She toed the ground, not answering the question. “Are any of them looking for a drummer who can play a mean bucket?”
“Buckets? Not so much. Maybe try the Blue Man Group for that. But I might be able to help you out if you know your way around a drum kit.”
“I didn’t learn to drum on paint buckets, if that’s what you’re asking,” I replied with the slightest edge. Was she seriously questioning my versatility? “Buckets became a necessity once I discovered drum sets don’t fit inside black plastic garbage bags.”
“Plastic bags?” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t get it.”
No, of course she wouldn’t. Moving from place to place with only what fit in a plastic bag was a uniquely foster kid experience.
“Plastic garbage bags are like luggage for the poor,” I stated matter-of-factly.
The quizzical look I got back told me she had no idea what I was talking about. Definitely not from around here.
“I’m a ward of the state,” I explained in more easily understandable language. “Meaning that my mommy and daddy are the State of California. And we all know how dysfunctional that can be.”
She flinched, and why not? It wasn’t a lineage to be proud of.
“I’m sorry,” she said, peering down at something that was suddenly very important on the sidewalk.
“Don’t be. I’ve had a lifetime to come to terms with it.”
“Is that why you ran away? You had a bad foster home?”
“Something like that,” I replied, feeling instantly anxious. I tapped out a song onto my boots to give my jittery hands something to do.
Tipping her eyes back up, she watched me curiously. “You’re always moving.”
“Yeah. I’m hyperactive. Or at least that’s what they tell me. To be honest, I don’t even know what it means. All I know is I can’t sit still long enough to satisfy the requirements of most potential caretakers.”
“So, you get whatever’s left over?”
Damn, she was catching on. In foster care, there were no permanent placements. No settling in. No guarantees.
“The worst of the worst.” I nodded, stretching out my arms to encompass the landscape. “Hence why I’m out here.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
“At first I was, yeah, but the beauty of living on the streets is it zaps you of emotion to the point where you simply don’t care what happens anymore. I’m there.”
“That makes me sad. You’re too young to be that jaded. What are you, sixteen or seventeen?”
“Nineteen,” I answered without a moment’s hesitation. I was so used to lying about my age it came naturally now.
She called my bluff. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Well, you’re not nineteen.”
“How would you know?”
“You don’t even have peach fuzz on your chin.”
“Because I shave.”
“Oh, do you? Where do you keep the razors? In your buckets?”
“Yes. A whole pack of them. I also use them to shank my enemies.”
