The Blue Door

Chapter 5

Ice and Glitter

Nix

I slipped in the back door and made my way downstairs, swearing to myself as I navigated narrow steps in the dark. Mine is the only finished room in the basement, and that term I use lightly. Bare drywall hugs the walls, taped and mudded, but not texturized or painted. My bed sits on a concrete floor without a frame, the large wooden headboard leaning against the wall. A single bulb lights the room from a basic white ceramic fixture that dangles from the ceiling, held up by two orange wire nuts.

I threw my now-dry sheets over the mattress, thankful Janet hadn't found them, and fell onto the bed. No frills for the foster kid. That's not entirely fair. Janet and Frank had obviously worked hard to make the room semi-comfortable and private. The drywall mud had been wet when I'd arrived a few weeks earlier, so they'd gone to some trouble to give me my own space.

They added the little tube television that sits on an old dresser against a wall and an ancient computer that roared like a jet engine when I started it up. That's more than I've gotten in some homes. I have to remind myself often that not all foster parents are the same. I've experienced both good and bad.

"Nick, was that you?" Janet's voice carried down the stairs.

I sighed. I wasn't sneaky enough. Maybe I should've oiled the back door. "Yeah."

"You're later than normal. Everything okay at school?"

"Everything's fine, Janet. Just walked a friend home is all."

Her voice shifted, taking on a thick, liquidy tone, and I rolled my eyes at the laughter I heard in it. "Ooooh? Is she nice?"

"I didn't say it was a girl, did I?" That came out angrier than I meant.

"No, you didn't," came the terse retort, but then the liquidy tone came back. "Sooooo... is she nice?"

I sighed again. "Very."

"Good. Glad you're making friends. Dinner will be done in about an hour, pork chops and taters. The gravy is my best batch yet. Frank keeps trying to drink it. I don't know how that man stays slim. Hopefully there's some left by the time the taters cook. You mind taking out the trash before then?"

I nodded, knowing she couldn't see it, but also knowing she wasn't waiting for confirmation. Janet and I fought a bit at first when she'd wanted me to do chores like I was their kid or some robotic helper unit or some other BS. We eventually came to an unspoken agreement. She wouldn't order me to do a chore, only ask, and she wouldn't ask more than once. I, in turn, would do the chore when asked eight out of ten times. It works for us and it's better than shouting at each other for hours.

So, I rolled out of bed and headed upstairs to take out the trash. It took twenty minutes to get it outside. Janet had a million questions about Cindy, only letting me take a step or two before she asked another. I grumbled about it and made sarcastic replies, but I didn't really mind. It's nice to have a foster parent care about my life for a change, even when she's being totally obnoxious about it.

#

Nix

I scraped my potato skins and fat into the trash and rinsed the plate off in the sink, keeping the prosthetic away from the water. It had seen plenty moisture for the day.

Frank had eyed my pork like he might cry as I dissected off every speck of fat, but he'd kept his comments to himself. I like Frank. He's the strong silent type. I just don't like the texture of fat. It's like old rubber bands that've sat in the sun too long.