Normally I’d never be so forward with a stranger, but he brings out a new side of me.
Something drags down in my lower belly, the tugging of some cord, as I remember standing near him. Up close, I felt it even more: that quiet energy I noticed when I first saw him—a blend of aloofness and something else…a kind of holding back. This feeling that he’s got up walls—but I can feel something behind them.
I don’t know anything about him.
But I want to.
I don’t know why I have this feeling, like this boy is the most important person I’ve ever met, but I’m taking it home with me. I’m going to curl up with it tonight, and wake up with it tomorrow, and keep thinking on it.
I’m still replaying our encounter when I remember—I’ll get to meet the new kid when I get home.
He’ll be my eleventh foster sibling. We’ve had three babies, four toddlers, and four other kids over the years—all under the age of ten.
The babies usually aren’t with us for long. Most parents clean up their act fast when there’s a squishy baby on the line. The toddlers are usually temporary, too, most often because of a hiccup in their adoption process. The older kids are available for adoption while we have them. In two of our four older kid cases, the kids’ parents had passed, and no one was immediately around to take them, so we had them briefly while their extended families regrouped. In one other one, the girl was a cute, curly haired four-year-old who, by chance, got adopted out of our house.
And in the last case, the boy had…troubles. He was only ten, but the poor guy had a lot of baggage. He threw a butter knife at Em when she was crying, rolled my father’s bowling ball down the stairs because he wanted a toy I had, and called our housekeeper a bitch. Those things were okay—my parents didn’t want to give up on him—but then one day, he walked up to the waterfall in the woods behind our house, swallowed a bunch of water, and told my mother, who was hot on his heels, that he wanted to drown himself. We wanted to keep him with us and help him, but my parents work too much to offer a good home to a kid with additional needs. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone. So he got shifted into a high-needs home.
Our spare bedroom was vacant for a long time after that—close to a year. And then Mom and Dad got the call about Landon.
I think about him as we gather at the edge of the practice field behind the school, listen to the drum major give her criticisms, then trudge into the band classroom in the back right quadrant of the school.
I listen to Makayla, who plays flute, complain about her sore feet as we pack our instruments away. She tells me Pax might get suspended for the fight with James, and my heart seems to stop.
“Oh, really? Do you think the new guy is in trouble too?”
She shakes her head. “Pax told me in history that it’s only him they’re mad at. They believed the new boy’s story.”
“Why’d Pax do that anyway? Who starts a fight like that with a new kid?”
Makayla shrugs. “He says he really thought that was his shirt.”
Poor Pax. He really isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. He has good qualities, like pizzazz and loyalty, but he’s not so good at keeping his cool.
“That’s sad,” I say, as I hoist my heavy backpack up onto my shoulders.
“It is,” Makayla agrees. “So…call me later?” She’s walking through the band classroom, toward the hallway, and ultimately toward cheer practice in the basketball gymnasium.
“For sure,” I say, as I make for the classroom’s back door. I usually go through the hallway, too, but I’m not in the mood to deal with all the hustle and bustle as everyone pours out of school. I’d rather walk around the building, even in the heat, so I can have more time with my thoughts.
I’m almost to the door when Mr. Browne, the band instructor, calls my name. I turn around.
“I forgot—I got a note for you during practice.” He hands me a small, folded slip of paper.
“Thanks.”
I walk outside and unfold it.
Evie’s mother called. Evie should call Mom before going home. Important. The word important is underlined twice.
I swallow. Did something happen? I hesitate a second, thinking of pulling my book bag off to get to my phone, but I decide that I can wait until I reach the car. If it is an emergency, I’d rather find out about it inside the privacy of my car.
After a few minutes walking through warm grass, I reach the parking lot and the crowd spilling out the front doors. As I scan the throng of people rushing toward their cars, I notice a tall figure ahead of me. My stomach does a flip-flop. It’s him—James.
With a book in his hand and his head dipped, he’s walking between cars, headed toward the rear of the lot.
I trail him as he passes two more rows, rows I need to cross anyway to get to my Focus. He slows near my car, and my heart hammers at the thought that maybe we parked by each other.
I’m getting closer now—close enough that I could throw a rock and hit him. He turns toward the school, and I think he’s about to unlock the white truck beside my Focus. Then he leans against my car.
My stomach bottoms out as my throat tightens.
What?
He folds his arms and tips his head back, looking at the sky. He doesn’t move from where he leans against my passenger side door.
I think frantically of stopping, opening up my bag, calling my mom, but my legs don’t seem to get the message. I keep moving until I reach the car’s hood. Our eyes meet, and for a long moment, we stand there staring at each other like a deer stares when you spot one in the forest—a long, calm, assessing look while the wheel of time slows, jerks, and then jolts forward a few notches.
I know before we exchange words. And even so, I have to say them.
“Why are you at my car?” My voice sounds hoarse.
I can see his brows rumple, his eyes sharpen as he assesses me with a look that seems both skeptical and irritated. “Are you Evelyn?” he says at last.
“I’m Evie.”
His gaze falls to his battered sneakers for a moment before tugging back to mine. “Evie…I’m your foster brother.”
Three
Evie
“But…” I shake my head. “Your name is—”
“James Landon.” I think I must gape, because his eyes roll in response. “I know, I know. It’s a shock to all. My social worker called the school, told me my chart had a misprint: seven instead of seventeen. During a phone call, someone mentioned me being the same age as your parents’ daughter. My social worker assumed they were talking about you.”
And my parents thought the boy would be Em’s age.
“So…” My head feels buzzy.
“Will you let me in? It’s hot as fuck out here.”
I let him in, crank the car, and step back out to call my mom, my backside leaned against my door. She confirms what Landon told me.
“I talked to his social worker all morning, and I still think he’s a fit for us. Can you go to the office and find him? Theresa—his SW—told me he still wants to come to us.”
“He’s already in my car,” I tell her in a low tone. “I’m outside of it.”