Brakes screech as another bus pulls into the line, but it’s not mine. Mine usually takes at least ten minutes to get here, so I settle onto the concrete wall to wait.
“Bye, Hailey!” a girl says as she walks past to catch her bus. She’s friends with Brittany and we’ve talked a few times, but I can’t remember her name. I hate that she remembers mine when I’m so forgetful. Of course, she only had to learn one new name when I’ve had to learn a ton.
“See ya later!” I reply with a wave.
As I watch her board the bus, a familiar figure strolls into view. It’s Brad, which is weird. He has a car. In the week I’ve been here, I’ve never seen him around the bus line.
I watch him as he wanders along the buses, alternating his attention between the students’ faces behind the windows and those milling around on the curb. The whole time he’s chatting or at least smiling and raising his chin in greeting to those he passes. It’s like no one is a stranger to him, which I find hard to believe since there are more than two thousand students in this school.
When he gets right in front of me, he looks in my direction and our eyes lock. The smile he’s been wearing grows even bigger, and he strolls over to me.
“Want a ride today?”
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
“You’d rather ride the bus?”
I shrug. He’s offered to drive me to school every morning this week, but I hop on the bus instead. I figured he was just trying to be nice. It’s not like the popular football star really wants to be seen with the foster kid. That’s a great way to ruin your reputation in like five seconds flat.
“I don’t have a problem with it,” I say. Besides, I’ve been a bus rider since kindergarten, so it’s not like I know any different.
“It’ll take you three times as long to get home.”
“I’m not in a hurry.”
“Okay, then,” he says, rocking back on his heels and looking around us. “The bus it is.” He pauses. “Maybe I should join you if it’s so great?”
“What about your car?”
“I can get it tomorrow.”
“You can’t leave your car here. It makes no sense.”
“Good point. Let’s go,” he says, nodding in the direction of the student parking lot, as if the decision has already been made. I guess it kind of has. If he’s not concerned about his reputation, why should I be?
“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of pushy?” I ask.
“Me? Pushy? Never.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you always get your way?”
He smiles, revealing his dimple. “Yep. I’m selfish like that. It’s an only-child thing.”
“I guess there are worse ways to be selfish than demanding I ride home with you,” I reply with a grin.
“Exactly. I’m selfish, but in a generous way.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’m not sure selfish and generous are supposed to go together.”
“You’re the one who said I’m a walking contradiction.”
“That you are,” I say, pushing myself off the wall and collecting my backpack.
As we’re walking, he says, “If your concern is my driving, I’d be happy to provide you with a full background check showing my spotless record.”
“Yes, that’s what I need to feel better about getting into your car.”
He reaches down to his pocket and pulls out his phone. He starts moving around the screens until a document pops up.
“Wait. You’re serious?” I ask. I thought he was trying to be funny.
“I’d hate for you to fear for your life while I’m driving.”
“I’ve already been in your car, remember?”
“Did you fear for your life?”
No. Not at all. He’s one of the most cautious drivers I’ve ever seen. “A little,” I tease. “I thought that golf cart was going to rear-end us as you crawled through the subdivision.”
“Have you not seen the deer in our neighborhood? You have to go slow so you don’t hit one.”
I’ve been here a week and haven’t seen any deer. I even ran through the woods that one night and didn’t see any.
“We have hundreds of them,” he continues with a smug look. “And they have no respect for the road.”
“You’re blaming your grandpa driving skills on innocent deer?”
“They’re not innocent!”
“But you admit you have grandpa driving skills?”
“Only because the deer have a death wish,” he says, gesturing with his hands like this is common knowledge. Maybe it is for people who grew up here.
“Is that also why you parked as far from the mall as possible last weekend?” I ask, loving the defensive reaction I’m getting out of him. He’s usually the calm, cool, and collected one who pokes fun at me. It’s fun to see how he reacts when the tables are turned.
“Oh, come ooon,” he says, drawing out the words. “It wasn’t as far as possible.”
“There were like a gazillion closer spots.”
“You should be happy,” he says, pointing at me. “I got you some exercise.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
He rolls his eyes. “Everyone needs exercise.”
“Well, thank you, Brad, for looking out for my well-being.”
“See? Generous. It’s my middle name. Here’s the report,” he says, trying to hand me his phone.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to see it, but why exactly do you have this?”
“Foster licensing. They did a full background check on us. I guess we all passed.”
“No skeletons hidden in your dad’s closet?”
“Apparently not. Shocking, right?”
We reach the student parking lot, and I glance around, looking for his car, but can’t spot it. He walks between two cars to reach the next aisle and then turns left. There, at the end of the row, is his black BMW, many, many spots away from any other cars.
“What is it with you and parking?” I ask, following him.
“The more you make fun of me, the farther away I’ll park,” he says, smiling at me from over his shoulder.
It takes us less than ten minutes to reach his house. If I had taken the bus, I’d still have about an hour. I don’t want to admit it, but this was much better.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say.
