Falling Harder (3 page)

Two

Nadia

Sweet Sixteen.

For what seems
like the millionth time, I find myself in the passenger seat of Miss MacCoy’s
busted-up Honda Civic, on my way to another “home”.

The morning
dawned gray and unremarkable, the smell of impending rain hanging heavily in
the air. My dad used to tease me because days like these are actually my favorite.
I love the hours before a big storm hits more than anything—when the air itself
is charged and alive in your lungs.

Wherever I am,
whatever house I happen to be staying in, the sound of a storm raging outside
is always strangely comforting to me. Even now that the day is wrapping up, it
gives me a certain sense of ease.

“It’s my
birthday tomorrow,” I say, staring out at the run-down neighborhood as it races
by my window.

“Shit,” Miss
MacCoy mutters, glancing at me guiltily, “I should have remembered that. I’m
sorry.”

“It’s cool,” I
say, “You’ve got a ton of kids to look after. I wouldn't be able to keep them
all straight, either.”

“Still,” she
says, turning onto a street lined with craggy trees, “Happy almost-birthday,
Nadia. Anything special you’re hoping for this year?”

I let out a
little laugh. “Like what?”

“Come on,” the
social worker urges, “It’s your sweet sixteen! Aren’t you excited at all?”

“I dunno,” I
say, “Sure, I guess.”

“Well, maybe
this new home will be like something of a birthday present,” she says, peering
through the windshield, “Paul and Nancy are old vets. They’ve been foster
parents forever.”

I decide not to
point out that some of the other families I’ve been assigned to were serial
fosters as well. Miss MacCoy does her best, I know, but there’s only so much
that’s even in her control when it comes to where I end up. I’ve never had any
resentment for my social worker, even though we’ve been through a lot together.

Whenever I’ve
gotten in a really bad jam with one of my families, she’s swooped in to pull me
out again. It’s a comfort to know that I can count on at least one person if
the going gets really rough. She may not be able to work miracles, but I know
that she’s always doing her best.

“Here we are,”
Miss MacCoy says. Her voice is doing that cheerfully optimistic thing it always
does when I’m about to embark on a new leg of my journey.

I look up at the
house before us and instinctively grab onto my compass charm. The home itself
looks innocuous enough. It’s a pretty nondescript row house with a cluttered
porch and green awning.

Even from the
curb, you can tell that this is a home where children live. Rusty bikes litter
the lawn, sidewalk chalk is scrawled all over the driveway, and a dented red
minivan lingers in front of the garage. I hope that the other kids are
something approaching nice this time around. I’ve had my fill of bullies and
tyrants where my other foster siblings have been concerned.

As I step out of
the car, the front door of the house swings open. I look up and see a middle
aged couple stepping out onto the crowded front porch. The woman is wearing a
dated but cared-for dress that probably dates back to the eighties. Her ashy
blonde hair, streaked almost imperceptibly with gray, is pulled into a hasty
up-do.

The man is
decked out in an honest-to-god Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts - an outfit I
wouldn't even wear to a dog fight, but who am I to judge? I’ve certainly lived
with worse.

“Amy!” the woman
chirps, coming down off the porch. “It’s so nice to see you.” Miss MacCoy lets
the woman embrace her, smiling sheepishly at the display of affection.

“Hello Nancy,”
my social worker says, “You look great. Is that a new shade of lipstick?”

“It’s called
Mystical Mauve,” Nancy says proudly, “Picked it out just for the occasion.”

“Paul,” Miss
MacCoy says, offering her hand to the man in the goofy shirt.

“Come on now,
Amy,” he says, pulling Miss MacCoy into another bear hug, “You know we don’t
shake hands in this house.”

“My goodness,”
Nancy says, her eyes falling on me, “Is this Nadia?”

“Sure is,” I
say, wrestling my mouth into a smile, “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs.
Daniels.”

“Please, it’s
just Paul and Nancy here,” my new foster dad says. His hair is light, like his
wife’s, and the five o’clock shadow on his jaw is almost red.

