Forever Ours (2 page)

“We already have three uptempo songs. This song is about starving. Not exactly an uptempo topic.” I plug my electric-acoustic guitar into the amp and sit on the barstool I stole from the breakfast bar in the kitchen. “Where’s Rachel?”

“She’s at her sister’s soccer game.”

“I thought she hated her sister.”

Jake taps his foot on the bass drum pedal as he continues to leaf through my notes. “Her parents made her go. It’s some fucking state championship thing.”

“I didn’t know she played at that level. No wonder she’s hot as fuck.” I grab my digital tuner off the coffee table and set it down on my knee so I can tune the guitar. “Is Rachel still gonna play on this one?”

“Yeah, yeah. I already talked to her about it.”

The doorbell rings and I’m confused for about four seconds before I remember the call I got from my mom this morning. We’re getting another foster kid today. We haven’t had any kids for over a month and, truthfully, I’ve enjoyed the peace. I like being able to practice whenever I want without having to worry if I’m waking up a napping toddler. But they weren’t supposed to bring today’s kid until four p.m. They’re two hours early.

I open the door, prepared to greet the social worker with the usual,
My mom will be here any minute
, but when I open the door Tristan is standing there with Freddy Zimmerman from auto shop class.

“You’re late. And why the fuck are you ringing the doorbell?”

Tristan enters ahead of Freddy and they both head straight to the living room with their instruments. Freddy started practicing with us a couple of months ago when I casually mentioned to Rachel that she should play piano on “Hunger.” Tristan hates Rachel, so he took it upon himself to invite Freddy over to practice the piano part on his keyboard. I warned Tristan that I didn’t want this guy playing that fucking keyboard on any of my songs. His response was to remind me that they’re not just my songs.

Tristan sets his bass down on the recliner and his amp on the floor, then he pounds fists with Jake. “I rang the doorbell to make you get your sorry ass up.”

“I thought you were a fucking foster kid,” I reply, closing the door.

“I thought you guys didn’t have any kids right now.”

“Nah, we’re getting a new one today. A runaway.”

“Girl or guy?” Tristan asks, slinging the strap of his bass over his shoulder.

“Girl. I think her name is Claire.”

“Maybe they’ll send one your age this time,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Nah, an older girl would be better. They know what they’re doing,” Freddy says, plugging in his keyboard.

I shake my head. No matter how many times I tell them that I’m not allowed to even say anything inappropriate to a foster kid, Tristan still always suggests it.

“You know I can’t do that. And you can’t talk like that when she gets here or my mom can get cited.”

“Whatever. You need to get laid. How long has it been since… what was her name?”

I set the tuner back on the coffee table and settle the guitar in my lap. “Erin. And that was only two months ago.”

We run through the song a few times before Tristan decides he’s going to try to get the neighbor to buy us some beer. He takes off and I decide to start playing something else. I don’t want to give Freddy the impression that Jake and I want him there or that he’s part of the band. Rachel’s playing the piano on this song no matter how many times Tristan brings this asshole over here.

I grab my electric guitar and plug it in so I can play “Little Wing” by Jimi Hendrix. Jake and Freddy look on as I transition right out of the opening solo into “Stairway to Heaven.” About thirty minutes pass before the doorbell rings again, right when I’m in the middle of playing “I Want You” by the Beatles. It’s probably Tristan being a dick again.

“Come in!” I shout at the door from where I’m now sitting on the carpet next to the coffee table.

The doorknob jiggles a little then it slowly begins to turn. I knew it was Tristan.

I go back to playing and I’m nearly at the end when I hear the thud of something dropping on the floor behind me. I turn around and a skinny girl with stringy blonde hair and wide blue eyes is staring at us like she just walked in on a fucking murder scene.

Chapter Three

Claire

Forever Asleep

I’m dead on my feet. I’m so tired I can barely drag myself out of Carol’s SUV. I just want to go to sleep and wake up in
 
August when I’m sixteen and I can get a work permit; or in two years and four months when I’ll be eighteen—when I age out of the system—and I can say goodbye to foster homes forever.
 

A woman with short brown hair and round hips comes out of a white van labeled Wickedly Sweet Bakery. She slides the side door open and grabs a pink box off the seat, then she turns on her heel and makes her way toward Carol and me. The smile on her face vanishes the instant she sees me.

“Oh, my goodness,” she says with a slight Carolina accent. “You’re bone-thin, darling.”

I turn away and pretend to adjust my backpack on my shoulder so I don’t have to respond to this.

“She hasn’t slept all night. I know you just got home from work, but is her room ready?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Everything’s all set. Honey, you go on ahead and Chris will show you to your room while I talk to Carol. Here, I’ll take that backpack for you.”

“I don’t need help,” I say, backing up as she holds her hand out for me to give her my bag. “I’ll just go inside.”

I carry my backpack up the front walk of the two-story house in West Raleigh. At least this place is a little nicer than most of the homes I’ve stayed in. A lot of foster parents are just in it for the money, and the money’s not even that great. But I guess to some people, it’s better than sitting in an office all day for a little more than minimum wage. One of the foster families I stayed with was pretty nice, until they couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to hang out and watch Disney movies with their kids all day long. People are inherently greedy. If they take you into their home, it doesn’t matter to them that they’re getting paid. They want you to get down on your knees and thank them for taking you in. They question why you don’t want to eat their shitty meals. Or why you wake up screaming in the middle of the night with the image of your dead mother’s body half-hanging off the sofa. There’s no privacy. I’m just tired of feeling like an unwanted guest. I want my own home with my own food, my own bed, my own shower.
 

But I’d give all that up to have my mom back.

