Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Well let’s not think about all that other stuff right now,” she says.
As if I can think of anything else.
“We have your party in a couple days, and the other guys should be back by then.”
“I’m not interested in a birthday party, Emmalyn.”
“Well,” she says quickly. “We can call it a welcome home for the guys, not a birthday party.”
I fluff my pillow under my head and look over at her.
“He’s going to want to talk to you.” I shake my head not even entertaining the thought.
“I’m not ready to talk to him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”
“Understandable,” she says kissing me on the forehead and climbing off the bed.
“You’re going to go see him aren’t you?”
She gives me a weak smile. “He’s my friend, too,” is all she says before leaving my room and closing the door softly behind her.
***
“You’re going to have to get it together, Khloe. Foster parents aren’t going to even want to touch you if you keep acting like this,” my caseworker says putting her car in park outside of the Target.
I close my eyes at her choice of words. The last thing I want is foster parents to touch me. That’s the whole reason I’m in the car to begin with. My foster dad has been coming into my room drunk for the last three months touching me.
My caseworker, of course, doesn’t believe me. Why would she? I’ve had trouble at every foster home I’ve been in since my parents were murdered. My record going against the deacon of a church didn’t stand up very strong.
I cringe at the memory of his disgusting hands roaming over my newly developed breasts. It takes a sick, disgusting man to want to abuse a young, thirteen-year-old girl. I did what I thought was best to get out of that situation. I call it a cry for help; the local police called it arson. At least it was his car not the damn house. It was the only way to get out of there before he could fulfill the promises he muttered in my ear the night before.
“When Carla and the other kids leave for the zoo tomorrow, I’m going to finally make you mine.” I can still smell the beer on his breath and the callouses of his fingers between my legs.
“Are you even listening to me?” My caseworker turns in her seat to glare at me. “You’re seriously becoming more trouble than you’re worth,” she says climbing out of the car and leaving me alone.
My plan worked. I was pulled so quickly from that foster home, she didn’t even have a chance to grab my belongings. Hence, the reason she’s walking angrily into the store; she has to buy me a few things until the foster family can mail my other belongings.
I open the door a crack once it becomes too stifling in the car. She didn’t leave the keys, which means no air. This in and of itself I’m sure is child abuse. I know there are better caseworkers out there, I just drew the short stick once again.
I roll my head on my shoulders, praying my next foster home isn’t as bad as the one I just left. It’s always a gamble when I’m relocated with what I’ll end up in.
I look around the car for something to do or eat. My stomach is growling since I haven’t eaten much all day. First the trip to the police department, then waiting for the caseworker to come pick me up. No one offered to feed me, and I’m too stubborn to ask.
My bad luck continued when I got before the detective who wouldn’t believe me when I told him about Gary. It just so happens they go to church together, and Gary coaches his little girl's summer softball team. I hate knowing he may be abusing those girls as well. It should have been a clear sign to the detective when Gary decided he didn’t want to press charges.
“She’s just a destroyed little girl. She’s going to have enough trouble making it in life. No sense in adding criminal charges for her to contend with,” I heard Gary tell the detective right outside of his office door.
I spot a thick folder on the back seat. It’s familiar. My caseworker has it with her each time I’m moved to a new foster home. I reach for it, wondering if it would disclose some information about why I seem to land in the worst foster homes imaginable.
I open it; the first page contains my information sheet. I flip through the paperwork on the left-hand side. School records, doctor’s information, and my most recent psychological report. That should make for interesting reading. There would be nothing like finding out that you’re crazy, and only equally crazy people will foster you.