Chapter Eight

It’s not time to worry yet.—Harper Lee

Oakland, California 2006

Damon was surprised to see the same CASA worker across the desk for his monthly meeting. Their Court Appointed Special Advocates, volunteers who were assigned to each foster child, usually lasted less than six months, but there was Happy Cheryl again. That was the nickname the twins had given Cheryl Swillinger because of the giant smile that was always plastered on her face every minute of the day.

They liked the meetings because there were usually cookies. And even though Happy Cheryl spoke to them like they were five years old, she was nice enough. They’d learned over the years not to trust any of the social workers. He and his twin wanted to stay together in the same house, and it seemed like all they ever did was try to find ways to separate them.

“So, how’s it going in your new home?”

“Fine, Ms. Cheryl,” he said, eyeing the open package of macaroons on the table.

“So, how’s Jesse doing, Damon?” she asked, pushing the cookies toward him.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Sure, do you remember my question?” she said after a time, smiling as Damon chewed half a macaroon and shook his head.

“How is Jesse doing?”

Antenna up, he shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.”

“Well, I just talked with Jesse a little and he seemed kinda down. Really down, actually.”

Damon shrugged again. Here we go, again, he thought. “Seems okay to me.”

Actually, Jesse had been real quiet lately. Damon could still make him laugh once in a while, but it seemed like he didn’t care about anything. He also missed the long talks with his brother at night. Dumbass made them sleep in separate rooms. He said it was because they were too noisy. Since his bedroom was on the other side of the house, Damon figured it was just because Dumbass liked to control everything.

“Can you think of anything that’s bothering him?”

Let’s see, Happy Cheryl. Maybe it’s because we don’t have enough to eat, and we have to work every weekend while Dumbass drinks beer and lifts his precious weights. Not to mention worrying about the next time he’ll knuckle punch our shoulders.

He rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly and shrugged again.

“Nothing?”

“Ms. Cheryl,” Damon said, trying to sound grown-up, “the only thing me and Jess really worry about is being separated again.”

“Okay, sweetie. Hey, what do you guys have planned for the big day tomorrow?” He looked at her with a blank stare. “July seventh? Mean anything to you?” she joked.

“Oh, yeah.” Damon smiled. He had not thought about their birthday in a while. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll have something fun planned.”

The conversation moved on to school. Damon would eat another cookie before he left and stuff four more in his jacket pocket for Jesse’s birthday present. That would cheer him up.