Present

 

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

“Casey,” Dr. Cohen snips, her eyes narrowed in irritation.

I click my pen once more and shrug. “Yeah?”

“I asked you how school was going.” She’s calm once again, composed after her brief freak-out. It’s my goal in life. How many times can I make Dr. Cohen lose her cool during our sessions?

So far, the most was five.

And that day, she cut our session short.

“School’s fine.” I give her the canned answer she wants to hear. I don’t tell her I hate my teachers. That I hate the students. That I hate everything. I especially don’t tell her that yesterday I looked up on the Internet to see how to take the test to get my GED. I’ll be eighteen in two months and I don’t plan on sticking around after that.

“Define fine,” she encourages, her pen poised to take notes.

Click. Click. Click.

I chance a look at her. Her eye twitches.

“Like super fine,” I sass and then laugh.

She uncrosses her legs and leans forward. “Dear, this isn’t a game.”

Ahhh, that’ll be the first time she’s said that line today. She always says it. Every single time.

“School is fine,” I say with a huff. “Boring as usual.”

Her dark eyebrow lifts in question. “Boring?” She shuffles through the file in her lap. “Your newest progress report says you have a D in English.”

Click. Click.

“Yeah, so?”

Her lips purse together. “You need a better grade in there. How do you expect to go to college and—”

I cut her off by incessantly clicking my pen.

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick.

“I’m not going to college.” I lift my chin but instead of meeting her glare, I glance at the clock. Almost time to bail.

“It’s time to grow up, Casey,” she chides. Dear, this is not a game. I know she wants to say it. Her lips twitch as it barely sits contained in her mouth.

I smirk. “I’m almost eighteen.”

If a psychiatrist were allowed to roll her eyes, she’d do so right about now. Somehow, despite my poking, she manages to refrain.

“You know what I mean.”

I do know what she means. Unfortunately, she could never possibly know what kind of growing up I’ve had to do. I was born to a crack cocaine addicted woman who abandoned me in a nativity scene at a church. It’s so cliché, but this isn’t a Hallmark movie with a happy ending. This is my crummy life. Turns out, babies who are born to addicted mothers are also addicted. Low birth weight and heads that are small in circumference. Babies with drugs in their system begin the withdrawal a couple of days later. Shakes. Uncontrollable crying. General unhappiness. My birth mother sent me into this world in the shittiest way possible. She left me unable to fend for myself, a runt against other babies my age, and at an utmost disadvantage.

Nobody adopts a baby like me.

The only child screaming their head off in the room.

The child nobody could make happy.

I grew up with equally unhappy caregivers and when I was old enough, I started bouncing through the system like a ball in a pinball machine. Except for me, I didn’t win a prize at the end. No blinking lights and excited music. For me, it was always nothing.

When I turn eighteen, I’ll finally be prepared to go out into the world and find my happiness. It’s there. I just have to locate it.

“I’m not smart enough for college,” I admit, my voice melancholy.

She softens as a sigh escapes her. “Dear, you’re smart enough. Just not focused enough. How is the new medication I prescribed you? Can you focus?”

Apparently, being a crack baby also means I’m at a neurological disadvantage according to Dr. Cohen. I’ve been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and anxiety.

Click. Click. Click.

I glance at the clock again. “I don’t like that medicine. Makes me numb.”

“It’s supposed to make you numb. Well, focused anyhow. It’s supposed to calm the stray thoughts running rampant in your mind so you can focus on what’s in front of you.”

Would this be a bad time to tell her I only took one and then sold the rest to my foster brother?

Probably so.

“Yeah, okay.” I flash her a bright smile that’s fake but gets me by when I need it most. “Oh, man, look at the time,” I say with a faux pout. “Looks like we’re done until next month.”

She nods and scribbles something down in her file. I don’t wait for her to say any more. She’s already said too much. I dread my meetings with her. They don’t help. We run in circles. She wants to help me with something I don’t need help with. It’s a waste of everyone’s time.