“Sure. So, I’ll drive you home any day I don’t have practice?” he asks, hanging his backpack on a hook by the door.
I guess he really doesn’t care about being seen with me at school. If that’s the case, I’m not about to pass up a ride. “I guess so. Since I know you won’t take no for an answer.”
“You’re learning,” he says with a smile. “I can drive you in the mornings, too.”
We move into the kitchen, and I start to head for the stairs while he goes to the refrigerator.
“Where are you going?” he asks, opening the door.
“My room.”
“Why?”
I don’t have a reason. For the past week, whenever I get back from school, I go straight to my room until dinner. In fact, I spend most of my time in my room. It’s not like the Campbells have forbidden me from going anywhere in their house, but it’s still their home. I feel weird being in other rooms unless I’m invited by one of them. My room just seems like the safest place.
When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Want a snack?”
“No, thanks.”
“Want to keep me company while I eat?”
Not wanting to be rude, I say, “I guess so,” and turn around.
Brad piles three gigantic slices of pizza onto a plate and carries it and a bottle of Gatorade to the table. I sit opposite him.
“You’re not hungry?” he asks.
I’m a little hungry, but dinner shouldn’t be too far off. Why Brad would eat this much right now is strange. “Won’t your mom make dinner in a couple hours?”
“Yeah.”
“Won’t she be upset if you don’t eat?”
“Why wouldn’t I eat?”
“You’re having an entire meal right now.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve never seen me demolish an entire pizza. This is nothing.” He pauses. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Lasagna. Why?”
“What about snack food?”
“Potato chips.”
He jumps up from the table and goes to the pantry. I hear him rummaging around in there, and then he sticks his head out. “Plain or a flavor?”
“Sour cream and chive. Why?”
He emerges with a bag and holds it triumphantly overhead. “You’re in luck.”
After tossing the chips on the table, he sits down and goes back to his cold pizza. I look at the bag and wonder what I should do. It’s a brand-new bag. Does he really want me to open it?
As if reading my thoughts, he reaches over and tears it open, then shoves it in my direction.
“Eat up,” he says. “Winter’s coming. We need to get a little meat on your bones so you don’t freeze to death.”
“You’re trying to fatten me up?”
“Yep.”
That should probably make me mad, but it has the opposite effect. For years, I’ve wanted to look healthy, not like a skeleton. It’s reassuring to see him want the same thing without me ever saying a word about my weight. It’s another small bit of proof I’m in the right place.
I take a chip from the bag and nibble on it. It’s as delicious as expected, and I quickly gobble it up and reach for another. “This may do it,” I say as I eat a third.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.
“Green. Why?”
“How come you’re so suspicious of everything I do or say?”
I shrug. Being in foster care puts you in weird situations. Maybe I react to the weirdness by being suspicious of everyone and everything.
“Just trying to get to know you,” he says before stuffing a big piece of crust into his mouth.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask once he’s swallowed it.
“Blue. Favorite holiday?”
I have to think about that. Holidays weren’t a big thing at home, but I loved the parties we had in elementary school. Especially when they involved candy. “Valentine’s Day. Yours?”
“Christmas. Most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?”
Ugh. The Chase incident. I was hoping to never think about that again. Actually, I’d love to never think about Chase again, but that’s probably never going to happen. Every night after I turn off my bedroom light, I peek out the window to make sure he’s not lurking around outside. So far, so good. Maybe Brad really can keep him away like he said. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but I am grateful. Answering Brad’s question, I say “That’s easy. You saw it last weekend.”
“You’re lucky then.”
I lick the grease off my fingers and ask, “Why do you say that?” I certainly didn’t feel lucky at the time. After it was all over, I guess I was lucky because Gil and Gigi didn’t kick me out and Brad and I are able to pretend it never happened. And Chase does seem to be out of my life as a result of that night, at least for the time being. Regardless, it’s still the most embarrassing thing ever.
“Only two people witnessed your most embarrassing moment. That’s nothing.”
“Yours is worse?”
“Oh yeah.” He takes another bite of pizza, so I wait to hear more. After swallowing, he takes a gulp of Gatorade, and then goes back to the pizza like he has no intention of saying anything else.
“Well?” I finally ask, unable to handle the suspense any longer.
“Well what?”
“What happened?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes!” It’d be nice to have some dirt on Brad, because right now he seems like a saint. I’d love to have some evidence he’s a normal person.
He leans back in his chair and says, “Two years ago, before a game, I was doing squats to warm up and my pants ripped. My ass was hanging out there for the whole world to see, including Mom and my old Sunday-school teacher.”
I cover my mouth to hide my smile.
“And you know what Adam did? You’d think he’d come down from the stands and get me a towel or something, right? Nope. He took a picture that somehow ended up in the hands of my teammates, who teased me forever. They still call me Moonshine.”
I don’t want to laugh at his most embarrassing moment, but it’s a good one.
