Allie and Bea

“Sometimes we have to own our decisions. Good or bad.”


“Right,” Allie said. “I’m getting that. I thought I got that all along, my whole life. But it turns out I just didn’t have many hard decisions at the time.”



They pulled up in front of a house in Reseda in the San Fernando Valley. It was a big house, but plain. Grayish blue. It could have used a new coat of paint. But Allie had been told she somehow would be welcomed inside the place, so what did paint really matter?

Polyester Lady got out and opened her trunk while Allie pulled her two South American bags from the backseat.

“What’s all that?” Allie asked.

Her social worker was pulling two full-ish garbage bags out of her trunk and setting them on the curb in front of Allie’s new foster home.

“This is everything you left at New Beginnings.”

“Oh. Good. I kind of figured I’d never see that stuff again.”

Allie looked up to see a woman standing at the now-open door of the home and felt gripped with a whole new variety of fear. This woman in the doorway was Allie’s foster mom, and she was a complete and utter stranger. She could be kind. She could be deranged. She could be anything. But she was already the most important person in this next chapter of Allie’s life.



Allie sat in what was suddenly her new kitchen, drinking a glass of iced tea. When the woman looked away for any reason, Allie studied her. She seemed young. Or youngish, anyway. Late thirties. She had short dark hair. Creases on her forehead, maybe from the gravity of life.

Allie wanted to ask what motivated her to take in kids she’d never met before, but couldn’t think of a proper way to phrase such a question.

“Where are all these other kids you said live here?”

“It’s a school day,” the woman said. She had been introduced as Julie Watley, but Allie had no idea what it was proper to call her. “Tomorrow you’ll go, too.”

“But it’s so close to summer vacation. Just a few days, right?”

“Nine days, actually, for the high school. But you have to go. I’m sorry, but attendance in school is mandatory for the foster care system.”

“Okay,” Allie said. “Not a problem.”

She wanted to say thank you. She felt overwhelmed—almost crushed—by the weight of her gratitude to this woman. For taking her. For the simple act of wanting her. But she couldn’t seem to wrap the feeling into words.

“What do I call you?” Allie asked after a time, to break the silence.

“‘Julie’ is fine. So, listen. Tomorrow I’ll take you to school because I have to register you. But after that . . . I have kids in three different levels of school, and I can’t drive everybody everywhere, so I take the youngest ones to elementary. So you’ll have a bus pass, and I’m trusting you to get there on your own. I know that might seem like a burden . . .”

“No,” Allie said. “It’s fine.”

“Oh.” Julie seemed surprised. “Good. Thank you for that positive attitude. A lot of the kids I’ve taken in over the years are used to being driven everywhere, and they’re insulted at the idea.”

“I just appreciate how you’re letting me live here.”

Julie looked up into Allie’s face. Almost right into her eyes, but Allie cut her own gaze away in embarrassment. “You hungry?” Julie asked, without addressing the weightier topics of gratitude and desperation.

“Starving. I’ve barely been getting food because there’s so much I don’t eat.”

“Right. Ms. Manheim told me about that. I have some Cuban black beans and rice if that sounds good. I hope brown rice is okay.”

“It’s . . . perfect,” Allie said, feeling the beginning of prickly tears. “Thank you.”



Allie lay in her single bed in the dark, most definitely not asleep. She had no idea if her new roommate, who was only ten, was sleeping or not. Based on sounds and breathing, Allie guessed not.

“What happened to the girl who had this bed before me?” Allie asked. Her voice was just a whisper. If the little girl was sleeping, Allie didn’t want to wake her.

“She got to go home.”

“Oh,” Allie said. “That’s good. I hope I get to go home sometime soon.”

“I hope you do, too.”

“That’s sweet. Thank you.”

“If you go home I get this room to myself again.”

“Oh. Okay. Less sweet. But I get it. Sorry you have to share.”

“It’s not your fault,” the little girl said. “I know you wouldn’t be here if you had anyplace else to be.”

“You can say that again.”

“I know you wouldn’t be here if you had anyplace else to be,” the girl repeated.

Allie had no idea if it was her idea of a joke, or if she didn’t understand the rhetorical nature of the phrase “You can say that again.” Or maybe the younger girl simply had no sense of irony whatsoever.



On her second morning in the new place, Allie trudged in the direction of the bus stop. She wore her favorite jeans and her best summer-weather shirt, untucked just the way she liked it. She carried an empty backpack—at least, empty except for a brown-bag lunch Allie actually could eat. Julie had said the pack would be filled with books by the end of the day.

It all seemed like a waste to Allie. Eight more days. By the time she felt even halfway caught up with schoolwork, she’d be on summer vacation.

“Need a ride?”

Allie whipped her head around to see a familiar white van pull up to the curb near her left shoulder. She stopped in her tracks, stunned by the sudden familiarity of . . . well, everything.

“Bea. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t have to be here if you don’t want.” With that, the passenger window began to power up again.

“No, I want you here. Really. I was just asking.” The window stopped rising. “I just meant, like . . . how did you find me?”

“I followed you guys from the courthouse.”

Allie stood a moment, taking in the changes. Then she walked two steps to the van and hopped in.

Just like old times.



“She missed me,” Allie said, indicating the cat purring in her lap. “Ow! Phyllis! Ow!”

“Of course she did. Look out for the claws, though, when she’s been missing you.”

“Now you tell me. Why don’t you clip them?”

“If you’d ever tried to clip that cat’s claws, you wouldn’t ask.”

Allie took Julie’s hand-drawn map of the route to school out of her pocket and studied it closely. “I think you turn left at this next light. Why did you leave so fast?”

“Which time?”

“After court.”

“Oh. That. I was humiliated. That judge acted like he didn’t want to hear a word I was saying. He kept gaveling at me and telling me to stop talking.”

“He did that to me, too. I think it’s just how he is. Bea, turn! This is our turn!”

“Oh,” Bea said.

The tires squealed as she swung left.

“I wanted to hear what you said, though. Thanks for showing up in court.”

“Good. I care more about you than I do that damned judge. So if you wanted to hear what I had to say, that’ll do.”