A few seconds pass, and the stupid muscle in my chest finally stops thrashing about like a fish out of water. I am able to breathe and get out of bed, reaching for the baseball bat I keep close at hand. Moving to the door, I place my hand against the wooden panel, expecting to feel heat radiating through the thin material. This has become a routine for me; but like the thousands of other times I have done this, the wood is cool to the touch. Next, I turn the knob and step into the corridor, breathing deeply to try to detect any hint of smoke.
The unmistakable odor of tobacco tickles my nostrils, and I screw up my face in distaste. Professor Brown must have just walked by. That man must go through at least two packs a day, and his clothes reek with the stench of chemicals. He leaves a lingering trail behind him everywhere he goes, reminiscent of rotting flesh and decaying teeth. Sadly, it’s not the worst way I’ve ever seen a foster parent waste the money he’s receiving to help the children in his care.
The elderly “professor” has been retired for many years, and his bank account dried up a long time ago. His monthly pension and the income from fostering just aren’t enough to sustain his filthy habits. I sometimes wonder if I’ve eaten more satisfying meals while huddled around a trash can fire or spending the night on a park bench than I have in this home. This is just one of the countless reasons I am eager to head off to college and leave this cold and unpleasant place behind.
I had a home. I had a loving family. This is nothing like that.
Convinced that the house isn’t burning to ashes, I step back into my room. I listen closely for a moment longer, just to double-check that there are no intruders intent on murdering me in my sleep. The only sound that reaches my ears is the faint clickety-clack of my foster sister’s keyboard from across the hall.
A crooked smile touches my lips. Scarlett is one of the only reasons I have remained here. Up until recently, I’ve made it a habit to escape from my foster homes at the first sign of trouble. I would have hightailed it out of here long ago, if not for the strange young girl who lives across the hall.
Scarlett Smith is very peculiar. She has serious lips that hardly ever smile, and a mind that’s sharp as a razor blade. What really gets me is her eyes—they are pale blue, innocent, and wounded. I just don’t feel comfortable leaving this house unless I know that she’s going to be okay. When we’re sitting across from each other at the dinner table, sometimes she studies me in a way that makes me feel like she knows me. This is ridiculous, of course, because we’ve only lived in the same house for a few weeks, but I still find something about her unsettling.
I was supposed to have a sister. My mother was seven months pregnant when the fire happened. I like to imagine that my sister would have been clever and capable like Scarlett. Sometimes, living in this house with her, I like to imagine that Scarlett could really be my sister. And for a moment, I feel at peace—like I haven’t lost everything. For a moment, it doesn’t hurt.
I never had thoughts like this before. In all my crappy foster homes, I never encountered someone that I could even stand to be around. I suppose, they did bring Scarlett to live here because they thought she could benefit from living with me, due to my impressive academic record, but it was a big surprise to actually begin to think of her as family. From what I’ve gathered, Scarlett has never had any family of her own, and doesn’t seem to have any friends. She spends every waking moment sitting in front of her computer and typing away at mysterious projects. I think she must be the only person on the planet lonelier than I am.
The incessant clatter of keys comes to a halt, and I realize that I am staring at Scarlett’s room. I quietly shut my door and head back to bed, placing my baseball bat down beside my pillow and tugging the comforter up over my legs. I am determined to try to fall asleep again when my door bursts open and a dark-haired girl fixes me with a stern look.
“I’m disappointed in you, Cole.”
I blink at her in surprise. “What? What did I do?”
She marches over and dumps some papers in my lap. “You’re flunking AP European History.”
“Where did you get this?” I ask, reaching out to examine the papers. I fix her with a suspicious look. “Scarlett… Have you been hacking again? Are these my high school records?”
“It doesn’t matter about that,” she says with a dismissive wave, plopping down on the bed with a frown. “You have a paper due on the Black Death soon, but I haven’t seen you working on it. You’re not showing up to class. You’re going to fail.”
Taking a deep breath, I lean back and stretch my arms behind my head. Scarlett is wearing her thick-rimmed, black librarian glasses that she needs to view the computer screen. I should know by now that when I see her in those glasses, it means she’s gotten her hands on some information she shouldn’t have. “You’re a year younger than me,” I remind her gently. “I’m supposed to be your role model. You shouldn’t have to keep tabs on me and show motherly concern. That’s Mrs. Brown’s job.”
“Quit changing the subject,” she says sternly. “European History! Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius? You’re doing really well in all your other classes.”
I have
