CHAPTER 1

Seattle, Washington
Friday, April 6^th, 2018, ~ 1:15 PM

Who cares if it’s a beautiful April day? The glare of the sun on the windshield killed my eyes. I wish Carol would hurry up and get her butt out of the youth center already. When I kept hassling her about this weekend, she sent me out here to wait in her Ford Escort that’s older than me. Whenever I bitched about the decrepit rust-bucket, my caseworker, Carol Peters just shrugged and said the would-be wreck was paid for.

I’d already checked out the collection of CDs in the shoebox at my feet. Gross. Carol’s taste in music seriously stinks. It’s nothing but country and something called blue-grass.

Gawd, I really want a cigarette. But I quit smoking at the last foster home. It wasn’t my idea. The baldheaded Nazi who ran the place like a boot camp washed my mouth out with soap and made me smoke a pack of Marlboros at the same time. It was supposed to make me sick, and it did. I puked for three days straight.

The jerk told me if he caught me with cigarettes again, he’d break two of my fingers and still shove soap in my mouth. He didn’t get the chance. I booked it out of there as soon as everyone crashed for the night. That was eleven months ago, and I still gagged whenever I smelled tobacco or Ivory.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time I’d had my mouth washed out with soap. That honor went to the old bat I stayed with ten years ago. She decided a five-year-old shouldn’t swear. I learned real quick to consider the location and audience before cussing, but I still hurled insults with the best of them. And yes, I still had what the old biddy called my ‘potty mouth’. No point in changing that!

I’d made up my mind when I arrived at Evergreen Youth Center last year. No more living with weirdoes. Sooner or later, one of them would kill me. I just hoped Carol came to see things my way, instead of yapping that this is a “transitional facility,” and I’d more than overstayed my welcome. What else is new?

I’d been in twelve homes since I was two and that was only counting the ones where I stayed more than a week. No point counting the one-or-two-day places. I wasn’t there long enough to even remember their names. And since they spent most of their time hollering “Bertha Juniper” at me, I ignored them. I went by B.J. and if somebody tried to tell me the initials stood for “blow job,” it only happened once.

Which is another reason why I’ve been in so many homes—foster parents get excited when a girl starts kicking butts and busting heads every time someone makes fun of her name. It didn’t happen as often anymore because I didn’t share my “real” name with anyone. Being a fighter was one reason I got along so well in the center. My roommate, Irene Hancock and I were tight. We’d lived together this time for the past eleven months and we always helped each other out. Of course, we’d known each other since we were little and ended up in some of the same foster homes over the years.

I stared at the hole in the toe of my Nike. Irene suggested spike heels, but those were impossible to run in, so I kept my regular shoes. I was wearing my worst outfit today, a skimpy bright red crop top that was so tight, it showed every inch of my boobs and the fact I wasn’t wearing a bra. My black shorts were tight, barely covering my butt. Irene and I talked about a belly ring, but I wasn’t stupid enough to let her do the needle and ice trick she’d used on my ears. So, I went for three earrings in each ear and one in my eyebrow.

I also slathered makeup around my green eyes and darkened my long lashes with extra thick black mascara. I put on tons of blush and lots of bright red lipstick. I have on enough make-up that I could work alongside my real mother, the whore from Aurora Avenue in Seattle. Not that I ever would, of course. I only dressed like a skank to get what I wanted. And that was freedom. The sluttier I acted and the more fights I got into, the faster I’d be sent back to the youth center.

My red hair was a tangled, nasty mess since I hadn’t washed or brushed it for three days. Between the hair, the cosmetics, and the skimpy clothes, my new foster mom should take one look and send me straight back to Seattle. Yippee!

My legs were sticking to the car seat. I lifted one, and it peeled away from the vinyl. What is taking Carol so damn long? She probably felt the need to brag to the other do-gooders about this home visit. I didn’t even want to go. I was only sitting here baking in her car ’cause she beat me at our weekly game of poker. We opened on guts and played for truth.

