Supervised visitation is built for awkwardness. Sometimes I think that’s its primary purpose—not for child safety at all. We sit in chairs that aren’t built to fit us in a room that’s too cold despite the warm autumn air outside. We have refreshments more fitting for a twelve-step program than a teenager visiting her younger sister.
Perhaps that’s what they use this space for the rest of the time.
“How’re you doing?” I ask, my eyes devouring the sight of her from head to toe.
Sierra has my same mousy brown curls, but styles hers so it bumps gently against her shoulders while two combs hold the hair back from her face. Mine is twisted into a messy bun, further hidden under a cap. Even after washing, it’s getting too long to do what I tell it. Until my next haircut, low on my list of monetary priorities, it’ll just have to stay a bedraggled mess.
“Fine,” she says, cupping her elbows and staring at the floor.
“Are you doing anything special for your birthday?”
She shrugs, wrinkling her nose. “I think Mum’s ordered a cake.”
It must’ve been two years since she first called Carla ‘Mum,’ but I still find it jarring. At least this time, I stop the wince before Sierra sees it. Not that she would notice, given her fixation with the floor.
And it isn’t like our actual mother was any great shakes. Whatever else Carla is, at least she’s not her.
“I started my new high school,” I say, though she knows this already.
“Mm?”
“Everybody there hates me.”
Sierra peers at me beneath her lowered lashes. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
She leans towards me a little. “What did you do?”
I shrug. “There’s a boy.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“I didn’t say that.” I smile and hug my knees up to my chest. It’s nearly impossible given the size of the furniture, but I hold them there by sheer force of will. “He helped me out with something a while ago, but now he’s trying to make my life miserable.”
“Sounds like Steven.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Who’s Steven, and do you need me to beat him up?”
She giggles and I feel the social worker stiffen behind me but screw her if she can’t take a joke. Not that it really is one. If someone’s hurting Sierra, I’m more than happy to remodel their face.
“He’s in my year, but in Mariella’s class, not Miss Henley’s. He pushed me over when I beat him at four square.”
“Did you tell the teacher?”
“Yeah, but she said it was an accident.” Sierra hooks her legs up, mirroring mine, and picks at a scab on her knee. “It wasn’t.”
“Sounds like a dork.”
“Yeah.” She giggles again. “He is a dork.” There’s a long pause, then she adds, “Mum said he probably likes me.”
“You’re an exceptionally likeable person, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay for him to hurt you. D’you still have my phone number?”
She nods.
“Then if he hurts you again, I want you to text me to let me know.”
“Carla took my phone away again.”
