Chapter 1: Ivan
The social worker's car smells like old coffee and the air freshener she's got hanging from the mirror. It's shaped like a pine tree but it doesn't smell like pine, not really, not the way actual pine trees smell when you're standing in a forest. It smells like chemicals trying to be pine, some laboratory's idea of what nature should smell like, and the scent is so strong it makes my eyes water a little.
I've been staring at it for the last hour because it's easier than looking out the window at all the nothing going by, easier than thinking about where we're going and what's waiting for me there.
Georgia has a lot of nothing once you get out of the cities, just mile after mile of empty space stretching out in every direction. Fields and trees and more fields. Red dirt on the side of the road that looks like rust, like old blood dried and baked in the sun.
"Almost there," Mrs. Patterson says from the driver's seat. She's said it three times already in the last twenty minutes, like she's trying to convince herself as much as me.
I don't answer, just keep my eyes fixed on that chemical pine tree. I learned a long time ago that social workers don't really want you to talk, not actually. They want you to be quiet and easy and not cause problems, to sit still and say "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am" in the right places. I'm good at that now, good at being the kind of kid who slips through the system without making waves.
My garbage bag is on the seat next to me, black plastic tied at the top with a knot I made myself, double-knotted so it won't come undone no matter how much the bag gets tossed around.
Everything I own is in there, my entire life crammed into about fifteen pounds of fabric and paper. Two shirts, three pairs of underwear, some socks with holes in the toes that I should probably throw away but won't because they're still wearable. Jeans that are getting too short, the hems riding up above my ankles when I walk, a jacket that's too big that used to belong to some other foster kid in some other house, and a book I stole from the last house. They won't miss it because they didn't noticeanything about me for six months except that I cost money and made noise sometimes when I had bad dreams. When that happened, I'd wake up gasping and they'd bang on the wall and tell me to shut the fuck up.
Foster kids are too much work, the woman had said, standing right there in the kitchen while I pretended to do homework at the table. She'd said it right in front of me, like I was a dog that didn't understand English or couldn't hear her complaining to her husband about how the check they got every month wasn't worth the trouble.
I understood perfectly.
The car turns off the main road onto a long driveway, and gravel pops and crunches under the tires, making a sound like small bones breaking. There's a farmhouse at the end of the drive, white paint peeling in long strips, exposing gray wood underneath, a porch that sags in the middle like an old horse's back, and a barn off to the side that looks like it might fall down if you leaned on it too hard.
My stomach hurts, that tight twisting feeling that means something bad is coming.
"The Hendersons have been fostering for eight years," Mrs. Patterson says. She's using her bright voice again, the one that means she's trying to make something sound better than it is, trying to sell me on this place before I've even gotten out of the car. "They have another boy staying with them. He's a bit older than you. Fourteen. It'll be nice for you to have someone close to your age, someone to talk to."
My stomach hurts worse now, the knot pulling tighter.
Older boys are bad. It's a fact carved into my bones from experience. Older boys punch you when adults aren't looking, quick jabs to the ribs or the arm, just hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to leave bruises that anyone will ask about.
They take your food at dinner when you're not fast enough, snatching things off your plate with their forks before you can defend what's yours. They steal your stuff and say you lost it, and nobody believes you because you're younger and smaller and nobody ever believes the younger kid in these situations. It's always the little one making up stories, trying to get the big one in trouble.
I had an older foster brother once, back when I was nine, who held my head underwater in the bathtub until I almost passed out, until my lungs were screaming and black spots danced at the edges of my vision. He said he was just playing, just having fun. The foster parents said I needed to learn to take a joke, needed to stop being such a baby about everything.
I don't want another older brother. I don't want to share a room with someone bigger and stronger who can hurt me whenever he feels like it.
The car stops, the engine ticking as it cools, and Mrs. Patterson gets out. I wait in the back seat because I know I'm supposed to wait until someone tells me what to do. That's another thing I learned early on. Don't move first. Don't talk first. Don't do anything until you know the rules, and even then, be careful because the rules can change without warning.
She opens my door, letting in a rush of hot summer air. "Come on, Ivan. Grab your things."
I grab my garbage bag, holding it against my chest like a shield, and climb out of the car on legs that feel shaky.
The porch steps creak when we walk up them, loud complaints from old wood that's seen too much weather. Mrs. Patterson knocks on the door, and the door opens almost immediately, like someone was waiting right there on the other side.
There's a woman standing in the doorway, thin as a rail, hair pulled back tight in a ponytail that looks like it's stretching her face. Her eyes land on me for a second, then slide away, looking somewhere over my shoulder like I'm not worth the effort of a real look, like I'm just another obligation she has to tolerate.
"This is Ivan," Mrs. Patterson says, her hand on my shoulder in a gesture that's supposed to be comforting but just feels heavy.
"Okay." The woman steps back to let us in, holding the door open with one hand. "I'm Mrs. Henderson. You can call me ma'am."
"Yes, ma'am," I say automatically, because I know that's what she wants to hear, the only acceptable response.
The house smells like cigarette smoke and something cooking, the two scents mixing together in a way that makes my empty stomachturn. Meat, maybe, something heavy and greasy. My stomach growls even though it still hurts, even though I'm too nervous to want food.
I didn't eat breakfast this morning. I was too anxious, too worried about what this new place would be like. That was stupid. You should always eat when you can because you never know when you'll get to eat again.
Another thing I learned the hard way.
There's a man in the living room off to the right, sitting in a chair that's got duct tape on the arms holding the stuffing in, keeping the foam from spilling out. He's big with thick arms covered in faded tattoos, thick neck, belly pushing against his stained white shirt.
