“Your side is the only one that counts.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s how justice works.”
I can’t help it; I roll my eyes too. “Shut up, you’re, like, eleven.”
“No, I’m twelve, thank you very much.” She places her hands on her hips. “Twelve years and three months,” she adds matter-of-factly.
I put no effort into hiding my victorious grin. Pointing out her age always gets a rise out of her. She’s twelve going on twenty with how much she tries to mother everyone.
Then the first sign starts; the loud wheeze in her breath from the change in season. Bella clears her throat to hide it, but I narrow my eyes at her. Then, as the seconds pass, she turns to the side and lets out a series of earth-shattering coughs.
Reaching for my bag, I tug it onto my lap and ignore the pain from my busted knuckles. I rummage around the front pocket until I find what I need, all while Bella wheezes between coughs.
I sigh as I hold out the inhaler. Her delicate fingers wrap around it without hesitation, struggling to suck it in between breaths. She never remembers to take it like she’s meant to. And it’sfall, the worst time of year for her.
“You lied to me.” Iexplicitlyasked her this morning, “Did you take your inhaler?”
Do you know what her response was? A couple of flutters of her eyelashes and a bashful, “Mmhmm.”
Typical.
I’m not falling for that shit next time.
“Do I need to start forcing you to take it?”
Her eyes water from all her coughing as she moves to sit beside me, attempting to calm her breathing. I take the inhaler from her and stuff it back in my bag.
She shakes her head softly. Even without the inhaler, she would have gotten through the worst of the coughs within a few minutes. Still, then she’d spend the rest of the day wheezing until she took the medication. It seems to be getting worse the older she gets.
“Then you better start taking it,” I scold.
She tries to play it off by resuming her nursing duties. “It was just the one time.”
“This week,” I add.
If no one reminded her, this girl would forget to feed herself.
She scrunches her nose. “It tastes bad.”
“Don’t care. You’re going to start taking it properly. Promise me.” I know she won’t. Isabella Garcia doesn’t make promises she can’t keep. I can see in her eyes that she’s itching to change the subject because this has been a point of real contention for a while.
“Sarai la mia morte.”
You’re going to be the death of me.
I don’t remember much of the language, but Bella is trying to learn it so we can “speak behind the adults’ backs,” even though her Spanish is better than my Italian. And I don’t know any Spanish beyondgracias,andme llamo Roman.
“Don’t forget, I’m going to visit Mitchell’s mother this weekend,” Bella says suddenly as she plasters on a band-aid.
I groan, but I’m unsure whether it’s from the pressure of the band-aid on my cut or from her reminder. I hate when she goes, because she’s all alone with no one to watch over her. What if Mitchell, her new foster dad, tries to hit her? He hasn’t done it before, but it doesn’t mean he won’t start. Or, what if she has a nightmare, can’t find Mickey Mouse, or has a panic attack again? Or if she forgets her inhaler?
“Why do you have to go?”
It’s not like anyone in her foster family has given a shit about inviting her to their family gatherings. At least Mitchell’s place is better than the hellhole she was in when we first met.
When Margaret heard all about how she wouldn’t get proper lunches—and I may have mentioned a bruise or two—the state swooped in to save the little girl with bright brown eyes. Apparently, she didn’t have “attention seeker” in her file, so they believed every word she said and got her out of there.
Mitchell is an asshole, but at least he gives her three meals a day and enough blankets to keep her warm—not like the last house.