“Go ahead,” he says, holding his hands out. “Make fun of me all you want.”
“Sorry,” I say. I lose my internal battle and laugh. “That is bad.”
“No kidding. At least only two people witnessed yours.”
“Still, I was horrified. It happened in front of the cute boy I just met and will see every single day.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Cute? I thought I was hot.”
I hold up my finger. “I never said you were hot.” I remember specifically telling him that was other girls, not me.
“That’s right,” he says, nodding. “You had too much other stuff on your mind to think about me that day. It’s good to know your mind’s emptying out so you can focus on more important things like whether I’m hot or cute.”
I roll my eyes. “I have so not been doing that.” Okay, I have, but he doesn’t need to know. He’s hot. Definitely hot.
He shrugs and gives me an innocent look. “Somehow you landed on cute. Seems like you must’ve put some serious thought into it.”
“Nope. It just sounded nicer than ‘pushy, walking-contradiction boy I’ll see every day.’”
He laughs and stands. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I think you’re cute, too,” he says with a quick smile before loading his plate into the dishwasher.
My mouth drops open.
He did not just say that.
Why would he say that?
Before I can collect myself, he returns to the table and points to the chips. “You done?” he asks, as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe I imagined it. There’s no way Brad would find me cute. I must’ve heard him wrong. Or maybe he was just saying it to be nice. Yeah, that has to be it.
It meant absolutely nothing.
I nod and try to hand him the bag, but he shakes his head. “This is your home, too. You need to start acting like you live here.”
“I don’t know where it goes,” I say quietly. I need to just pretend the last few minutes of our conversation never happened. He’s Brad. My foster brother. Not cute Brad or hot Brad. Just Brad my foster brother.
“In the pantry,” he says, clearly already forgetting about our conversation. Seeing him acting totally normal makes it easier for me to forget it, too. He was just being nice. Like he always is.
I open the door of the pantry and peer inside, getting my first good look. It’s organized like shelves at a grocery store, with everything perfectly aligned and labels facing forward. On the top left are four bags of different kinds of chips. Two are opened and have a clip on the top to keep the bags closed.
“Hey, Brad?” I ask.
“Yeah?” he says, coming up behind me. I turn around, but he’s standing way too close and I practically crash into him. My free hand flies up to stop me from falling. It lands right in the middle of his chest. His very muscular chest that feels just as nice as it looks whenever he parades around with his shirt off.
My hand whips back. I so didn’t need that right now. “Sorry. D-do you have any more of those clips?”
“Yep. In the drawer under the oven.” He just stands there, so I take a deep breath before heading to the drawer. When I get there, I see only cookie sheets.
“It’s not here.”
“Try the cabinet next to the microwave.” I give him a confused look over my shoulder. This is one of the few cabinets I’ve actually been in because it holds the plates I always put away after dinner. Still, I open the door. No bag clip.
He says, “The drawer next to the fridge?”
It’s full of pens and pads of paper.
“The corner cabinet?”
It’s filled with small appliances, including a blender and a waffle maker.
“Maybe the cabinet above?”
Coffee mugs.
I put my hands on my hips and stare at him. “What are you doing?”
He grins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re either totally clueless about where things are stored or you’re purposely making me snoop through all your cabinets.”
“Or helping you learn where things are other than our dinner dishes.”
“You really want me just digging through all your cabinets and pantry?”
“Yes. And hanging out downstairs.” He pauses. “Why do you spend so much time up in your room anyway? Are you into some weird satanic shit I should know about?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. You hide out up there until dinner, then scamper back as soon as we’re done. My parents had the basement redone as a hangout place. You’ve been down there twice in a week.”
“It’s not like you’ve invited me down there,” I point out. Granted, the first time I went down there I wasn’t invited, but look what my curiosity got me—drooling over a shirtless Brad.
“It’s your home. No invitation needed.”
I get what he’s saying. It’s looking more and more like I’ll be here for the long haul, but it’s hard not to feel like a guest. When you’re a guest in someone’s home, you don’t just go into their fridge or head to the basement to watch television. “So, you just want me to wander around your house, anywhere I want to go?”
“Yes. Well,” he says, frowning, “you might want to be careful with Mom and Dad’s room. I stay away from there. No one needs to know what happens in their parents’ room.”
“Ewww,” I say, grimacing. “Don’t put images in my head.”
“Gross, right?” He disappears through the doorway with an overhead wave while I still need to find the clip for the chips. I search through a few more drawers before finally finding it next to the plastic wrap. After adding it to the bag, I store the chips in the pantry.
Looking around the kitchen, I realize it doesn’t feel as foreign as it did a week ago. What used to be scary and intimidating is starting to feel familiar and comfortable. And it’s not just the surroundings. Brad and I are figuring things out. We’re slowly getting to some sort of friend or foster-sibling place, although I never pictured myself with a brother or a friend who looked and acted quite like Brad. Even so, it’s actually starting to feel like maybe this is the place I belong.