Finding London, Ellie Wade [different e readers txt] 📗

“Hope is a powerful thing. It always kept me fighting for every tomorrow.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I spy black mold running along the caulk on the back of the sink, a sponge that is more gray than the teal color it’s supposed to be, and a sink full of dishes that should have been washed last week.

I think back to Glenda’s house. I haven’t lived there in two years, but I’ll never forget the maddening whiteness of it.

But which is worse—disgusting grossness or insanity-inducing starkness?

I think I’m going to pick black mold for $500, Alex.

Yep, I’d take the white over this any day.

I smile as I think of Mrs. Peters, the sweet old lady I stayed with for a few weeks before coming here. To say that she had an obsession with Alex Trebek would be an understatement. She recorded every episode of Jeopardy! onto stacks of VHS tapes and then would watch it all day long, every day. She would pause it to make meals and cookies. She made the best oatmeal–chocolate chip cookies in the entire world.

Oh, I miss Mrs. Peters.

I wished that I could have stayed with her for a long time. She was the nicest person I’ve stayed with. I didn’t have the nerve to ask her, of course, but I think she knew that I was happy there. Before my caseworker came to bring me here, Mrs. Peters explained to me that she was just too old to have kids full-time. She said us kids deserved better and that she could only be a temporary placement situation.

If she only knew.

After leaving Glenda’s, I stayed in five homes before coming here. I’m hoping this one will be temporary as well, but if we’re basing my stay off my luck, I’ll probably be here forever. I haven’t been here long, but I already know I don’t want to be either.

Bev and Carl seem nice enough—not really. Nice is a relative term, and in my experience, it signifies not cruel more than it stands for kindness.

Carl is overweight and just kinda gross. When he’s not at work—I’m not sure where that is yet—he’s sitting in the brown-and-yellow plaid armchair in the living room. When he’s gone, you can still see the outline of where his body sits. The fabric and cushions are completely worn down in a perfect Carl-shaped form.

Bev reminds me of a witch, like the one who tried to eat Hansel and Gretel. She comes off as decent, but there’s a part of her that’s off, that scares me. It’s like she’s being accommodating enough so as not to frighten me away, and then she’ll attack. She knows that I have nowhere else to go anyway. So, if it is indeed an act, she should know it’s an unnecessary one.

I have a feeling that Bev and Carl are going to be a permanent placement.

They have another foster kid named Sarah who’s been here for three years. She’s shy and quiet. I tried to talk to her last night, which goes against my usual behavior. I’d stopped trying to be friends with the other foster kids a long time ago. But something about Sarah makes me think she could use a friend. I didn’t get much out of her last night, other than the amount of time she’d lived here.

But I don’t like the way she acts around Carl. She never looks at him. The second she enters the living room, she keeps her eyes focused in the opposite direction of where he sits. I have the impression that she’s petrified to look at him, and that’s weird. I mean, he’s pretty ugly, but I think it’s more than that.

“Boy, the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.” Bev’s presence in the kitchen startles me.

“I know. I’m working on it.”

“To me, it looks like you’re just standing there,” she snaps.

And just like that, the witch is here.

I don’t say anything else as I continue to scrub the mildew-infested gray sponge against the caked-on lasagna pan. I’ve learned, most times, it’s best to be quiet.

“You know, it’s hard to find placements for teenage boys. I would think you’d be a little more grateful when people take you in.” She continues yammering, but it’s almost as if she’s talking for her own benefit.

I try to block her out as I continue to scrub.

“We’re always offered teenagers, and nine times out of ten, they’re boys. You see, girls are adopted much earlier—at least, the good ones. Unless he’s a cute little baby, no one’s standing in line to adopt a boy. Did you hear me? I said, boys are useless. No one wants them.”

I know she’s expecting a response, but I don’t have the desire to play this game. I’ve played it too many times before. So, I simply nod.

Apparently, that’s not the response she wants because, in a clipped tone, she adds, “What do you expect? Even your own parents didn’t want you.”

“Shut up,” I say under my breath, barely containing my rage.

“Excuse me?” she spits out.

I turn and throw the disease-infested sponge on the ground. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Shut up.” My hands clench at my sides, and I have to talk myself out of hitting her in her big, crooked nose.

I’ve had it with these excuses for human beings who sign up to take in kids. Why do they do it? Money? It surely can’t be that much. I mean, look at this dump. Power? They obviously get their thrills from kicking someone else when they’re down. But it still doesn’t add up.

I can’t take it anymore. Years of bottled up despair and anger threaten to explode. And what if it does? What can these people possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done? Kick me out? Being homeless doesn’t seem too bad. Send me to jail? Sounds good to me. Is Carl going to hit me? Hardly. I can outrun him any day. Fat ass.

I’m done.

“My parents died, you stupid twat, and