The day is nothing short of perfection—clear skies, not too hot or cold, not a cloud in sight—but I just groan and roll over in bed, more than ready to fall back asleep.
“Today’s the big day,” Valerie announces. “Don’t tell me you’re going to stay in bed until they arrive.”
“If they’re lucky, I’ll shower first,” I say, my face buried in my pillow, muffling my words.
“You aren’t seriously going to see the family without at least brushing your hair, right?”
“I hate brushing my hair,” I grumble.
“If you would brush it every day, or better yet in the morning and before bed, then you wouldn’t have tangles, and you wouldn’t hate brushing your hair so much. I guarantee it.” She fluffs her perfect dark brown hair with lighter tips.
With a sigh, I sit up and grab my long dyed black locks. My natural hair color, well, it doesn't look natural at all. It's red. Red red, not that orange-red or auburn. I can't remember when I started to dye it, but I used to be teased about it until I did.
“And your teeth,” Valerie reminds me. “Brush your teeth.”
“Yes, Mom.” I rub my forehead. “Why don’t you brush your teeth and hair and pretend to be me? We all know how this is going to end.”
“You never know. This could be the family for you.”
“No. I have no family.”
Valerie jutted out her lower lip. Her lips are so pouty. It’s a shame she’s stuck here in this orphanage with me. If she had a family who cared about her, she could’ve been modeling for years. Instead, we’re rotting here, waiting for two more years to pass so we can phase out and do who knew what for the rest of our lives. Because orphans have so many options available to us. Not.
“You know what’ll happen if I go in your steed,” Valerie says. She bites her upper lip.
“Being a klepto isn’t the worst thing in the world,” I assure her.
“Yeah, but it’s definitely not a good thing either.”
“Makes life interesting.” I grin and throw off my covers.
“True that.” She winks. “I have a really good feeling about today. It’s going to be your day.”
"You and your feelings." I roll my eyes and shake my head as I stand and stretch, going up onto my tiptoes. "Remember the feeling you had about the Hamleys?"
“Well, they turned out to be weirdos anyhow. Who eats shrimps and pineapples on pizza anyhow?”
“But you thought they would be your forever family,” I point out and glance around. Somehow, we have the room to ourselves. So many beds, all lined up on either side, a small table between them. It almost looks more like a low-security prison than an orphanage. No pictures on the walls, hardly anything to make the place anything more than sterile. The white walls and black tile flooring only adds to the oppressive feeling the room has.
It’s not really an orphanage, not anymore, hasn’t been for decades, but the name was never changed. It’s basically a group home and a modern boarding school rolled into one. It’s not the best of places, but I suppose it’s not the worst either.
“I don’t think I have one,” Valerie admits, “but you, you do.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Unlike Valerie, I've been an orphan almost my entire life, so I have no memories of my parents, of having a family. She does. She was five when she was the sole survivor of a car accident that killed her parents and two-month-old sister.
“Everyone deserves a family,” she says, far more somber than she normally is.
“What someone deserves isn’t always what they get.”
“If you don’t shower, you might as well be wearing a neon sign that says, ‘Don’t adopt me.’”
“Maybe I don’t want to be.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. Sad as it is to say, and I hate the place, but Peace Blossoms Orphanage in teeny tiny Albany, California is basically the only home I’ve known and will ever know.
Valerie yanks on my wrist and forces me out of the room and down to the communal bathroom that is just this side of disgusting. “Prison Barrier Orphanage is not your home.”
Even her using our nickname can’t get me to smile.
“I’m gonna shower so get out of my hair.” Forcing a laugh, I shove her away, but I have no doubt that I’ll screw this chance up too, just like I always do.
The Cooks don't look like the kind of people to adopt a child. Not that I'm a child anymore. Teens get looked over. Babies get adopted almost immediately. If you're, say, four or younger, your chances are still decent. Any older and you’re ignored and passed over.
She’s wearing a tight, fancy dress and long, dangling necklaces, her nails polished and perfect. He’s wearing a suit.
Now, a lot of the time, prospective families will dress up to make an impression on the orphanage workers, but when I’m talking suit, I mean tailor-made, looks like a fortune, a tuxedo. And her dress? It’s something an actress would wear on the red carpet. Over the top. People who think money solves all problems. Betcha they think adopting a kid will make them look better in the eyes of their peers or some crap like that because why else would they want to take on a teenager potentially?
Not that I really did smell, but I’m glad Valerie dragged me for that bath.
Arabella Favata, one of the workers here—I never did learn her position since the place can be a revolving door—seizes my shoulders, squeezing them, acting as if we’re super tight, but we’ve barely said two words to each other.
“Welcome, Mr. Cook, Mrs. Cook,” Arabella coos. “This is Mirella.”
“Mirella…” Mrs. Cook asks. Even just saying my name, she manages to sound stuffy and aloof.
I shrug, hating this question above all others. All I had on me when I was found was a blanket with my name embroidered, my birthdate, length, and weight. No last name. I guess it's possible my mom or my dad or both, are still alive, but without their, and my, last name, there's nothing for me to go on to even try to track them down. Not that I'm saying I want to because, hello, how awkward would that be?
“Yeah, you abandoned me about sixteen years ago. I’m Mirella. You probably forgot all about me in the meantime, but, um, you wouldn’t happen to have some money so I can buy some food?”
Sushi. That’s one food I’ve never tried but want to. It looks so neat and perfect with its tiny little beds of rice and the colorful raw fish laid on top. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
Mrs. Cook gives me a strange look and turns to Arabella.
