Fifth house in two years.
Fifth set of strangers pretending they want me.
On my ninth birthday, Jag and I argued about my return to school.We didn’t know the decision would be made for us one week later.
He would never call himself my parent, but he sure fights like one every time they take me.He fights the cops, the social workers, and the paperwork, saying I’m not safe with anyone but him.
Every time the system pulls me out of his arms, he finds me.He always finds me.
When he doesn’t like the home they put me in, when the fridge is empty, or the father stares too long, he cuts the window screen and steals me away.Then we run until our legs give out.New cities.New names.New lies.
Until child services catches me again.
Now I’m in Salt Lake City, in another house, with another last name.
And Dean.
God, I hate Dean.
He’s eighteen, same age as Jag, but that’s where the similarity ends.
Dean smells like cheap cologne and fried food.His white-blond hair and even whiter complexion make him easy to spot from the school bus.
Every day, he follows me from the bus stop to the house, walking slow like he’s picking his moment.When he gets close enough to slime my cheek with his breath, he says things that make my stomach twist.
Today, he corners me on the side of the house and calls me a whore like I know what that means.Then he grabs my arm, squeezes hard enough to bruise, and tells me I better come to his room tonight or he’llmake it hurt more tomorrow.
When the dog next door starts barking, I rip away from him, sprint inside, and lock my bedroom door.
For hours, I sit in the corner of my room, knees up to my chest, and arms squeezing my stuffed jaguar.It’s ratty and missing a leg, but I still sleep with it pressed under my chin because it smells like Jag’s jacket.
It’s too bright outside.Jag won’t come until it’s dark.He’ll wait until everyone’s asleep before climbing through my window, quiet as a sparkling vampire, smelling like road dust and cold air.Most nights, he curls around me and doesn’t move until I fall asleep.
But right now, the sun is still up, and Dean is somewhere in this house.
I stare at the doorknob, daring it to turn.
The room is small, the bedspread stiff with faded cartoon characters.One window.Beige walls.My backpack sits by the bed where I dropped it after running inside, my math homework sticking out the top.I don’t care.
I just want Jag.
I need his voice telling me everything’s fine, even though we both know it isn’t.
I need his heartbeat against my back, strong and angry and alive.
Pulling my sleeves over my hands, I rock in place.
Until I hear movement.
Footsteps in the hallway.
I stop breathing.
They pause outside my door.
I pull my knees tighter.
The lock wriggles.
