My former FM, foster mother to officials, fake mom to me: fifty years old, wispy hair, a scalp with five o'clock shadow due to the black dye and female pattern baldness. She is grossly obese. Smells like bologna that's been left out on the counter too long. Smokes Marlborough Light 100s washed down with pots of Mr. Coffee.
Me: All my features where they should be, nothing attention grabbing. Except I have big breasts.
"Nice nips," Nick, my seventeen year old foster brother said the first time in the hall. He looked me in the eye and scratched his balls, quite the multi-tasker. I yawned. Gave his crotch a cursory glance. Said, "I'll give you a finger job as soon as I'm done showering."
I took my time in there, great water pressure. By the time I came out an hour later — had to shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows, put on my face as one of my FMs used to say — Nick and I had an understanding. I found out yesterday he also has my back.
Beverly was on my back for things like using her makeup without "consent." Said she "might like to mash my mouth."
We were all sitting at the kitchen table when she threatened me. I kept buttering my toast. "You know, Bev —" I lacksadaisacally smeared butter on the rim of my plate. "Smoking in bed, a dangerous habit —"
Nick cut in. "Yeah, Moms, with paint thinner and other combustibles in the attached garage, this house could go up one night, like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
Beverly struggled to her feet, said she was excusing herself from the table, had things to do. I hoped using soap got kicked to the top of the list.
Last night, Nick and I traded History. Breaking Rule # 1: Opposite sex youth are not permitted in each other's rooms for ANY reason."
I sat cross-legged on the bed. Nick turned the desk chair out, went through his CDs: Elvis Costello, Shania Twain, AC/DC, Talking Heads, Korn… Variety is the spice.
Nick asked if I liked Adema. I said I only knew Unstable. He put that on and got right to his rap:
Nick's mom got pregnant immediately after high school, if not sooner. His parents drank their breakfast in a bar owned by an uncle. Everything was fine until kindergarten. Nick's parents kept forgetting to pick him up. They forgot once too often. Enter Social Services, exit Nick.
His first placement was with a nice couple. Clean clothes, three squares, if he didn't finish a meal no one said "eat it or wear it." Fine life until he was nine. The couple decided to divorce. The man never wanted children, foster or otherwise. He moved out first, then the woman moved in with a sister who lived across the country. Felons and foster kids, neither can cross state lines. Enter Social Services, exit Nick.
After that his placements got shorter and shorter, because Nick was no longer considered cute. Especially not after he developed early onset "fuck you."
OK, my turn. I got the details one day when my social worker went out for sodas and chips and left my file out:
My mother was raped, got pregnant with me. She kept me for a while but I was a constant reminder. No other biologicals were fit or interested in adopting me.
I was nine months old when I entered The System. I had never eaten solid food, I cried all the time, I wouldn't let anyone hold me.
I lived with one foster family after another: Mr. And Mrs. Military needed a supplemental income so they took in the state max then gave us up when Mr. Military finished serving his country. Mr. and Mrs. Infertility could not have children until they suddenly could, and that was that. Mr. and Mrs. Porn led separate lives. Mrs. Porn spent her evenings playing Bingo at Immaculate Heart. Mr. Porn stayed home watching films like Daddy's Little Princess and using me as a hand puppet. When a urinary tract infection led to further investigation, I was upgraded to Special Needs Youth.
"You and me, Jody, we know what it takes most people until they're old to figure out." Nick picked at a pimple until it bled. "Life sucks. And then it sucks some more."
When Nick asked, "Want to smoke a blunt?" I said, "Sure."
I'm writing from Juvie. My social worker says maybe this is where I belong. I hope he's just trying to scare me.
Nick swears it's coincidence, but the house did go up this morning, "just like that." Rusted Root was maxed out on the X-box. The bass woke Beverly out of her Ambien fog. We crawled down the stairs and out the back door.
Afterwards, Nick and I stood on the sidewalk watching Beverly talk with the fire marshal, pointing at the charbroiled house, then at us.
While we waited for our social workers, Nick said, "You got a pen in your backpack? I'll give you my worker's cell. She's OK, she'll get me a message wherever I am. We'll keep in touch…"
I took the number, but I'm not going to call Nick. I haven't believed in promises since I was small.
Someone drew a bird on the wall above my cot and wrote "The Phoenix." I read a story about that bird. I know real life doesn't work like this. But if it could, to be reborn, wings rising up out of the ash. I would want to be like that.