"Hi there, Stephen," the guy on the porch said. "My name's David Foster. I know. Ironic. And no. No relation to the composer. My wife Mandy is just inside getting a snack ready for you if you're hungry."
"I'm not," I said.
"Stephen, be nice," Arlene whispered.
"How is saying I'm not hungry not nice?" I asked.
"Come on in. Let me show you around our humble abode," he said, moving to take my ratty and beat up duffel bag. I moved it away.
"I can carry my own shit," I said.
"Okay. First rule, no swearing. We have two kids of our own who are three and seven and one other foster kid who is ten. So we'd like to keep them learning to swear for a few more years, thank you," he said. I rolled my eyes.
"Whatever," I said. I probably wasn't going to be here that long anyway. The Turners lasted three months. The Jones ditched me after a month. The Pauls seemed promising. I lived with them for almost a year. Until they moved across the country.
That landed me back in the Boy's Home for a month. Now the Fosters.
"Not whatever," David said. "That's the rule. Watch your language. Rule number two, you will keep your room clean. It doesn't have to be spotless but you'll dust and vacuum it every week. Saturday is cleaning day and we all pitch in. But you won't leave clothes or food all over the room. Which brings me to rule number three. No food in the bedrooms. Period. Rule number four. You will attend school. Every day. Unless you're sick or have a visitation with your mom."
I snorted. My mom had never visited and last year, Arlene told me, she'd gone to prison for drugs and something. I told Arlene I didn't want to visit her. Screw her.
"So, school, every day. You are allowed to join any extracurricular you want. In fact we encourage it. Rule number five, you come straight home after school or practice or clubs. Whatever you join, if you do. Unless you've told us previously then you're expected home. The high school ends at 2:30. It's a ten minute walk. You should be home no later than three."
"Fine."
"Mandy will have a snack ready for you when you get home. Then we expect you to do your homework until dinner. If you don't have that much or finish before seven, you can go help Mandy with dinner or the younger kids. Dinner is at seven every night. You're expected at the table."
I sighed.
"Mandy and I are pretty strict, but we're fair. We won't tolerate bullying or fighting. We encourage you to make friends with your peers and we're happy to allow you to go to their homes or have them over here. Same rules apply. If you're going to a friend's after school, you have to tell us ahead of time."
"Fine," I said.
"Once a month, we'd like you to babysit the younger kids. Mandy and I like to go on a date night at least once a month. All you'll have to do is make sure the little kids get into bed on time and the house doesn't burn down," he smiled. I rolled my eyes.
"Seriously. We aren't going to expect you to bathe them or make them dinner. Just get them to bed on time with teeth brushed."
"Whatever," I said.
"We'll take you tomorrow to get you registered at the high school. Do you need anything for school? Binders? Notebooks? Paper? Pens?"
"I'm okay, I think," I said.
"Okay. Well, here's your room," he said, finally opening the closed door we'd been standing in front of while he told me his rules.
The room wasn't huge. But it wasn't small. Bigger than the closet I'd had at the Jones'. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf with some books on it, a wardrobe, closet and a night table with a lamp. There was also a lamp on the desk and it was under the window.
"Now, this is your room. You can decorate it, move the furniture around if you want. Just remember, no food and keep it clean. We'll leave you to get unpacked. Mandy will come up and say hi in a few minutes."
"Whatever," I said, sighing. I wasn't going to bother unpacking. I could tell I'd be tossed out as soon as they realized fifteen year olds with trauma in their past are 'just too hard'. At least that's what the Turners said. It didn't help that their 19 year old son kept trying to kick the shit out of me and Mr. Turner seemed to have an affinity for boys. I'd defended myself when he tried and that was one factor in getting me sent away again.
I put my duffel bag in the wardrobe and my tattered backpack on the desk chair. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I pulled my little ET toy out of my jacket pocket. I'd had this thing since I was eight. It brought me comfort, I guess. I put it on the night table beside the bed.
There was a knock at the door and a lady poked her head in.
"Hi, Stephen, right?" She said. I nodded.
"I made cookies if you like," she said, coming into the room and sitting on the end of the bed. Not too close.
"I'm okay," I said.
"Stephen, I know you've been through a lot. We really want this to work out for you, okay. Give us a chance. You'll see. We're good people."
"Sure. Okay," I said, in a non-committal tone. Again I wasn't likely to be here very long.
"Why don't you come downstairs? Let us get to know you," she said.
"I'm not that interesting. Pretty much all you need to know about me is in my file," I said.
"That just tells me where you've been. That doesn't tell me where you're going," she said. I frowned at her. That made absolutely no sense.
"What?" I said.
"Stephen, your file tells us how many foster homes you've been in, why you're in foster care to begin with. Your file tells us your past. We'd like to know what you envision for your future."