Finally, the black SUV was parked again in the parking lot next to the school. The school was long since over, and the parking lot is empty, all except for a white car, which is parked in the spot across from us.
Ms. Wen hops out of the vehicle and tells me to wait. As she does that, the doors of the white car open up, and two people -a man and a woman- hop out.
The man is wearing a black suit with a red tie and has dark hair, which is covered by a hat. The woman has a long black button-up cardigan which covers a long black dress. She has short brown hair, a pointy nose, and a cigarette in her mouth.
They and Ms. Wen talk for a while, and finally, Ms. Wen opens the door to let me out. “Alexa,” she says. “This is Janice and Tyson.” Janice and Tyson look down at me, (well not really because Janice is only two inches taller than me) but not with kindness or sympathy as most other foster parents do. Instead, they look at me with disgust, as if I am a troublemaker or something.
“How old are you?” Janice asks.
“Twelve,” Ms. Wen answers for me. Then she hands me a bag. “I packed your stuff in here for you. Now go hop in their car. Once I finish talking to Janice, Tyson will drive you to their home.”
After they finish talking, Janice hops into the passenger’s seat. She sees me staring at her from the rearview mirror. “What?” she snaps, and this is the end of any conversations for the way there.
We drive past rows and rows of houses until finally, we arrive at a green colored house. The perimeter of their backyard is marked by a wooden fence, most of which has already collapsed. I could tell their front door used to be white, but chips of paint have peeled off over time, leaving specks of gray metal showing. Thet door handle looks rusty. Someone had spray painted the word “Hello” on the side of their house. Quite a few shingles are missing from their roof, and one of the windows on their wooden shed had been smashed.
“Welcome home,” Tyson says, pulling a pair of keys out of his pocket, and using them to unlock the front door. Let me tell you, the inside isn’t much worse from the outside.
The downstairs part of the house smells like smoke, the thin white carpet had all sorts of stains on it, probably from different sorts of drinks being spilled. The couch and chairs are old and worn, with big chunks of fabric missing. The tv wires weren’t hidden behind the tv, so they dangled down the wall to connect with the plug at the bottom of the wall. Finally, the kitchen counter is covered with bottles of wine, more bottles than I have ever seen before.
“The faucet in the downstairs bathroom is broken, and the toilets get clogged often,” Janice says. “If you need anything, get it yourself. Also, we watch tv at night, so if the tv is on too loud, don’t come down to us complaining. Your room is upstairs on the right. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Also never go into the room on the left. Our bedroom is off-limits.” She opens a wooden door in the living room. Behind the wooden door are stairs. “These stairs lead up to our bedrooms,” she says. “Remember, do go into the room on the left!” She shuts the door behind me.
Because there are no lights in the stairway, it is dark, and as I walk up the stairs, I can feel dust and cobwebs beneath my feet. I can tell Janice and Tyson never bothered cleaning here.
Once I’m upstairs, I go to the room on the right, as instructed. When I open the door I find a bare room with a broken desk, a shattered mirror, an old creaky wardrobe, and in the corner, a small mattress lying on the floor.
I open my bag and begin unpacking. I take out my three pairs of shorts, three pairs of pants, six pairs of t-shirts, two pairs of jackets, two pairs of pajamas, and hang them neatly in my new wardrobe. I also take out other stuff, such as my socks. I take out my shoes and place them on the floor next to my bed. I take my out hairbrush and put it on my desk. I also grab an envelope, which holds all of my money; exactly 47 dollars and 6 cents. Then my toothbrush, some toothpaste, my miniature clock, some hair ties, a few books to read, and finally, my iPod, which Ms. Wen gave me last year for Christmas.
At 12:30 when I am finally done unpacking, I change into my pajamas and lay down for some sleep. I am just about to doze off when I hear some yelling. I rush to my window, and sure enough, the neighbors next door had had lights on.
I hear someone yell, “This is all your fault!” and another one yell, “This isn’t my fault, it’s yours!” Then I hear something smash. I wince and go back in my bed to lay down. But before I can fall asleep, I hear my iPod dinging off, one text coming in after another. They’re all from Ms. Wen, sent at about 3:40, saying Where are you? I check my iPod again. The only other message that I got today, besides the ones from Ms. Wen, was from Camille, saying How are you? Good, but exhausted, I reply. See you tomorrow at school. Then I shut my iPod off, stick my pillow over my head to drown out any noise coming from the neighbor’s house, and manage to fall asleep.