“You’re quite
the looker, Nadia,” Nancy says, giving me a not-very-subtle once over. “We’ll
just tell people that you got it from me.”

“You crazy hag,”
Paul laughs, planting a sloppy kiss on his wife’s cheek. “You’ll have to excuse
us being so giddy. We’re always just so excited to welcome a new addition to
our family.”

“That’s...very
nice of you,” I say, baffled by their high spirits.

“I suppose I
should leave you to it,” Miss MacCoy says, “Let you all get acquainted with
each other and whatnot. If you need anything, Nadia, you know where to find
me.”

My social worker
gives my hand a short, reassuring squeeze and heads back to her car. The Civic
wheezes to life and starts off down the pothole-ridden street. Paul and Nancy
wave happily as the car disappears from view. I watch as the tail lights
flicker out around the corner.

For some
unknowable reason, my heart clenches uncomfortably. The moment I’m truly alone
with Paul and Nancy, a familiar sense of foreboding comes over me. Their manic
smiles swing my way, and for a moment I’m reminded fiercely of cartoon vampires
with a taste for blood.

“Now you’re all
ours,” Nancy says, laying a firm hand on my shoulder and spinning me toward the
house. “Come on. Let’s go get you introduced to the whole herd.”

My new foster
parents march me up the porch like prison guards escorting an inmate to her
cell. I can practically hear the bars slamming behind me as we finally step
inside.

~~~

The faint sound
of a TV laugh track rings out through the musty house as I step over the
threshold. The light bulb illuminating the foyer is bare, casting raw, dingy
light all through the tight space. All around me, creaks and groans betray the
presence of people—but with them out of my sight, it feels more like a haunted
house and a dwelling of the living.

The air is thick
with the smells of cigarette smoke and beer, which have never been good omens
in my experience.

Paul shuts the
door behind us, sealing off the gray daylight. My new foster parents release my
shoulders, suddenly disinterested in my presence. I look up at their faces in
the harsh glare of the single bulb. Is it the sharp shadows that have them
looking so transformed?

“I’m going to go
wipe this shit off my face,” Nancy grumbles, her demeanor entirely changed. “I
hate playing dress up for that McCoy girl.”

“You want a beer
or something?” Paul asks, moving away from me into the kitchen.

“Vodka,” Nancy
snaps, stalking up the rickety staircase, “Double.”

They disappear
from the cone of light, leaving me standing in the foyer with my ancient
backpack and an overwhelming sense of confusion. What the hell just happened?
Were they just playing nice for Miss MacCoy’s benefit? Suddenly, the ominous
feeling I had the moment my social worker left the scene makes a whole lot of
sense.

“Hello?” I call
into the roiling darkness of the house. “Paul? Nancy? Should I just...put my
stuff down somewhere?”

But they’ve
gone, already. It’s pretty clear that they’re not exactly going to be the
doting parent types. I heave a heavy sigh and let my backpack fall down to the
carpet beside me. I should have known better than to hope for a second that
this place would be anything but miserable. Haven’t I been through enough homes
by now to know the drill? Kids like me don’t get shuttled off to caring
families with snack-stocked fridges and HBO. I’ve been lost in the shuffle
since the moment my parents died, and that’s where I’ll stay.

“Just two more
years...” I mutter to myself, “Two more years, and then I’ll be free.”

“Only two?” says
a voice from within the shadows. “God, you’re so lucky!”

“Who’s there?” I
say, my body going rigid with apprehension.

“Oh, sorry,” the
voice giggles, “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

A face swims up
out of the darkness, grinning earnestly. Two sparkling green eyes peer up at
me, brimming with spunky curiosity. Their owner is a petite blonde girl, a year
or so my junior, if I had to guess. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail,
leaving her thin shoulders uncovered. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder vintage
tee and tiny cotton shorts. Her frame is impossibly small, almost pixie-like.
