CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fosters

Everything smelled like smoke. The fire had been contained in the kitchen and hallway, but the entire house smelled like smoke. And just…wetness. A dampness that I knew I’d be smelling on my clothes and skin for a long time. The fire department had hosed everything down well, and I wasn’t sure how we’d ever clean it all up again when Grandma came home and we moved back. If she came home.

I shook my head. I wasn’t even going to consider that.

What was I supposed to pack? I was hoping I’d be back home before I had to change clothes too many times, but Cynthia told me to pack enough for a week, just to be safe.

I grabbed a bag and stuffed some clothes into it. My laptop, phone, and chargers. My sketchbook. Some pencils. My iPad. The comics Ryan and I had bought but hadn’t gotten around to reading yet. I looked in the closet for a hoodie and saw a pile of sweaters that Grandma had made for me. She had knit me a sweater for every single birthday and Christmas since I was a kid. There were three sitting in a pile on the top shelf. Two, I was sure, were getting too small, but she had just recently given me the third. It was a soft, mossy green color that reminded me of spring. I touched it, thinking of her spending evenings in front of the TV with her needles, and packed all three even though I probably wouldn’t wear them.

“Ready?” Cynthia asked, looking up as I trudged down the stairs.

“I guess so.”

“Good. All right. The Wilsons are waiting for you.”

I nodded, trying to picture “The Wilsons” in my head. What kind of people took kids that weren’t theirs into their homes?

We drove for a while…way out of my neighborhood.

“How am I going to get to school?” I asked.

“The Wilsons homeschool their kids,” Cynthia said.

“Wait…I don’t want to be homeschooled! I want to go to my own school!”

“They don’t live in your district, Lucky.”

“I don’t care! I want to be with my friends!” I argued.

“I’m really sorry. I am. But that’s not possible. We don’t have a foster family available in your district. The Wilsons were the only ones that could accept you tonight.”

“Accept me? Like I’m a delivery from Amazon or something? Jesus. I have friends I can stay with!” I seriously considered jumping from the car and running for it.

“You know it doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry, Lucky. I really am. But this was the only option.”

We pulled into the driveway of a modest, two-story house. As Cynthia turned off the engine, a couple walked out and stood on the porch, arms around each other. The Wilsons, I assumed. The porch light shadowed them a little, but I could see that he was big and burly; she was small and blonde.

“Well, here we are,” Cynthia said. “Come on and meet your foster family.”

I felt a chill—an actual chill—as I opened the door of the car and stepped out. Someone was watching me from an upstairs window, and my instinct as I walked toward the couple standing on the porch was to run. Run fast and run far. Run back to my grandmother.