sigh and let Carter escort me out the front door.
Chapter Twelve
Olivia
Third Grade Year Of Primary School
The sun is high and the day a bone-deep kind of cold the first time I meet Aiden.
I’m shivering in my too-light, two sizes too big jacket as I race my fourth-hand bicycle in circles around the yard. We’re outside of the big, grungy gray building, the latest group home that my big brother Grayson and I have been placed in. The place has a falling apart jungle gym and a stack of pulled apart bike frames that have already been scavenged for the good parts.
It’s pretty much the norm for these group homes. A sad-looking, scraggly yard. Metal bunkbeds that are bolted in place. Meals that are served in bulk on cafeteria trays to a roomful of kids who wolf down the canned green beans and microwaved fish sticks.
See, foster kids aren’t picky about much. Because we don't have much idea what is going on or who is in charge, we don't know when or where our next meal will be. So we fill ourselves up and hope for the best.
I’m in a good mood today. The sunlight seems extra bright, the colors especially vivid. Maybe because my mom is supposed to visit today.
I circle my bike fast for a while, then slow down. Grayson looks up from his spot under the aluminum awning, squinting. He’s twelve and scruffy-looking, his dark hair grown too long. He has a grubby comic in one hand and a watchful gaze on his face.
He is always watching out for me and making sure that when things are passed out, I get enough. Enough food, enough school supplies, enough room on the school bus that we ride five days a week. He seems to be the only one that cares, the only one that sees me. And Grayson doesn’t care about much, but he fights fiercely for me.
He’s pretty serious for someone his age, but that’s all right. I stop my bike near him, looking at the sun to gauge what time it is. Letting my elbows rest on the handlebars, I let my hands dangle.
“It’s almost lunch time,” I say.
Grayson shuts his comic book with a sigh. “I know.”
“Mom said she’d be here early. On the phone, she said to be ready as soon as we got up.”
He shrugs. “You know the drill. If Mom comes—”
“She’s coming,” I cut in.
He pins me with his gaze. “You have to understand. If Mom comes, she’ll get here an hour before visiting hours are over. She’ll make a fuss when they tell her that she has to leave. She will promise us both all kinds of things, like how we are getting out of foster care and how much nice stuff we will have. But then she’ll go, and we won’t hear from her for a couple of weeks.”
Hearing him say it is like a physical blow. Does he really think that way?
I make a face. “You’re always saying stuff like that. You don't know. Maybe Mom means it this time. Maybe we will get to go home.”
He looks skeptical. “To what? Having no idea where she is? Not knowing when there will be food in the house? Scraping together change for the bus fare just to look for her? No thanks.”
He crosses his arms and looks pissed. I’m not sure what to say, so I just wrinkle my nose. Grayson looks at me and I see guilt creeping onto his face.
“I’m sorry, Olive. Maybe Mom has changed.”
But I’m not stupid. I can tell from the way he looks away that he doesn’t really believe it. I don't know how to argue with him. I don't know how to change his mind.
Luckily, we are both saved from figuring it out because that is the moment when an older boy rides his brand-new bike into the group home’s yard. He has short, dark hair, a lanky build, and his jeans and black fleece pullover look new. He’s wiry in a way that says he’ll be a man soon.
But not quite yet. The look on his handsome face is amused, though what we’ve done to make him laugh is questionable.
As he drops his bike carelessly in the yard and walks over, I can almost feel the shame that Grayson has over his rumpled, thirdhand hoodie and his light washed jeans. He tries to hide it, but he looks uncomfortable in his skin when he looks at the other boy.
“Hey,” the other kid says