America's Foster Child

Her shoes grip the pavement as they form a steady beat that reverberates off the concrete. She is walking home from school; her tote clings tightly to her back and cuts her chest in half. As she exhales her breath rises into the cold winter air quietly dissipating until it vanishes. At a crosswalk the girl stops and flings her long, mahogany hair off her face and nervously fingers her bead bracelet. She treads lightly on the soles of her sneakers vacillating indecisively as the busy cars shoot by. She can’t remember if its look left to right or right to left with the cars driving on the opposite side of the road. A window of fifteen seconds appears between the car that has just passed and the steadily approaching vehicle she can hear around the corner, she darts across the black and white lines while her bag awkwardly smacks the back of her thighs. As the black dodge truck rounds the corner her feet quickly meet the lip of the pavement and she readjusts her bag so that it rests on her hips. She spins around to catch the tail of the car speed away, driving at least twenty miles over the speed limit with raised tires and enlarged exhausts; she doesn’t understand the reasoning behind such alterations and shakes her head. As she turns on her heels and plods up the hill towards her destination she notices the gardens on either side of the street and wonders how many liters of water it takes to feed the grass, flowers and shrubs that neatly color in the outline of the properties. Veering off the path she crosses a lawn and comes to a wire mesh gate which she opens and enters. Being careful not to step in the newly formed mud from the rain that morning, she walks on the tips of her sneakers and holds her pant legs up before she takes one last giant leap onto the back porch of the house. Reaching behind a wall sconce she finds the back door key and slips out of her shoes leaving them at the back door. As she enters the house it is quiet and musty. Cardboard boxes are stacked on top of each other in the kitchen, with red writing that reads FRAGILE, THIS WAY UP and FAMILY KITCHEN on them. Prancing up to her is a black cat, which knows her well and mews and scratches her pant leg. She slowly kneels down and rubs her head against his. His deep purring and familiar dense smell fades out the memory of her lonely day at school. He rolls onto his back and stretches his quarters high into the air and she pats his stomach firmly; something few other cats would relatively enjoy but was surprisingly appreciated by this specific feline. With her hand on her knee she stands up and makes her way through the house to her bedroom. She pushes her hand on the door and it easily swings open. The doors in this house she has noticed are so thin. She drops her bag at the entrance of her room and cautiously enters. For the past month every time she has entered her room she has done so slowly and cautiously as if hoping maybe once she would open the door and enter into a parallel universe or a loop hole that would take her back. However like all the others this time there are still the unopened letters sitting on her desk. Her comforter has a familiar pattern on it however the bed underneath it is brand new and slightly bigger. All around her on every table, nightstand, dresser and wall are pictures. When her Mother had helped her decorate her new room four weeks ago she had good intentions when framing and hanging the pictures on her wall but what she didn’t know while she was hard at work in her new job was that her daughter would come home from school and take them off her wall. She would line them up on the bedroom floor, sit down cross legged with her favorite pillow and cry. Today like the others before the tears stream down her face as the memories of her family, friends and home fade in and out. Every time she opens her eyes she looks around her new house and gazes out the window at the foreign landscape and wishes she wasn’t there. As the clock rounds to 4:30 the girl slowly pulls herself together and replaces the pictures on the wall. She pulls off her jeans and throws them in her hamper. Slipping on her leggings and grabbing her running shoes from underneath her bed she goes to her front door and sits on the first step. The crisp evening air shocks her skin causing to contract and her ears and fingers prickle. She clumsily ties her laces and reaches to her toes stretching her tendons in the back of her legs. Hopping down the front steps and jogging onto the street she lets her feet pound the unfamiliar road, faster and faster. Running in the cold air, with her long brown hair tied up in a pony tail slapping against her shoulder blades and her heart racing she releases into the pain in her legs and the sting in her chest. Every stride she takes is a new step for her and it speeds up the process of leaving her life behind. She is running but not to anywhere she wants to go. As the evening starts to take shape and she hears no familiar birds in the trees and the sky turns a dusky pink instead of a fiery red she remembers she is no where closer to home then she was ten minutes ago. Instead of carrying on down the road she turns around and sprints down the street, her feet kicking up the tiny stones that have loosened from the asphalt and shoots them behind her in a steady assault of mini pellet bullets. Her breath is short and sharp and she pushes her calves into her feet edging closer and closer to the edge of oxygen exhaustion. She feels her throat become dry and her stomach start to tense. Stopping dead at the base of the driveway bent over heaving and trying to catch her breath she looks up and sees the lights on in her house and her mother busy in the kitchen. Her mother is in the kitchen but this is not her home.