“Smith,” Arabella supplies.
I roll my eyes. So original. It’s not like Smith isn’t the most common surname or something. Oh, wait…
"Mirella, we went through several dossiers," Mr. Cook says, looking down on me. I'm tall, about five foot seven, but he towers above me, well over six feet. "And we think you might be the child for us."
I wince, and before I can tell my mouth to behave, I blurt out, “Why?”
Mrs. Cook blinks, and I’m mesmerized. Are they falsies? I can’t tell, but they’re so long.
“Well, you…” Mr. Cook flounders.
I smirk. They picked me at random. Maybe they just want to adopt for a few years to brag to their friends, to pretend they’re good people.
Yeah, I’m sure I sound super judgmental, but I’ve seen all kinds of people come in and out of here, and you can just develop a sense about people, from the way they talk, the way they carry themselves, the way they perceive the world and want the world to perceive them. Trust me. I’m an excellent judge of character.
“Why don’t we go out for a meal?” Mrs. Cook suggests. “Get to know each other a little bit.”
“Sure.” I shrug. I’m not about to turn down free food.
Their car is just as sleek and fancy as they are. I’m almost surprised they don’t have a chauffeur, but I really don’t understand people like that. Chauffeurs, butlers, cooks… Do the Cooks hire a cook? That would just be so strange.
The place they take me to is an Italian restaurant, more upscale than I’ve ever been to before. I don’t go to restaurants a lot.
“Order anything you want,” Mr. Cook assures me.
The letters on the menu swim. I have no idea what to order, so when the waiter is focused on me, I spit out the first item I see, “Chicken parmigiana.”
Mrs. Cook stifles a sigh. “Are you sure that’s what you want? They have so many excellent choices…”
Translation—so many other excellent choices.
“It’s fine,” Mr. Cook says, and they order dishes I can’t even pronounce.
The garlic breadsticks are amazing. I shouldn't have tried one, but they're so good, all buttery and flakey, and I've eaten three before I realize it. Swallowing hard, I stare at the empty bread basket.
They’re gonna think I’m a pig. Or bulimic. Not that I care about their opinion because I’m sure I’ll do something to screw this up.
Sure enough, that’s exactly what happens.
The waiter brings out our food and hands Mrs. Cook hers and then mine. Now, I might not go to restaurants a lot, but I know what chicken parmigiana looks like, and this mess of pasta, at least four different kinds of itty bitty bits of meats, creamy sauce, and cheese is most certainly not a chunk of chicken with pasta and cheese on top.
“This isn’t what I ordered,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” Mrs. Cook says, condescendingly flicking her hand down. Her rings sparkle in the chandelier above our table. “Just try it, honey.”
Oh, honey. Don’t you dare call me that.
As she talks to the waitress, I realize they’re speaking in Italian. Had she ordered in Italian? Had she changed my order behind my back?
Quietly fuming, I stare at her dish. She picks up the spoon and her fork and starts to get ready to take what I'm sure is a proper, ladylike-size bite when she sighs.
“Mirella, why aren’t you eating?” she asks.
“Why aren’t you?” I snap.
And it happens. Stuff like this has happened to me before, whenever I’m angry or upset or feeling any kind of strong negative emotion.
Her fork flies up out of her hand, straight for her mouth. If she hadn't had her mouth open in shock, the fork prongs would've slammed against her teeth. Instead, the fork enters her mouth perhaps a little too forcefully.
Mrs. Cook blinks and yanks the fork out of her mouth. She slams it onto the table, grabs her napkin, and spits out her food. I wouldn't be surprised if that's the first time she's ever done such a thing. Her eyes narrow, and she glares at her husband. “Did you see that?”
“Y-Yes,” Mr. Cook admits.
Mrs. Cook glances all around and eyes her fork with disdain. Then, she notices me. “Mirella, eat please.”
That please is so fake, but at least she doesn’t call me honey again, so I try to calm down. I really do. I even pick up my fork and spear a bit of meat.
She nods encouragingly.
With a sigh, I put it into my mouth.
It is spicy as hell.
Way too spicy for me.
I spit out the meat, and it lands right in Mrs. Cook’s plate, direct bull’s eye.
Mrs. Cook makes a strangled sound.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I… I don’t like spicy food.”
Mrs. Cook places her hands on the table and stands. “Mirella, try another bite.”
“But I don’t like—”
"Sometimes, children need to try a food several times before they can decide if they like it or not."
“I’m not a child, and you can’t force me to like spicy food.”
“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” she says evenly, but there’s an undercurrent of anger to her tone. “Mr. Cook, will you say something?”
“It can’t hurt to try another bite,” he says, his plate already a third of the way consumed. “If you still don’t like it, we can have it sent back.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her plate. It’s precisely what we ordered for her and—”
“And not what I wanted,” I say, matching her tone.
She straightens, and then it happens again. All I do is imagine her bending over, her face smothered in her food.
And it happens.
Her arms flail behind her, she’s shrieking, but she can’t stand or back away. It’s as if my hand is pressing against the back of her head even though I’m sitting across from her, my hands clasped in my lap.
In the end, it takes both Mr. Cook and our waiter to yank her back. The waiter apologizes profusely, and so does the manager. I just sit there, staring at my uneaten plate, waiting for us to leave. We do minutes later, and they take me back to the orphanage, just drop me off, don’t come in or anything.
Suits me just fine. I’m not meant to have a family, and I accepted that a long time ago. What I haven’t accepted is this part of me that I don’t understand and probably never will.