When I won, I didn’t have to answer Carol’s sappy, dumb questions or do what she told me to do. Her favorite question had to be one she stole from a counselor—the old “And how does that make you feel?” It was nearly as bad as the one from Doctor Phil, “And how’s that working for you?”

Our last bet was about spending a weekend with two senior citizens who claimed they wanted to adopt me. Am I supposed to believe that crap? I never reneged on my bets, so now I was on my way to Stewart Falls, a small town in podunk Washington State. I was pretty sure Carol cheated this time, though. She’d hardly ever beaten me before and I had a full house.

It was hot today, unusual for spring in Seattle, even with climate change and global warming. I eased my arms away from the back of the seat. I’m melting out here. The only good part about this visit is no school today. I won’t even have to go on Monday. Carol had promised me a long weekend in the country. Not my idea of a vacation, but what can you do?

I looked back at the red brick building again and finally spotted her sauntering toward me. Even though I knew the truth about caseworkers, I occasionally liked her. I never shared that. Carol was my fifth social worker, and she might act like a rebel, but it was a scam, or she wouldn’t have lasted at Evergreen this long. She wore loose jeans and sloppy T-shirts, despite what her bosses said. Her long brown hair always swings free, the same way she does.

Most important, she talked to us kids like we were real people who actually knew stuff. Definitely a scam. My last social worker spent all her time talking loudly and calling me “dearie,” as if I was half deaf and stone stupid. She was majorly irritating, but not as bad as the one I had when I was little, who constantly lied to me.

Carol even spoke to Gabe Abbot like he was human. All the kids knew about Gabe. He was super good with a knife and ran with a gang downtown. When summer arrived, he’d head back to the streets. He always said the group home was just a nice, warm place for the winter and staying there kept him out of Juvie.

Granted, Gabe didn’t care much for Carol. He’d warned me more than once she had her own agenda. Getting rid of me, my roommate Irene, and him were at the top of Carol’s list. And yeah, I knew he was right. Then again, I didn’t have “stupid” tattooed on my forehead. I didn’t have to get into a big pissing contest with Carol, so she showed me that she was the boss and wrecked my life even more. I learned a long time ago that caseworkers always pushed us around like pawns on a chessboard, but Gabe had to fight the system and authority figures. It was why he’d been arrested so many times.

* * * *

“Ready for your new home, B.J.?” Carol smiled as she climbed into the car. She wore cut-off jeans today and let out a yelp as her bare legs hit the seat. “Ow! How can you stand this?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, it is.” Carol stuck the key in the ignition and ground the motor. “As soon as I can, I’m turning on the air conditioning.”

“Does the AC even still work in this heap?” I shrugged. “Whatever. Either way’s fine. I can handle it.”

“You’ve been telling me that for the past eleven months.” Carol kept grinding the motor. “I’m never sure whether to believe you or not.”

“You’re still making hamburger. Want me to drive?”

“How about you wait until you have your license next year?” Carol tried again, and this time the car started.

“I already know how to drive, though.”

She frowned and drove out of the parking lot in the direction of the freeway. “When are you planning to tell me about that stolen car incident, B.J.?”

About Author Shannon Kennedy…

Shannon Kennedy lives and works at the family riding stable in Washington State. Teaching kids to ride and know about horses since 1967, she finds in many cases, she’s taught three generations of families. Her life experiences span adventures from dealing cards in a casino, attending graduate school to get her master’s in teaching degree, being a middle and high school teacher, and serving in the Army Reserve – all leading to her second career as a published author. She recently retired from teaching school and plans to write more books for Fire & Ice YA, the Stewart Falls Cheerleaders realistic fiction series and the Shamrock Stable series about teen girls and their horses. Visit her at her website, www.shannonkennedybooks.com to learn about her books.

I hope you enjoy the recipe Shannon is sharing today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!

Karen

P.S. We’re at 605 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. In the right-hand column menu, you can even look up past recipes by type. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.