Next to her, I feel downright Amazonian, though I only stand at five foot
seven. The girl cocks her head to the side like an inquisitive kitten.

“You’re the new
girl, huh?” she says.

“That’s right,”
I tell her, “My name’s—”

“Nadia,” she
cuts me off, “They told us you were coming. I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve been
outnumbered by the boys forever. I’m Conway, in case you were wondering.”

“That’s...an
interesting name,” I say, “Where’s it from?”

“Beats me,” she
says with a grin, “My parents were probably high or something when they picked
it. For all I know they got it off a street sign. Or a bottle of laundry
detergent. I’d ask them, but they ditched me when I was three, so...”

“I’m sorry,” I
offer.

“That’s nice of
you,” Conway says, “You’re a nice girl. I can tell. I haven’t met many nice
girls.”

“You seem pretty
nice yourself,” I say, smiling.

“Eh. I’m OK,”
she shrugs, “Not like I’ve got much to compare myself to. Here, let me get that
for you.”

She takes my
backpack out of my hands and turns on her heel. I scramble to follow as Conway
marches up the stairs. At least there’s someone in this house who doesn’t seem
to disdain me. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s been nice to
me like this off the bat. Could it be possible that I might actually have found
a friend, at last?

“We get to share
a room,” Conway says over her shoulder, leading me down a narrow hallway,
“It’ll be like having a sleepover! Or...something. I’ve never actually had a
sleepover with anyone, so I wouldn’t know for sure. But we can just pretend, I
guess.”

She pushes open
a door at the end of the hall and leads me into a little bedroom. A thick,
fruity smell greets me as I step inside. The commingling scents of a dozen body
sprays and shampoos hang heavy in the air. I blink around the space as Conway
switches on a light. My eyes are instantly overwhelmed by the color pink.
Everything I lay eyes on seems to be a shade of the girlish hue.

“What can I
say,” my companion sighs, “I love pink. I hope you don’t mind...this has been
my room for a while, so I’ve sort of settled in.”

“How long have
you been with Paul and Nancy?” I ask, settling down onto one of two twin beds
decked out in pink bedding.

“Uh...three
years?” Conway says, planting herself on the other bed beside me. “Yeah. Three
years. I got here when I was twelve. Before that, I was staying with these
religious nuts a few counties over. Paul and Nancy may have their issues, but
at least they don’t ever try and ship us off to Jesus camp.”

“Us?” I ask.

“Didn’t your
social worker tell you anything about this house?” Conway asks.

“This was kind
of a...hurried arrangement,” I tell her.

“Oh. Well, there
are two other kids here,” she says, “I’m sure they’ll surface eventually.”

“Little kids?” I
ask.

“Nah,” Conway
says, “Paul and Nancy don’t like little kids. They only take in teenagers who
can take care of themselves. We’re more like roommates than anything else,
really. Could be worse, though. Imagine having foster parents who wanted to be
all lovey dovey or whatever. Gross.”

“I guess you’re
right,” I laugh, “Thank god we’ve been spared that, at least.”

Our conversation
is suddenly drowned out by a throbbing, pounding sound, coming from somewhere
deep in the house. Conway rolls her eyes and flops back on the bed. I listen
closely, trying to figure out what that insane noise might be.

“Is
the...uh...house about to explode or something?” I ask warily.

“Not quite,”
Conway says, rolling on her side to face me, “That’s just the boys.”

“What are they
doing, construction work?”

“I like you,”
Conway says, “You’ve got a quick tongue. No, actually. They’re just listening
to music.”

“That’s music?”
I ask, “It sounds like two vacuum cleaners eating each other.”

“Come on,” my
new friend says, lacing her fingers with mine, “See for yourself.”

The simple act
of holding hands sparks something bittersweet inside of me. Now that I think
about it...I don’t think I’ve been touched in even this simplest way for years.
I’ve been skittish about any kind of contact since Daryl’s unwanted advances at
the Goldstein’s house. You have to be careful, in this kind of environment.
People are scared, and desperate, and lonely. It brings out the worst in some.