The utopia that was life at my grandparents didn't last very long. When I was fourteen, my grandfather had a heart attack, a result of his diet of coffee, steak, butter, and whiskey. Then, a year later, my grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep. I was the one who found her. And then I was forced to pack up my things and leave their home for good.
I don't think I'll ever forget the smell of my foster home. Years from now the scent of musty air and stale cereal will still reside in the back of my mind. The Wilkes' family were the only foster family in the area, so it was either settle for them or uproot my life entirely. I initially didn't mind their antisocial son or the small walk-in closet I called my bedroom, solely because I could walk past my grandparents home on my way to school.
Still, as I walked over the threshold into the Wilkes' shotgun home, a weight seemed to settle over my shoulders. The front door opened up into a small living room with a single dusty brown sofa squashed against the wall and a tv the hung precariously from the opposite wall.
"We're very excited to welcome you to our home." Mr Wilkes grinned with yellowed teeth. His gruff voice didn't bend to the enthusiasm in his words. I passed it off. Behind him, Mrs Wilkes scowled while their son, Quinton, just stared, his pale blue eyes piercing into my soul.
"Thank you." My voice wobbled.
A thin hallway spread from the left, down the length of the house. To the right were two bedroom doors. At the end of the hall was a small teal kitchen and a four-seater table packed tightly to the wall. Tucked beside the fridge and a cabinet, I noticed a silver scale. Not the kind for food either, it was a people scale. I brushed it off, promising myself to ask a little later.
"Where's my room?" I asked, assuming the two bedrooms belonged to the three Wilkes'.
Mrs Wilkes led me to a sun room in the back of the house, with a door into a walk-in closet with a cheap bed underneath shelves stocked with laundry chemicals. Another door lead to the laundry/bathroom. After I placed down my bags, I met the rest of the family at the small dining table, taking place on a chair with coins taped under one of its legs to even them up, yet it still wobbled.
"When was the..." I started. What I wanted to ask was when the house was last checked by a social worker, but I didn't want to sound rude. "When did you last have a foster kid?" I asked instead.
"About a year ago." Mrs Wilkes grumbled, an almost-green fingernail pointed at a photo on the wall. In it, Mr and Mrs Wilkes smiled crookedly at the camera, while Quinton stood in front of them, his skinny arms wrapped around the small girl. She looked upset, I assumed from the size of her room, or maybe she was just having a tantrum. She looked only six or seven, so the latter was more likely than not.
"Isabelle." Quinton added, his voice small. His parents kept their heads down.
"She was not a very nice girl." Mrs Wilkes added. "She mean to our Quinton."
"I'm sorry." I smiled softly at Quinton. "That would have been hard."
Mr and Mrs Wilkes didn't seem very happy for me to be here, but maybe I could be friends with Quinton, I had thought.
That idea didn't last very long.
YOU ARE READING
Ultraviolet
RomanceBoston was Violet's escape. Far away from a horrible foster family, a life sentence, and corrupt cops. She packed her bags, changed her name, and ran towards freedom in the form of her long lost sister. Except her sister has some secrets of her own...