As soon as I close the door behind me, I slip into the ladies’ room before having to go out and deal with my foster parent, Guy. Worst name ever. Sometimes I call him Dude instead just to fuck with him. The guy is the biggest asshole on the planet. How someone gets into the field of helping children and teens out, but who clearly hates it, is beyond me. Sure, I’ve been at a few homes where the men leer, but usually they leer at the other girls. Not the tiny, messy-haired runt. The sun-kissed, pale-blond sprite of a girl with eyes too huge for her face.

Once inside the bathroom, I set my backpack down on the counter and peek at my reflection. The gloss is gone from my lips, so I rummage around in my bag for it. Taking my time, I paint my lips a shiny pink. Throughout the years, I’ve stolen makeup from people and places. It’s my therapy of sorts—painting myself into someone I want to be. I decide my birth mom looks just like me and the darker and more dramatic the wings of my eyeliner, the further from her I look.

My stomach grumbles, but I attempt to ignore it. I didn’t mention to Dr. Cohen that a girl named Monique shoves me against the lockers every day in gym class as she rifles through my bag to take what little money I have. I’m too proud to eat the free lunch, so I starve every day at school. Tonight, I hope Guy cooks something good. That’s about the only thing he’s good for.

“Two more months,” I promise myself with a sigh.

I pull my backpack on and leave the bathroom to go find my guardian. He sits in the waiting room, his eye on one of the moms in the room. She’s bent over trying to talk sense into a young woman who looks a few years older than me. The people here have true psychological problems—I somehow got stuck here. Crack baby and all.

Snapping my fingers, I motion with my head. “Dude, let’s go.”

Irritation morphs his features, but then his gaze is back on the hot mom’s ass. I’m glad he’s into tits and curves because that means he’ll never turn his lascivious gaze my way. I push out the door and pause for a moment. It’s early November but exceptionally warm today. The sun shines warmly on my face and I have the urge to pop a squat right here on the steps and bask in the rays.

I can never stay warm. I live in hoodies and jeans. Under blankets and near fires. My physician says it’s because—you’ve got it—I was a crack baby.

Thanks for that, Ma.

Cars whiz by out front but what has my attention is a shiny penny sitting on the concrete. I’ve read the articles of when I was found. The media affectionately named me Cocaine Casey—the mystery baby who was addicted to drugs. A blanket, a simple note, and a bag of pennies, the only things to my name. The government, since they couldn’t locate my birth mother, officially named me Casey Doe. Of course, I hate that damn last name and opted for a different one. When anyone asks, I’m Casey White. The baby found blanketed in snow.

White.

Clean.

A fresh start.

When I’m legally able to, I’ll change my last name to what I want.

I approach the penny and bend over to pick it up, but someone snatches it up before I can get to it.

“Hey!” I cry out.

I lift my gaze and meet the most intense pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen. For one moment, the man stares at me as though he can see straight into my soul. All the ugly, sad parts.

I can’t blink.

I can’t think.

I simply stare back.

Someone beside him gasps while Guy grips my elbow and jerks me away.

“Don’t be such a freak,” he snaps and hauls me to his piece-of-shit van. “I swear I can’t take your scrawny ass anywhere.”

I tug my arm away from his grip and stomp over to the passenger side. Once I’m in the vehicle, I look up to see the man staring my way. His arm is extended toward me and the penny in his palm shimmers in the sunlight.

Too late, buddy, it’s yours now.

I give him a shrug and a slight wave as Guy backs the car out of the parking spot. The moment his country music starts blaring, I shove my earbuds into my ears and turn up Meg Myers so I can drown out the world. I close my eyes and try not to count down each second until my life finally begins.

Two weeks later…

 

“Casey!” Guy bellows from the living room.

I try to ignore him as I stare at the diploma in my hands and chomp on my gum.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

I did it. I got my friggin’ GED. Of course, I had to steal the cash from Guy to pay for the fee. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I’d been proud as punch when I slapped it down on the counselor’s desk at school and said I was done with their hell hole. That I was no longer their prisoner. It took the principal, the counselor, and my case worker to determine I was no longer required to go to school. I’m still stuck under Guy’s care, unfortunately, until Christmas. Then, I’m done.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

“Casey! Goddammit, get your ass in here!”

