“I . . . I . . .”
Paula spoke for me. “Hi, Mrs. Keller. This is Emerson. She’s fifteen and loves to read.”
“What happened to your face, child?”
“My—my . . .”
“She was just removed from the home she shared with her abusive father,” Paula answered for me.
“I know all that. I heard the story. I want to hear her speak. In this house you can speak, Emerson, as long as it’s with respect. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“He was one of those paper mill boys, wasn’t he? None of them are worth a damn, are they? Well, come on in—what are you waiting for?”
Paula put her arm around my shoulder and walked me into the house. “Mrs. Keller,” Paula said, “can I see where Emerson will be sleeping?”
“Sure can. Follow me.”
The house smelled of citrus wood cleaner. It was tidy and quiet for a house with four children. I held on to the freshly polished wooden banister as I made my way up the stairs behind Mrs. Keller and Paula.
Paula, a thin, fit woman in her thirties, was out of breath by the time we got to the third story, yet Mrs. Keller, with her rotund body, barely even broke a sweat. Once we reached the landing, Mrs. Keller led us to a small room in the attic space beneath the pitched roof. It was immaculate. You could see the vacuum passes in the carpet, and the single bed under the window was draped with a pristine pink chiffon and lace comforter.
“Fit for a princess,” Paula said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “This is amazing.”
“You’ll be expected to keep this space tidy,” Mrs. Keller said.
Paula turned to me. “Why don’t you get your suitcase? I’m going to ask Mrs. Keller a few questions in the meantime.”
“Okay.”
On my way downstairs, I spotted a little girl peeking at us from around the corner.
“Hi,” I called out to her. To my surprise, she came out and stood before me. “Hi, I’m Sophia.” She had long, perfectly combed blonde hair that framed her angelic face.
“I’m Emerson.” I held my hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
I had never heard a child talk that way. “How old are you?”
“I’m eight. How old are you?”
“I’m fifteen. I’ll be sixteen in July.”
“Only three months away. Lucky you.”
“Yep. Do you like it here?”
“Yeah, I love it.”
“How old are the other kids?” I asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few pairs of feet. Then I heard the sound of pitter-pattering, coupled with the glorious sound of children giggling. “Come out, you guys,” Sophia called out before turning back to me. “They’re really excited to meet you.”
From behind the stairs came three little boys, all around the same age. “The twins are Brandon and Daniel. They’re five. Thomas is six.”
“Hi, Emerson,” they said, almost in unison.
“Hi, guys.”
They ran up to me and hugged my legs.
Sophia smiled. “They’re really sweet, but they can be a pain in the butt too. And they eat a lot.”
“I think I’m gonna like it here. How are the Kellers?”
“They’re great. You just have to follow their rules.”
“Of course,” I said. That sounds totally reasonable.
“I mean they have a zero-tolerance policy. They’re very good to the children they foster, but they don’t get attached. A lot of the older kids don’t last long here because they get into trouble.”
I wondered what these rules entailed, but just then, Mr. Keller appeared in the hallway. “Emerson, I’m Mr. Keller.” He shook my hand. He was wearing a plaid Pendleton shirt and Dockers with a perfect crease down the front of each leg. He had a well-groomed beard and a kind face.
“Hello,” I said.
“Kids, go finish your chores and let me have a word with Emerson.”
Three pairs of feet scurried away, but Sophia kept looking back at me as she walked up the stairs.
“We run a good home here, Emerson, but you should know we don’t take a lot of teenagers because we don’t like putting up with the drama. Okay?”
“I understand.”
He didn’t waste any time before laying out the expectations. “Your social worker said you’d focus on schoolwork, do your chores, and follow the rules. Can we count on you to do that?”
“I will, I promise. But what are the rules exactly?”
“Only school-and church-affiliated extracurricular activities. Homework and chores must be done before dinner. You’re expected to attend church and Bible study on Sundays. And respect for all members of the house is required. We don’t tolerate any talking back.”
“So . . . no social life?”
He blinked at me for ten uncomfortably long seconds. “Is that all you got out of that?” Before I could answer, he said, “Judging by the look of your face, you’re in need of a safe place to live. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Follow the rules and you’ll get that here,” he said, and then he walked away.