All The Ways Back Home

Prologue

I wake up to the sensation of my shoulders being shaken like crazy.

When I let out a tired groan, my roommate's shaking gets even harder.

"Ugh," I grumble as I shield my face from the light, slightly ticked off by the girl who bunks next to me. Taylor is about eleven. Sometimes sweet, sometimes annoying, always the one who ends up waking me up if I oversleep. "What's up, Tay?" I mumble.

"Ms. Courtney is here!" she informs me, probably glaring down at me now. She practically lives according to schedule, and she hates when I flout that by being really really tired.

"Okay," I mumble and stuff my face into my pillow. The worst that could happen is suffocation, and at least if I passed out from lack of oxygen, I'd get some rest.

"She's here for you," Taylor groans in exasperation.

"Gathered that," I mutter, still muffled by the pillow. Ms. Courtney is my social worker, after all.

"Come on!" And I'm pulled out of bed by my arms.

"Ow," I complain as my face roughly lands on the floor of our shared room. Taylor just rolls her eyes at me. She's a total drama queen who wants to be a famous singer someday. She insists that it's no coincidence she shares a name with Taylor Swift. And yes, she's totally a Swiftie. The other kids in the group home and I agree: this would probably fine if she didn't constantly sing her songs 24/7. I've been subjected to 'Love Story' more times than I'd like to remember. That's where her annoying side comes in. "Why d's she even wanna talk to me?" I slur my words, still exhausted. Taylor rolls her eyes again.

"How am I supposed to know? Probably someone new wants to foster you." I mean, she's right. When your social worker shows up to the group home, why else? I pick myself up off the ground, rubbing the sleep dust from my eyes, and haul some real clothes on. I half-heartedly run a hairbrush through my shoulder-length brown hair, enough to make it look okay and get most of the tangles out, and make for the kitchen.

I take a turn or two into the dining area, and lo and behold, Ms. Amara Courtney is waiting for me next to the fridge. She gives me a small wave before tucking her dark, extremely curly hair back behind her ears. She's cool. Even though she might seem really businesslike at first sight, Ms. Courtney is actually super nice. I'm one of her first cases (she's pretty young), which means she still hasn't snapped and decided she hates kids, and also that she knows most of the pop culture references I make. Out of all the social workers, Ms. Courtney is a pretty good one to get. She's got her laptop out of her briefcase, which I know means some new kind of development has happened.

"Morning, Liz," she greets me. "How's your morning been?".

Thank goodness she talks with contractions. I don't know what I would do if she was one of those people who goes psycho when they see an apostrophe.

"Well," I groan, heading to the sink and turning the knob the coldest it can go, "I look like I've been run over by a truck, so never better."

She raises her eyebrows as I splash cold water on my face, enough to jolt me awake fully. "You look fine," she assesses, with finality in her voice. I take a second to reappraise the clothes bleary-eyed Liz slapped on. Shorts, a t-shirt, and a hoodie tied around my waist. I won't be nominated for any fashion awards, but I guess Ms. Courtney is right: I don't look terrible. Yet another point to her: she takes no shit talk, even if you're talking about yourself.

"Meh," I conclude as I slice a bagel and put it in the toaster. My overly dramatic shrug nearly sends my plate careening towards the floor, but I nab the teetering dish just in time. "So, not that I don't enjoy seeing you, but why did you come?" I question her, because I like to get to the point. Small talk is only enjoyable once you've pointed out the elephant in the room.

Ms. Courtney looks slightly rattled by this question, like she had been trying to avoid it. Her manicured fingernails drum up and down her chocolate-colored arm. "Well," she begins. "You see," she starts again.

"Ms. Courtney, just spit it out. It's fine," I inform her.

She closes her eyes and takes a couple deep breaths. Ms. Courtney once told me it deactivates your fight-or-flight instinct. When she reopens her eyes, she looks directly at me. "What I'm about to tell you, you have a choice in. This is completely unprecedented in the American legal system, so we still have a chance to set a precedent. This is all up to you."

Uh-oh. The legal jargon only shows up when she's stressed. And there's more than a hint of anxiety in her voice. I'm starting to get scared, and I think it shows on my face.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, closes her eyes, and looks heavenwards. "I'm sorry. It's not that much of a big deal. You'll be fine."

There's a slight tremor in my voice despite the strength when I say, "Just tell me."

Ms. Courtney sighs. "Is it true you took a DNA test and put your results on the internet a couple of years ago?"

I nod. I'd completely forgotten about that, but I have an idea where this is going.

She continues. "Recently a man took a DNA test on that same platform and discovered a match. He wants to foster you, because as it turns out, he's your father."

I audibly gasp as shock floods through my brain. That took quite a turn. But I shake that idea off, knowing that it can't be true. "Yeah, no. My father died with my mother in that car accident."

It's Ms. Courtney's turn to gape as she stares at me. "I thought you would have known. Your stepfather adopted you when he married your mother. You must have been very young."

Backing away from the silverware cabinet I was about to retrieve a fork from, I slump into a chair. My head is spinning and I'm not sure what to do. "After the funeral— no one ever really talked about them— I guess I was five— they were probably planning to tell me later—"

Ms. Courtney walks over to place her hand over mine. "I'm so sorry. When I took on your case, I thought your last social worker told you. I would have let you know otherwise."

I numbly shake my head. "Well, what's his name?"

She blinks. "What?"

I wave my hand around in the air. "This man who wants to foster me. Who is he?"

She takes another deep breath.

"His name is Tony Stark."

I go silent, the rest of the house being quiet as well. It seems the world halted to deliver me this crazy, strange news.

"Oh my God," I mutter.

The toaster dings.

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Author's Note
Please forgive my little-to-nil knowledge of the foster care and adoption system. The internet knows everything, it seems, except for how group homes work! So, I've relied on imagination to assist me. If you guys know anything about the general workings of a group home, please let me know.

I love to get feedback and your thoughts! Please comment and let me know what you thought of this chapter.

Question of the day: If you could travel to an alternate universe where the MCU was real, what would you do? Would you try to become a superhero?