I huff as I shove the diploma into my backpack. I keep it stuffed full of my minimal belongings in the event I need to bolt on a moment’s notice. Over the years, so often I’d be plucked from one home and placed into another with zero warning. At first, I cried over the things I left behind. Now, I’m simply ready to take them with me. I leave my bag on the bed and swipe my beanie on the way out of the bedroom I share with another girl. A cold front came in a few days ago and even layering doesn’t help keep me warm. I shove the beanie over my head and make my way into the living room.

“Ahhh, there’s Little Miss Sunshine,” Guy says proudly.

I almost choke on my gum. Since when is Guy the fatherly type? With suspicion tugging at my insides, I glance over at him. His pocket bulges and a thick wad of bills sticks out the top.

“Here she is. Casey Doe.” Guy walks over to me and clutches me in a side hug that makes my skin crawl. “We’re so proud of her. She just got her GED.”

“That’s impressive,” a low, deep voice murmurs.

I jerk my head toward the sound. At first all I see are shoes. Black. Dressy. Shiny. Expensive. My gaze follows up a pair of slacks, to a leather belt cinching at his waist, up along a sleek black tie, to a tanned neck. His jaw is sharp and chiseled, dusted in dark hair. When my eyes land on his mouth, a genuine smile sits on his full lips. My attention snaps to his eyes.

Brown.

Inviting.

Curious.

Sad.

I blink at him in confusion, locked in his gaze. It’s familiar, as though I’ve looked in his eyes once before. Still, I can’t place him.

“I’m Tyler Kline,” he says in a smooth, warm voice. “So happy to meet you.”

I eyeball his extended hand with suspicion. “Hi.”

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Now that my gum is no longer lodged in my throat, I nervously chew at it.

His smile brightens. “Hi.”

Smack. Smack. Smack.

I lift a brow in question and it urges him on to continue.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says softly. Sadness flickers in his brown eyes. It makes my heart clench.

“Why?” I demand and jerk from Guy’s embrace. “Where’s Lola?” My caseworker is always present during my transfers.

“Lola said to go ahead,” Guy says, his voice tight with the lie on his tongue.

I cross my arms over my small chest and shudder. I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or unease. Either way, I’m not going with this stranger.

“Are you cold?” Tyler questions, genuine concern flashing over his features. Something about the action has me calming a bit.

“Always,” I mutter.

“My house is warm.” His brown eyes plead with me.

“Trust me, kid, you’ll be much happier at his house,” Guy urges.

I glare at Guy. “Did he pay you?” I gesture at his bulging pocket. “What’s going on here?”

Tyler tenses and takes a step toward me. When his hand clasps over my shoulder, I don’t flinch or retreat. His hand is warm and comforting. “Please, Casey.”

Not kid. Not dear. Not deadbeat dropout.

Casey.

“I’m Casey White, not Casey Doe,” I blurt out, hot tears stinging my eyes.

Tyler sidesteps until he’s in front of me. His warm hand remains on my shoulder. He’s much taller than me and smells nice. “I like that name better,” he confides in a whisper. “Please come with me. I’ll give you anything you want.”

I gape at him and then start laughing. “I want a new car.” I smirk at my bold demand.

Tyler grins at me—all brilliant white teeth and self-confidence. “We’ll go pick you one out now. The new Mercedes has top marks on safety. Which color would you prefer?”

“W-What?” I stammer.

“Anything.”

The word stumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Okay.” Okay? Run off with this stranger who clearly paid off your foster dad because he’s offering you a car? Are you crazy?

Dear, this isn’t a game.

Dr. Cohen is correct. This is not a game. This is my life and I need to get ahead as soon as I can. With a car, I can bolt the moment I turn eighteen and be halfway across the US before anyone even realizes or cares. My start on my new life is so close I can taste it.

I clear my throat and lift my chin. “Okay.”

Tyler grins again, giving my shoulder a supportive squeeze. “Thank you, Casey. I won’t let you down.”

I don’t have time to process his words before Guy shoves my backpack in my arms and ushers us out the door.

Everyone lets me down, including my mother.

Why does Tyler Kline think he’s any different?