chapter 2

There are six kids living in this group home. Six girls. Messed-up babes from all over the place. I haven’t really talked to any of them much yet. The one sharing my room seems to like taking sharp stuff and decorating herself with it. Personally, I prefer tatts. I guess they cost a little more, but they last longer and look better.

I’ve only met two workers so far. One of them looks pretty scared and shaky about the whole idea of hanging out with a bunch of fostergirls-turned-grouphomechicks who are basically a bunch of whacked-out mental cases—except for me, of course. She might be kind of fun to mess with. The other one looks pretty mean and tough, like she isn’t scared of anyone at all. She might be even more fun to mess with.

Not that I’m actually going to make the effort to mess with either of them. It’s not worth my time. After my next birthday, I can apply for legal emancipation. Sounds fancier than it is. It just means that I can get my own apartment and find a job and not have to deal with anyone but myself. It bites that I’ll still have to go to school until I’m eighteen because some politician with nothing better to do than ruin kids’ lives got it into his pin head that kids are better off in school than out working. But I can still try to get out of the fostergirl crap and into a “supervised” apartment when I’m sixteen. I’m counting the days—using those good fostergirl math skills.

Meanwhile, I have to survive in this group home place. I have to keep my nose out of everyone’s business and play nice with the workers. I have to go to school and not get kicked out or I mess up my probation.

I can do that.

Just so long as everyone else leaves me alone.

Every night here they have these house meetings. We all have to sit around and talk about what’s going on and what isn’t and make important decisions like who gets to use the bathroom first in the morning. Actually, not everyone is forced to go to every single bore fest. There are two little kids who live here; they’re like ten years old or something. Their names are Krista and Kendra, I think. I don’t know. I haven’t really paid much attention. Everyone just calls them the Ks. They hang out together all the time and they don’t have to do all the same stuff as us, like come to all of these meetings. Which doesn’t seem fair to me. Why do I get punished just for being my age?

“I’m in grade eleven so I should have longer on the computer because I have more homework!” My roommate is whining again. Her name is Charlene something, and she doesn’t talk much. Except to whine about needing everything she doesn’t already have.

“So, I’m in grade nine, which means I’m in my first year of high school. I need it more because I’m trying to get adjusted to a whole new kind of school, not just a new grade!” That one’s Buffy. Really. She doesn’t seem to have another name, which is too bad for her. Maybe if I had a name like Buffy I’d be a pain in the butt too. Not that Sadie is any great shakes, but at least I’m not named after some cheerleader who sticks vampires in her free time.

“We have a schedule set up. Everyone has equal time. We only have the two computers, so you will have to figure out a way to make it work. Problem solve.”

“You problem solve. You made the problem by being too cheap to get us each our own computer!” This mouth belongs to Alisha—big, tough, and darker than me. It seems like it would be a good idea to get on her good side. If she has one, that is.

“House rules, Alisha. We talk it out and work it out. Buying new computers isn’t an option.” Sandi, the tough-as-nails worker lady, folds her arms and leans back in her chair. Brenda, the soft-as-toilet-paper worker lady, leans forward and opens up her hands toward us as if she wants a group hug or something equally repulsive.

“I wish we could buy you each your own equipment, but we only have so much funding for each of you. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but we can find a way to make it work.” She smiles at us, all kind of mushy eyed. Alisha swears at her, long and loud.

“Alisha.” The word is quiet and Sandi doesn’t move a muscle when she says it, but it still makes big Alisha get up and go to her room, shaking her head and muttering all kinds of really interesting combinations of swear words that I decide to store away and pull out when I need them. Brenda sits back and pulls her arms in, looking a little teary eyed. I don’t think she’s going to last long in this place.

“So, ladies, anyone have a solution?” Sandi looks at each of us. She has this way of staring at you that kind of makes you feel like lasers might start shooting out of her eyes if you say the wrong thing. I should figure out how she does that. It would come in handy at school.

“I don’t need it.” The words pop out of my mouth without permission. Maybe I’m channelling that Rhiannon kid.

“What do you mean, you don’t need it?” Charming Charlene says, sounding like a total snot rag.

I ignore her. I have a suspicion that I’m going to regret opening my mouth. Actually, I already do regret it. Makes me too visible, my mouth all open and moving and making sounds like that. Stupid Sadie!

“What do you mean, Sadie?” Sandi asks this time. She doesn’t sound like a snot rag. She sounds like one of those army generals in bad movies who can force anyone to do whatever she wants them to without ever raising her voice. I resist the urge to stand up straight and salute her.

“I mean, I’m not into computers.” Shut up, shut up, shut up!

“We aren’t discussing recreational computer time. We are talking about schoolwork.” Brenda seems to have decided to try talking again. She isn’t quite so warm and fuzzy this time. Trying to copy Sandi. The pathetic major trying to be like the general, but never getting the stripes. I don’t answer. Just shrug, and wish Sandi would use her laser eyes to blast me into another dimension.

“Sadie?” Sandi again. One-word sentences that make you pay attention. I hate that.

“I don’t really use the computer much for school. I don’t always have one, so I just do without. You can split my time between the others. I don’t care.” Shut up, Sadie.

“Not a viable solution. You are in a new school. You can’t be sure what’s expected. You need your time. Everyone needs their time.” I shrug again, and this time it seems to be enough. They keep on talking, and I just shut them all out. It isn’t my problem. I don’t care about computers. Homework is not really a priority for me.

I don’t really do school. I go to school and I sit there and sometimes I listen, on the rare occasions that someone says something remotely interesting, but I don’t do school. I don’t worry about getting good marks and making my teacher happy by getting my homework in on time and making it all pretty. I don’t waste my time reading all of the stupid books they give us. I can’t think of anything more boring than actually reading a book from cover to cover. Why would I want to do that? Spend hours and hours reading about some imaginary person’s life? Real life is pointless enough. Math is pretty pointless, too, but sometimes I do it just to keep busy. Every once in a while I pay enough attention in math to pass a test or two. I actually made it through most of grade nine, even though I floated through three schools last year. Then again, maybe that’s the reason I made it through. No one knew enough about me to flunk me, so it was easier just to let me pass. Except in English class. Couldn’t pull off a pass, so I’m stuck reading boring stories with a bunch of grade nine babies for another year, which is going to totally suck.

This new school is going to be no different than all of the rest. For the first while, the teachers will try to figure me out and complain that there aren’t any decent records on me because I’ve been to so many schools. A few of them will feel a little sorry for me and try to give me extra help and maybe give me a decent mark that I don’t deserve because it’s easier than making a decision about what to do with me. A couple of them might try to push me a little and tell me I’m not meeting my potential and fail me to make me work harder. Another one of those brilliant motivational teacher strategies that work so well.

By the time all this happens, I’ll be out of the group home one way or another and I’ll be somewhere else, starting at a new school. I’m used to the pattern, and it works for me. No teacher ever really gets to know me well enough to really figure out what I can do. Which is fine by me, because I can’t do much and I’d be just as happy to keep that my secret.