Like I might decide tomorrow that I don’t want to work at all. “There’s more scope for advancement in my new role and the hours are more flexible.”
Better, but don’t slouch. Shoulders back. And don’t look at their lawyers.
My eyes flick to the side.
I said, don’t look.
“You’re still in school?”
“I’m completing my final year and hope to move onto university next year.”
“Working and going to school doesn’t leave a lot of time free.”
No shit. “Sierra’s in school when I am and my work hours are in the late evening, so the time I do have means I’ll be there when it counts.”
“Your housing is a shared flatting arrangement. We recommend children have their own room.”
“That’s not possible in my current accommodation, but I have money saved to afford a rental for just the two of us.”
The judge shuffles paper and I wonder if some of them relate to my finances. If so, I hope I don’t have to explain why my account is suddenly so flush.
“Mr Percival. You’re representing Sierra Furnham in this matter?”
“Yes, your honour.”
Sweat beads on my forehead and I try to wipe it away without drawing attention. My stomach clenches so tightly I feel the outline of every slice of pizza from earlier. The band of muscles running along my back are tensed hard enough that my spine is ramrod straight.
My head is cloudy. I want to slap myself. This is the moment I most need to concentrate, yet every word slips past leaving me with only the vaguest comprehension.
Then I break from my reverie as the judge asks, “Can you speak to that, Ms Tanner?”
I stare at him, not knowing what’s happening. My mind sifts through the last minute, desperately trying to pinpoint a phrase or word to explain what he wants to know.
Aaron frowns at me, then says, “My client has been in recovery for over two years, your honour.”
Oh, of course. My drug history. Fun times.
I clear my throat. “When I was fourteen and fifteen, I became a habitual drug user. Since that time, I’ve turned my life around and have worked hard to remain drug free.”
The judge’s face is impassive. My eyes flick to the counsel across the aisle and see a small smile of satisfaction.
“I entered the care system when I was nine,” I continue, wanting to smack that casual grin right off the man’s face. “Since then, they moved me seven times. I was split from my sister, the only family member I know, within days. I have been—”
“Ms Tanner. We’re not here for impassioned speeches. I’m trying to determine the best placement for Sierra. Please concentrate on the facts.”
“Your honour,” Aaron says from beside me. “My client voluntarily removed herself from her sister’s life during the period—the short period—of her drug dependency. Since then, she has attended a drug rehabilitation program and successfully applied to have visitation reinstated by the court.”