I hesitate for a moment before I press the button for the doorbell. Immediately, I hear a male voice shout for me to come in. His mom probably told him to expect me, but he could at least answer the fucking door. I shake my head as I turn the doorknob and slowly push the door open.

My caseworker, Carol, flat out told me that this would be my last placement. If I screw this one up, I’ll be sent to a halfway house until I turn sixteen in August. The moment I step into the living room, I know I’ll be seeing the inside of that halfway house soon.

Three guys sit around a coffee table, two of them on the sofa and one cross-legged on the floor with a guitar in his lap. The one with the guitar wears a gray beanie and his dark hair falls around his face in jagged wisps. He’s humming a tune I recognize as a Beatles song my mom used to play: “
I Want You
.”

The thud of my backpack hitting the floor gets his attention and he looks straight into my eyes. “Are you Claire?” he asks. His voice is smooth with just a hint of a rasp.

I nod and he sets his guitar down on the floor in front of him. My body tenses as he walks toward me. My mom taught me never to trust men or boys. She was so candid with me about the ways she was violated by her uncle from the time she was nine until she was fourteen. I followed my mom’s advice for eight years and I haven’t been so much as hugged the wrong way. I’ve kept myself safe, but only by getting myself kicked out of every foster home at the slightest hint that someone might see me as prey. This guy in the beanie doesn’t look like a predator, but looks can be deceiving.

He grabs the handle of my backpack and nods toward the stairs. “I’m Chris. I’ll take you to your room.”

I follow him up the stairs and down a hallway to the last door, which stands open, waiting for me. The house smells like a mixture of lavender and cupcakes. It’s kind of comforting, but I don’t want to get too comfortable here. Chris sets my backpack down on the floor in a plain bedroom with a teddy bear wallpaper border. I’m accustomed to sleeping in bedrooms decorated like a toddler’s playroom, so this is nothing new.

“My mom wouldn’t let me take that stupid border down,” he says, lifting his chin toward the ceiling as he digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He’s apologizing to me over a wallpaper border?
Great.
I can already tell this guy is going to get too friendly with me.

As he looks up at the wallpaper, I see a thin nose ring dangling from his septum.

“I don’t care about the wallpaper. I just want to go to sleep.”

His lip quirks up in confusion. “It’s three o’clock.”

“I haven’t slept. I got kicked out last night and I spent the night at the police station. I refuse to sleep in the presence of strangers.” It was no surprise to me when the cops took me back to the Walkers’ house and they didn’t want anything to do with me.

“Afraid someone will shank you in your sleep?” He smiles, so amused with himself, and I notice another piercing in his tongue. This guy thinks he’s so fucking cool.

“I’m not having sex with you,” I declare, crossing my arms over my chest—not that there’s much to hide.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I see the way you’re looking at me.”

“Yeah, all right. I guess I’ll let you sleep and maybe when you wake up you’ll chill the fuck out and realize that just because someone’s nice to you it doesn’t mean they want to fuck you.”

My eyes widen at these words. I want to tell him to get the fuck out, but I’m dumbfounded.
 

He sees my shock and his face softens. “Or you can come downstairs and hang out and maybe I’ll play you
a song
.”

Chapter Four

Chris

Forever Practicing

She doesn’t saying anything, but I can see that she’s interested. She’s probably never had anyone offer to play a song for her. Something about her is strange. As I step aside for her to leave the room ahead of me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere. Maybe we went to the same school at some point.

“Do you go to ADHS?” I ask as she descends the stairs.

“I went there for a couple months last year until I got moved to a home in Durham.”

Her voice sounds a little scratchy, like she’s been screaming at a concert or sporting event all day long. She’s probably just thirsty, or hungry judging by the way her T-shirt and jeans hang loosely.
 

“You want something to drink. We’ve got orange juice, Capri-Sun, milk, and water. And coffee, if you’re into that.” She steps down into the foyer and Tristan is back with a six-pack of Bud Light. “Put that away. My mom’s outside.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, tucking the six-pack behind one of the throw pillows on the blue sofa. “Who’s this?”

“Hey, everyone, this is Claire.” I look to her and she looks so uncomfortable. She’s looking everywhere but at my friends. “We should probably finish up tomorrow. My mom will be here in a minute.”

“Are you kicking us out?” Tristan says, the left side of his mouth turning up. He probably thinks I’m telling them to leave so I can try to hook up with Claire.

“Yeah, get the fuck out. We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow. But Rachel will be here, so don’t get any ideas.”

Tristan rolls his eyes and I lead Claire into the kitchen while they pack up their shit.

“You can grab anything you want. There’s nothing off limits.” She stands next to the breakfast bar staring at the fruit bowl on the counter. “My mom will probably ask you to make a list of stuff you need from the store; food, shampoo, all that girl stuff.”

She looks almost as surprised as she did when I told her I didn’t want to get in her panties.
 

“
Anything
I want?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don’t think you can put ponies on layaway at Walmart, but I’m sure she’d try if you put that on your list.” This gets a faint smile out of her. “My mom will be in here soon and she’ll probably want to cook something for you.”

Something about this makes her hang her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Look, no offense, but you look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“No offense?” She looks up at me. “Telling someone they look like they’re starving probably doesn’t sound that offensive, but it is.”

“Sorry. I just…. Well, you don’t have to eat, but my mom makes dinner every day whether you want to eat it or not.”

“Just a typical American family, huh?”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means.” I open up the refrigerator and reach into the box of Capri-Sun to pull out a pouch for her. Shit. It’s the last one. “Here.” I place the drink on the breakfast bar in front of her. “We can hang out in the living room while my mom cooks. Unless you want to go to bed.”