The Missing Pieces

The First Time I Saw You

                                                                                           Taylor's POV

            "Welcome to the New Hope Group Home Ms. Swift. Mrs. Pinkerton will be right with you. She just has to finish getting the girls ready," A woman with a warm smile plastered across her face greeted. I smiled at her and wandered over to a bank of wooden chairs sitting against a generic beige wall. I took a seat next to my personal body guard, Elijah. I surveyed my surroundings. A large stock photo of three smiling young girls holding hands adorned the better half of the wall closest to the heavy wooden doors I had just walked through. A couple of stuffed animals laid untouched in a shadowy corner. A few pamphlets regarding foster care, adoption, and therapy were spread out on a glass faced side table tucked between my chair and the wall. I picked up one of the pamphlets and leafed through its glossy pages, absorbing the information it provided.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Pinkerton, a stout woman with mousy brown hair and a permanent set of frown lines engraved on her face entered through a door and waved me in. "Hello Ms. Swift. I'm so happy you decided to go through with the volunteer process. These kids really need someone they can look up to and who can inspire them to make good choices. I understand that you plan to participate in our STARR program which takes place every Friday, but I also wanted to tell you about our reading program. Once a week, on the day of your choosing, you would come and read with a child who you are matched with. The kids who participate in this program really flourish and it would be a great way to really form a connection with a child. I hope you'll at least consider it." I nodded. The reading program definitely sounded like something I would enjoy doing.

I followed Mrs. Pinkerton down the long expanse of dimly lit hallway and into a medium sized room that appeared to be the cafeteria. Long wooden tables were spaced out evenly, two or so feet apart, at one end of the room and at the other end there was a small kitchen. Mrs. Pinkerton motioned for me to sit down at one of the tables and she slid into the seat across from me. "This obviously is the mess hall. It's about time for the children to have lunch. They should be down in a few minutes."

While we waited for the children to come downstairs, Mrs. Pinkerton elaborated on what the STARR program and the reading program would entail. I listened intently, growing more interested as she went on. She also brushed over the topic of foster care, briefly alluding to it by mentioning that many of the volunteers also became foster parents. Soon, the pitter-patter of shuffling feet danced past of my ears, followed by a flurry of hushed voices. As the children started to filter into the room, the shrieks and squeals started.

Mrs. Pinkerton allowed the children a few minutes to get their initial reactions out of their systems and then ordered everyone to quiet down. As she began to speak, her voice took on an element of cold, harsh authority. "Although it seems like most of you already know who this woman is, this is Taylor Swift. She is to be addressed as ma'am or Ms. Swift. She is our newest volunteer and will be working with the STARR program. I expect you to treat her with the utmost respect and please don't be surprised if you see a man sticking close to her side. That's her bodyguard."

After Mrs. Pinkerton finished her spiel about me, she ordered the kids to get in line for they're lunches. While they waited in line, I took the time to observe each child. All of them were girls and most were at least 12 years of age with a few exceptions. Everyone seemed to have their individual friend groups established except for one of the younger girls, who waited at the end of the line alone. She couldn't have been any older than six and the clothes she wore looked way too big for her. Her expression was unreadable and she stared at the floor. "Who's that?" I asked, pointing her out to Mrs. Pinkerton. She grimaced and looked at me with a vaguely annoyed expression.

"That's Maisy Wallace. She's one of our newer arrivals, along with her little sister, Kara. Maisy is one of our most difficult cases," Mrs. Pinkerton explained. I expected her to explain a little bit more, but instead she excused herself to go help with serving. I rolled my eyes and waited for the children to sit down. As each child got their lunch and proceeded to sit down, I continued to watch Maisy. Mrs. Pinkerton had mentioned a little sister, but Maisy sat down alone in a table tucked into the corner.

I began to converse with some of the children who had grabbed the seats closest to me. The girls who had claimed the seats were all in their early teens and if it was possible to have the popular clique in a group home, it was them. They spoke with an air of entitlement and if another child dared to approach the table we were at, they cast them a withering glare. I listened as each child told me their life story, how they ended up here, what they liked and disliked, what they wanted to do with their lives, etc. They told me about the schools they went to and what their favorite subjects were. I glanced over my shoulder to check on Maisy, and low and behold, she was still sitting at her table with her tray in front of her, untouched. I waited for a break in the conversation and excused myself.

"Hi Maisy," I said gently, sliding into the seat directly across from her. I flicked my hand at her in a wave and waited for her to respond. She didn't even raise her head to acknowledge me.

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the full plate in front of her. "Do you not like peanut butter and jelly?" I tried, looking at the plate. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, four slices of apple, a carton of TruMoo chocolate milk and a single oreo. Sure, it wasn't the most appetizing of meals, but it was at least edible. I would have eaten it if I were her.

For a fleeting second, she raised her head to look at me. It was hard to hold in my gasp when I caught a glimpse of her eyes. It looked like someone had bottled up the ocean on a stormy day and poured it into her irises. I wanted to brush one of the sandy brown curls that had fallen into her face from the sloppy bun her hair was in behind her ear. "How old are you?"

Maisy seemed to consider my question and gingerly raised her hand. "Wow! Five years old. Your such a big girl," I stated, grinning at her. A glimmer of what looked like happiness shined in her eyes for a minute, but the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come.

Before I knew it, lunch had ended it was time for me to leave. As my driver melted into the typical Manhattan traffic, I couldn't help, but think about Maisy. Her beautiful curly mane, her ocean eyes that held notes of mystery, pain, and fright. I wanted to wrap her up in a hug that would never end.