because she gets all excited and starts putting piles of papers and folders and booklets on my desk, and for a second I regret having said anything because it looks like too much work. But then she guides me toward the computer and we start writing my resumé right away using a special program, and it looks so professional to see my name in bold at the top of the page. After, we write lists of places where I’ll drop it off: McDonald’s, Coffee Time, Walmart.
I feel so good about everything, for the first time I tell her about wanting to be a veterinarian.
“Fantastic, Melissa. You’re certainly off to a good start with your job.And you’re great at math,” she says in such a teacherish tone that I quickly look over my shoulder to make sure no one is listening. I feel silly that I’m feeling all proud about her dumb comment, like I’m some goody-goody teacher’s pet.
All week I work on a career studies project on veterinarians. I spend a lot of time researching on the internet, and I even interview Dr. Keystone at the clinic. My mom buys me a cool Duo-Tang with a clear plastic cover to put the project inside, and when I give it to Ms. Dally she exhales in elation. For the first time in my life, I’m actually proud of something I’ve done in school.
Forty-Three
Up. Up. Up.
I find the paper Eric gave me, call the group home and make an appointment. The supervisor, Pat, takes me on a tour of a huge old-lady house that feels a hundred years old. Even the furniture smells old and musty. At first, I think it is a mistake to be there and I almost walk out. But then I see a list of names on the fridge and some photos, and it turns out the group home is the same one that Jasmyn and Snow, a pregnant girl who used to go to the day program, are living at.
I stop and point to the photo. “I know these girls.”
Pat is immediately at my side. “You do?”
“Yeah, Snow and Jasmyn.”
“Ah!” She raises an open hand to stop me from speaking. “You shouldn’t have told me any names. We’re unable to discuss the whereabouts of our clients. And it doesn’t help in your application if you know current residents. It’s necessary for us to keep a safe mix of girls here.”
Residents? Clients? Safe mix of girls? What is this place?
“Can we wear shoes?” I ask sarcastically.
She smiles, knowing exactly what I’m saying. “It’s not prison. You can wear shoes.”
Pat’s smart. I like that. I like her.
At the end of the tour, we sit in this teeny room by the front door, crammed with a desk, a computer, and a futon couch. There’s barely enough room to stand. I take a seat, squashed up at the desk, and fill out an application. Then Pat gives me a list of house rules to help me decide if it’s the right place for me. The list is long. Real long. She tells me if I want to continue with the application, we’d have a few more meetings. “You know, Melissa, you might actually enjoy living here. Many girls do.”
“Hmmm … maybe,” I respond, wondering if that would be possible. How could I live with so many rules and a bunch of girls knowing each other’s business 24 –7? Arts and Crafts Night and day trips to Wonderland sound all right, though, as long as the group home pays for everything.
Pat tells me to take a few days to think about it. If I’m interested, I can call her back and she’ll set up the last two meetings, one with my mom and one more with just me. Then I can move in right after that. I thank her, take the orientation envelope, and leave.
I decide to walk a few blocks before I hop on the bus. I smoke three cigarettes in a row, trying to work out what’s on my mind. Now that the group home might be a reality, I’m feeling kind of scared. It’s like committing yourself to jail—you’d have to be insane to do it. But I look at my life and what’s happening, and I’m only sixteen. It can only get worse. My mom will never give me rules, and even if she did, I wouldn’t follow them. And I can’t get my own apartment yet because I don’t have the money. Or if I wanted to