Foster Kid

3.

Holy shit.

This boy is freaking gorgeous. Like, drop dead gorgeous. I just stood there like a stick in the mud. This thing is going to be sleeping in the room next to mine. We're going to share a bathroom together.

On one side. I'm coolwith it. On the other side, my lungs are giving out. And I'm being literal. I had to clear my throat.

"Hello! OH I'm SO excited to meet you!" My mom squeels, running up to him and giving him a hug. He looks down, but I can see his eyes going 'Oh my God.'  "Well, I'm Tasha, this is Andy," my mom says as my dad smiles and waves. "And this is our daughter Aberdeen. But we call her either call her that or Deen." I avoid eye contact and stare at the ground. 

Why have I just realized that my nickname is a boy name? Oh my God, I'm basically a boy now. Why doesn't someone just pull my pants down and hand me some Jordans? Might as well get a haircut, too. Oh, and can I get a snapback? 

Okay okay, that was very stereotypical of me, but you get it.

"Well, since you've already had your house inspected I guess I'll leave you guys to get to know eachother," the social worker says and leaves, her heels clacking against the pavement.

"She's scary," I mutter, hoping no one would hear it, but one did. Alex laughed a little bit, and that gave me the tiniest bit of courage to raise my head up. I instantly regretted it when I found him looking right at me. I looked down too quickly, too noticeable. 

My mom looked at me and gave me a warm smile. "Deenie, don't be shy. You know what? Why don't you give him a tour of the house. That might break the ice." Oh no. No, I couldn't. What if he tries something on me? I can't even look at him, how will I talk to him. "I don't think that's a grea-" "Do it," my mom said, suddenly turning cold.

I nodded and swallowed hard, like there was cotton in my throat. "Here we go..." I whispered to myself. I didn't even say anything as I walked upstairs, he just followed. 

"So..." I said once we both got to the top of the stairs. "This is the lounge area. It's, It's basically an extra living room in case you don't want to talk to my parents. I find this very useful." He laughed again. But seriously, I'm not funny. 

I  walk in there. "So, this is the TV, obviously. Um, that's the mini fridge. Feel free to help yourself." He stares at everything in amusement. "You're loaded," he says, walking to the movie rack. "Excuse me?" I ask, yawning. "No, I meant, you must have tons of money," he says, blushing. 

I laugh. He's so red, humiliated. He obviously taking that the wrong way. "Well, my mom and dad are both lawyers, and we get the extra money from taking in foster kids," I say, leaning up against the wall. 

He looks at me with sympathy. "Is that the only reason you take us in? Money?" Yeah right. The last thing my parents need is more money, but they can't really reject it. "No, no. They love having foster kids. They love them so much, they completely forget about their child that was actually born unto them." I look down, tears brimming my eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, taking a step toward me. I wipe away the tear streaming down my face. "Don't be. I'm used to it." I say, and we stand there in a silence just looking at eachother for about 10 seconds. 

I walk towards the baby blue room. "This is your room. Set it up how you want." Just then I realize he doesn't really have anything to set up. He doesn't even look affected by it. 

He throws his bag onto the ground, following me out of the room. We walk into my white walled bedroom, which is the least bit plain. It has Christmas lights streaming around the room, giving it this cozy feeling that's hard for me to live without. There are pictures ALL around the room of my classmates and I or me at the lake with my friend Taysha. They're everywhere. Just because I'm an introvert doesn't mean I'm a loner. I have two book shelves filled with to be read and read books. Sometimes I can't even keep track of which ones I have and haven't read.

I have a white desk outlined in blue and emerald green. Book decorate the top part along with pencils and writing notebooks. In the corner of the room, I have a little English telephone box that is filled with CDs on the inside. My queen sized bed is in the corner of my room, and my bedspread is a dark blue backgeround with golden stars everywhere. Large pillows fill up half of the bed.

"Sweet," Alex says, taking an obvious interest in my stack of notebooks. "Do you write?" He asks, picking up a notebook. I quickly take it away. "Yes I do." He smirks at me. He leans on my desk, completely facing me. "What do you write?" He asks. I bite my lip, afraid of revealing everything. "I write everything."

It's true. From novels do diary entries to poems to songs, I write everything.

"You should go to bed," he says, as if I'm the foster. "Sure. You too," I say.

As he walks out, his hand brushes mine, seeing that I'm in the doorway. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I pick up my white cat, Martha, and lay down on my bed, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

I was buzzing.

Why do I regret not saying more?