“Hey, Kira, is it true your mother was a freak?”

I stop in my tracks, glad the girl behind me can’t see my skin flush. I don’t have to turn around to know who’s taunting me. Casually, I relax my body into a fighting stance.

“Hey, Crystal,” I respond softly. “I heard your mother’s still alive. You’re here because she didn’t want you.”

The hiss behind me has my hands clenching. I twirl, just in time to meet Crystal’s right hook. I’m momentarily stunned, my eyes filling with unwanted tears, my head snapping from the impact. I should have been prepared. Crystal always goes for the right hook. A red film drops across my vision, and then I’m barreling into the other girl, my punches aimed at the soft targets I know will hurt her more and me less. Immediately, there are a half dozen girls joining in the fray. I feel my fist connect with bone—I’m not sure whose—and hear the sudden “oomph” of air being expelled when I lower my head and ram into someone’s gut.

I’m not unhurt. In a vague, distant sort of way, I’m aware of the taste of blood in my mouth and something’s not right with my left leg. Has it been kicked or twisted? It doesn’t matter. I know the pain will come later.

My lungs are empty of air, and it feels like I’ve been fighting forever, but it’s probably only minutes before Matron strides over, grabbing ears and arms and peeling bodies apart.

I never get the chance to tell my side of the story. Six sets of fingers point at me along with a chorus of “Kira started it.” Matron puts a tight grip on my shoulder and propels me into her office. I turn and rake Crystal with one last scorching glance. “My mother was not a freak,” I whisper for her ears only. Then I shrug off Matron’s hand and march inside.

Matron’s office gives me the creeps. Well, it’s not her office so much. It’s the painting hanging behind her desk. The Garner Home for Girls is just that—a home for girls. Even the staff is all female. So, the portrait of the large mustached man that dominates Matron’s office seems out of place.

“Do you want to explain yourself?”

Matron’s voice has me pulling my eyes away from the painting to the woman behind the desk. There’s nothing matronly about her, certainly nothing maternal. She is stiff and stern, and her voice is gravelly when she speaks.

“No ma’am.”

Her fingers drum on the tabletop, creating a matching rhythm inside me. I want to grab her hand and smash it flat, but I force myself to sit quietly.

“I’m running out of punishments, Kira, and I’m running out of patience. You know, there are other places for people like you—places which would treat you a lot less kindly than we do at the Garner Home.”

My fingers twitch on the arms of my chair. “What do you mean ‘people like me?’”

She looks momentarily at a loss, but recovers. “You’re touchy, Kira. You take things too personally.”

“I do not!”

Matron gazes at me mildly.

I blow my bangs in frustration. “I just take things personally when they’re meant personally, that’s all.”

“Kira, you have to learn to get along with others. I’m giving you one more chance to improve your behavior. If you can’t shape up, I’m going to suggest you for a transfer to one of the vocational homes.”

I stay silent, refusing to cave in to her intimidation. I know I’m not like the other girls, and I don’t care. I don’t like to do the things they do. I don’t care about the same things. But, I’m not a troublemaker. At least, not intentionally. I keep my face blank.

“Fine,” Matron mutters, becoming businesslike. “For the next two weeks, you can help Cook in the kitchen. You’ll be responsible for breakfast and dinner.”

“Geez Louise! Breakfast and dinner!”

“I can still add lunch, if you like,” she says calmly.

I cross my arms, biting my tongue so hard, I’m sure to have permanent teeth marks. Immediately, I begin plotting how I can sprinkle ash on Crystal’s seaweed, in place of pepper. The image of Crystal gagging on her first bite has me feeling better.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling about, young lady, but whatever it is, I’d rethink it if I were you.”

Matron’s eyes are narrowed on my face. Quickly, I compose my features into an expression of meekness. She raises one disbelieving brow and, with a tired wave of her hand, motions me out of the room. I jump up, eager to get back to my own quarters.

The girls at the Garner Home live in long sleeping rooms according to our age group. At sixteen, I’ve recently graduated to the upperclassmen’s quarters. In a year, I’ll have to decide whether to apply to one of the technical schools or get a work assignment, but I’m in no hurry. It can be foolish to think too much about a future that’s uncertain. Better to take things one day at a time.

The sleeping quarters are silent. At this time of the day, everyone’s in the main building, doing homework or doing chores. I slip my hand beneath my pillow and pull out a small photograph. Stepping over to a mirror on the wall, I hold the picture beside my face. The familiar image stares back at me through the glass. There’s a resemblance. Round grey eyes stare into round grey eyes. But where my hair is cropped and smooth and red in the light, my mother’s is dark and wavy, capturing the light and holding it.

I don’t know where the rumor about my mother started, but it’s been floating around as long as I can remember. Maybe Matron knew her before she died, but she’s never said, and I refuse to ask. My own memories are thin and wispy, hard to hold onto except in that moment just before waking.

I stick out my tongue at my reflection, then turn and slip the photo back beneath my pillow. I have a meal to prepare. I smile briefly in anticipation before leaving the room.