I suck at endings. Beginnings, middles, in-betweens, all that comes easy. I just can never seem to get to that perfect ending.
Maybe that’s because I’ve never had a perfect ending.
When my dad walked out I moved in with my psychopathic aunt that lived in Britain. She never liked me, but never hurt me in any way. I guess it worked out well; I got to sneak out and party with the cute boy across the street. He thought I was ‘fit’ and ‘lovely’ because I was American. We got to know each other, like each other, date each other. But then he tried out for some TV show, because he always had an amazing singing voice. And now he’s big and famous and forgot about my existence.
After he left my aunt died from substance abuse. Having me around the house so often and not out caused her to go even more insane. So I had to move back to America, and live with my Uncle. Turned out he had three sons, and they all were very polite. One even reminded me a bit of the boy across the street. They asked me if I was okay, if they could get me anything, asked about my aunt that had died. The boys were sweet, until they found out I wasn’t going to let them touch me. All those months and years of partying had taught me pretty good self defense. I was kicked out by my Uncle, who was afraid of losing his sons.
The next couple months I drifted around from foster home to foster home, which really wasn’t all that bad. I was fed and clothed. I even got to go shopping and make a few friends from the local schools. But then one of my friends suggested we go to a concert. I didn’t ask which and she didn’t tell me. I guess she felt bad for me, because every family knew my back story. When we got to the concert I immediately felt sick; it was the boy from across the streets band. Apparently they were world famous and could sell out areas. I hadn’t been paying attention; life was keeping me too busy to watch idle television.
Which brings me back to my first sentence, I suck at endings.
I ran out after the first song, his voice brought back way to many memories. And he sang way to often for me to focus on any other voice. My friend eventually stopped talking to me, I eventually got placed with a nice family in New York, and now I’m writing this because my new little sister is in love with that boy from across the street.
“Lia!” I slammed my laptop shut, swiveling to face Chloe.
“Yes?”
“Dinner time. Mom wants more stories from your past homes.”
I laughed, allowing the little girl to drag me into the dinning room. “Does Mom want it or do you?”
“Both.” She beamed up at me.
“Alright then. I’ve got a great one I think you’ll enjoy.” I contemplated telling her my story about Harry; the boy from across the street. Or Harry Styles; the boy from One Direction.
“Attilia dear, you don’t have to discuss that with her. I know it makes some children uncomfortable.” My new dad, Jordan White, spoke up. I shook my head.
“It’s really fine Dad, I don’t have any resent.”
I think about my past living situations a lot. And how kids on TV always hate their old foster parents, or had very traumatic experiences. I didn’t. I loved living in England, I loved living with my Uncle. I loved all my old friends, and I love it here now. So why should I pretend to hate someone who only tried to take care of me? I guess that’s why I don’t mind calling them Mom and Dad. Mine were never awesome or outstanding, and if the Whites were willing to call me their daughter I should be willing to call them my parents.
“Go on Lia, tell us.” Chloe encouraged, her big brown eyes shining.
“You’ll never believe me.”
