NINE-YEAR-OLD HARPER WHEATON FINGERED THE FRAYED HEART stitched on the chest of the tattered bear in her arms. She fiddled with its ear—the fur of which was completely rubbed off—and strained to hear the phone conversation in the next room. Even though she was practically holding her breath, she couldn’t make out the hushed whisper. It didn’t matter, though. She knew what was being said, and, finally, she shouted, “I don’t want to stay in this stupid place anyway!”
The door to the next room clicked closed, further muffling the voice, and angry tears slipped down Harper’s cheeks. With a clenched fist, she brushed them away and then pulled the bear tightly against her chest. She hated not having control over things that happened in her life.
She stared at the raindrops trickling down the smudged window and noticed a man walking a dog. The dog had long, silky hair—just like Tom and Mary’s dog. The sudden flash of memory made her sad. The big golden had loved to curl up on the end of her bed when she lived with them. He’d nuzzle his head into her lap and gaze at her lovingly with those sweet brown eyes. Someday, she was going to have a dog just like Sundance, and when she did, she would never make him walk in the rain and get wet! She continued to watch the man holding a small umbrella over both their heads, and then she rolled her eyes. He needs to get a bigger umbrella or raincoats for both of them! People are so stupid sometimes, she thought, propping the musty, flat pillow against the wall and leaning against it.
The tiny room was cleaner than most she’d been in, and she had it all to herself, which had never happened before in her whole life. She loved it, even if it did look like a jail cell. There were no pictures, and the furniture was old and chipped. The narrow bed creaked when she moved, and it smelled like mildew. The only other piece of furniture was a heavy wooden bureau, which was missing three knobs and had C.T. was here carved into its side. Harper stared at the initials. C.T. had to be Connor Taylor, she decided, another kid who was staying at the same foster home and who was Harper’s current nemesis. She could still hear his stupid singsong voice: “Harper’s a baby! She carries a bear with scabies!”
Everyone on the playground had laughed, and Harper had felt her cheeks turn bright red as hot tears filled her eyes. She’d clenched her fists. There was no way she was going to let them see her cry. “I’m gonna kill you, you little shit,” she’d seethed, lunging at him and hurling her fist squarely into his smug face, and then landing a second blow to his soft stomach.
“Who’s the baby now?” she’d sneered as he doubled over in pain.
Afterward, she’d stumbled back, rubbing her chest. She’d closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath, but when she’d turned to sit down, she’d bumped right into Mrs. Lewis. “I don’t feel so good,” she’d mumbled, the rosy flames of embarrassment draining from her face.
“I’d be sick, too, if I behaved like you,” Mrs. Lewis had said unsympathetically.
Harper rubbed her chest again now—the pain was gone, but why did it keep happening?
There was a knock on the door. “Harper?” Mrs. Lewis’s stern voice called.
Harper rolled to her side and pretended she was asleep, but Mrs. Lewis continued.
“Mrs. Grant is on her way over to pick you up,” she said, opening the door. “I’m sorry, this isn’t going to work out. Please get your things together.”
Harper didn’t move. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks and plopped onto the musty pillow. “Why doesn’t Mrs. Grant pick up stupid Connor instead?” she muttered after Mrs. Lewis closed the door.
Harper had been only three years old when one of her mother’s misguided friends knocked on their apartment door because her mom wasn’t answering the phone.
Harper had opened the door, wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. “Mommy won’t wake up,” she explained matter-of-factly.
“Shit,” the stringy-haired woman had muttered, glancing around the filthy apartment as she stepped over beer cans and spilled Cheerios. She’d followed Harper down the hall, and when she saw the splayed-out position of the body on the bed, she’d covered her nose, stepped closer, and stared. “Holy shit!”
Harper had lost track of how many foster homes she’d been in since then. Most had other foster kids, and she’d learned that, although some adults opened their homes out of the goodness of their hearts, others did it for the money they got from the state—or, at least that’s what she’d overheard some other kids say. Harper fully believed she’d landed in more homes of the latter than of those who truly cared, and that was probably why she couldn’t get along—no one gave a crap about her or how she felt—they just wanted the money for taking her in. In all the years she’d been shuffled from one foster home to another, she’d only truly felt welcomed by Tom and Mary . . . and, of course, Sundance.
Within the fostering community, Tom and Mary Larson had been famous for their warmhearted kindness. Their gentleness could turn any child around—no matter how wayward. The child just had to be lucky enough to be placed there. Unfortunately, Tom and Mary had only fostered, they didn’t adopt, and right after Harper was placed in their home, Mary had been diagnosed with cancer. After much deliberation, Tom and Mary had decided they needed to take a break from fostering while Mary recovered from surgery and chemo. Not long after that, Harper overheard Cora Grant, her case worker, telling someone at DFCS that Mary had died and that Tom wouldn’t be fostering any more kids, at least for now.
Harper sat up, wiped her eyes, and touched Bear’s heart, remembering how Mary had carefully cut it out of some pink felt she’d had in her closet and then sewn it over the hole in Bear’s chest. She’d handed Bear back to Harper and, smiling, pulled her into a hug. “Love you, sweetheart,” she’d whispered. It was the only time anyone had ever told her they loved her, and she’d stood there blinking, trying to discern the warm feeling in her chest.
She looked out the window and saw the old man walking back up the street with the dog—both of whom were thoroughly soaked now. The dog stopped to shake, and the man tried to shield himself from the shower, but his umbrella wasn’t big enough. “Get a freakin’ bigger umbrella!” she yelled through the smudged glass. The man didn’t hear her, but the dog looked up and gazed right at her.