eyes. “I was hungry.”
“It’s two a.m., Larry. Did you get any sleep?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Yeah, a little. Want in on this?”
God, no. I shook my head, sank into a kitchen chair, and yawned.
Larry put the food away and joined me at the table. “You look zonked.”
“Up early dealing with a bunch of guys in bunker gear all morning? Yeah, zonked pretty much covers it.”
Larry smirked and took a healthy bite out of his sandwich.
I brought my knees up, curled my arms around them, and sighed. I could still smell the savory scents from that night’s dinner. Mrs. Beckett cooked real food. Oh, she’s not a chef or anything, but she’s a hell of a lot better than that one foster house where I had to write down every bite I took.
“I like it here,” Larry whispered in the dark.
I thought about that for a second. “Me too.”
He took another bite and stared at his sandwich. “I got hit once for this.”
“Eating?”
“No. Taking extra.”
“That sucks.” We had it good here. Well, as long as we never touched Mr. Beckett’s potato chips. Mrs. Beckett bought individual bags of them by the carton from the warehouse store. I was kind of surprised Mr. Beckett wasn’t a giant walking zit from all that grease.
“Yeah.” He licked ketchup off a finger. “The Becketts are kinda normal, you know?”
I shrugged. I was pretty sure all foster families had quirks and secrets, but the Becketts were sitcom parents compared to that one home where the parents were like military commanders, always barking orders.
“My dad used to sneak out after he thought I was sleeping and come back with all this crap like computers and cell phones and cameras.”
Larry’s dad was in year two of a five-year sentence. The court had not been able to find his mom. I wondered if they were still looking. “Oh, Larry, I’m sorry.”
Larry shook his head. “It’s not your fault.” He chewed quietly. “I don’t miss him,” he whispered.
He grabbed what was left of his sandwich and hurried back up the stairs, bare feet squeaking on the wooden floor. I thought about it for another minute and followed. I kind of missed my mom—or the life we used to have before Dmitri. But now? I hope I never see her again.
I lay in my warm bed under yards and yards of soft downy comforter and burrowed into pillows. My stomach didn’t rumble—not from hunger or fear. I thought about tall boys with lean muscle and toasty-brown hair. Somewhere, in the back of my brain, just before sleep pulled me under, I was sure I heard the front door squeak open.
***
The sun woke me up late Sunday morning. I shot out of bed and hurried downstairs, biting back a curse when my foot landed on something sharp. At the foot of the stairs, there was…a tiny piece of wood and dirt. A piece of tree bark or something and some dark flecks. I bent to examine the chunk and discovered it wasn’t bark—it was mulch. Larry probably forgot to wipe his feet, and Mrs. Beckett would have a heart attack. She was a ruthless housekeeper. I headed for the kitchen, tossed the chunk of wood into the trash, and grabbed a plate.
“There’s the sleepyhead,” Mr. Beckett said, grinning at me over his coffee cup.
“Eggs, Amanda?” Mrs. Beckett stood by the stove, wrapped in a robe. Larry was already half-done with his breakfast.
“Yes, please.” I handed her my plate.
“I was just about to come up, make sure you’re not sick.” Mr. Beckett said.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Didn’t sleep well.”
“Oh?” The smile slid off his face.
“Yeah, I heard a noise in the middle of the night. I got up but didn’t notice anything weird.”
His forehead creased, and then it was gone. “This is a safe place. You know you have nothing to be afraid of here, right?”
I felt a tiny pinch under my heart and smiled at the sincerity on his face. I didn’t know if it was God or just dumb luck, but however I got here, I was grateful. I loved it here, but I could never
“It’s two a.m., Larry. Did you get any sleep?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Yeah, a little. Want in on this?”
God, no. I shook my head, sank into a kitchen chair, and yawned.
Larry put the food away and joined me at the table. “You look zonked.”
“Up early dealing with a bunch of guys in bunker gear all morning? Yeah, zonked pretty much covers it.”
Larry smirked and took a healthy bite out of his sandwich.
I brought my knees up, curled my arms around them, and sighed. I could still smell the savory scents from that night’s dinner. Mrs. Beckett cooked real food. Oh, she’s not a chef or anything, but she’s a hell of a lot better than that one foster house where I had to write down every bite I took.
“I like it here,” Larry whispered in the dark.
I thought about that for a second. “Me too.”
He took another bite and stared at his sandwich. “I got hit once for this.”
“Eating?”
“No. Taking extra.”
“That sucks.” We had it good here. Well, as long as we never touched Mr. Beckett’s potato chips. Mrs. Beckett bought individual bags of them by the carton from the warehouse store. I was kind of surprised Mr. Beckett wasn’t a giant walking zit from all that grease.
“Yeah.” He licked ketchup off a finger. “The Becketts are kinda normal, you know?”
I shrugged. I was pretty sure all foster families had quirks and secrets, but the Becketts were sitcom parents compared to that one home where the parents were like military commanders, always barking orders.
“My dad used to sneak out after he thought I was sleeping and come back with all this crap like computers and cell phones and cameras.”
Larry’s dad was in year two of a five-year sentence. The court had not been able to find his mom. I wondered if they were still looking. “Oh, Larry, I’m sorry.”
Larry shook his head. “It’s not your fault.” He chewed quietly. “I don’t miss him,” he whispered.
He grabbed what was left of his sandwich and hurried back up the stairs, bare feet squeaking on the wooden floor. I thought about it for another minute and followed. I kind of missed my mom—or the life we used to have before Dmitri. But now? I hope I never see her again.
I lay in my warm bed under yards and yards of soft downy comforter and burrowed into pillows. My stomach didn’t rumble—not from hunger or fear. I thought about tall boys with lean muscle and toasty-brown hair. Somewhere, in the back of my brain, just before sleep pulled me under, I was sure I heard the front door squeak open.
***
The sun woke me up late Sunday morning. I shot out of bed and hurried downstairs, biting back a curse when my foot landed on something sharp. At the foot of the stairs, there was…a tiny piece of wood and dirt. A piece of tree bark or something and some dark flecks. I bent to examine the chunk and discovered it wasn’t bark—it was mulch. Larry probably forgot to wipe his feet, and Mrs. Beckett would have a heart attack. She was a ruthless housekeeper. I headed for the kitchen, tossed the chunk of wood into the trash, and grabbed a plate.
“There’s the sleepyhead,” Mr. Beckett said, grinning at me over his coffee cup.
“Eggs, Amanda?” Mrs. Beckett stood by the stove, wrapped in a robe. Larry was already half-done with his breakfast.
“Yes, please.” I handed her my plate.
“I was just about to come up, make sure you’re not sick.” Mr. Beckett said.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Didn’t sleep well.”
“Oh?” The smile slid off his face.
“Yeah, I heard a noise in the middle of the night. I got up but didn’t notice anything weird.”
His forehead creased, and then it was gone. “This is a safe place. You know you have nothing to be afraid of here, right?”
I felt a tiny pinch under my heart and smiled at the sincerity on his face. I didn’t know if it was God or just dumb luck, but however I got here, I was grateful. I loved it here, but I could never
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