If I Fell

Waking up

"Should we wake her up?"

"Maybe."

"But what if she gets upset?"

"Then lets leave her."

"But mom is making breakfast, and she's gotta be hungry. She didn't come down for dinner last night."

"Then lets wake her up."

"But she might still be tired from yesterday. Look, she fell asleep in her clothes!"

"Then let her sleep."

"But-"

"Isaac, will you please make up your mind!"

"Well I'm up now so he doesn't really have to."

As soon as I spoke, both of the small voices stopped their whisper-argument. I sat up and turned towards the door just in time to see two little flashes of green and black vacate the doorway.

I chuckled a bit then got out of bed. The twin, Joshua I think, was right about my being hungry. The smell of pancakes and bacon wafting its way through the cracked door made it impossible to stay asleep any longer. I picked out something comfy to wear for the day then gathered my bathroom products before heading out of my room.

It took a moment for me to realize that I had no clue which door lead to the bathroom. Mrs. Weber had pointed it out on the tour yesterday, but I couldn't recall which of the three doors across the hall was the right one. After a few more seconds of contemplation, I made up my mind and moved to the door directly in front of mine. I'd just grabbed the handle when a voice behind me spoke.

"Wrong one."

Turning around, it became obvious that a very sleepy pajama clad Angela leaning in the doorway of her room had been watching me.

"Thats the attic. The bathroom is on your left."

I gave her my thanks then stifled a laugh as she awkwardly nodded her head and shuffled towards the steps, the droopy ears on her buggs bunny slippers flopping comically on the carpeted floors.

Moving to the right door and opening it, I'm surprised at how spacious and well decorated the room is. The whole bathroom is done up in warm shades of red with the occasional black trimmings. Pulling back the maroon shower curtain I can see that even the tub is themed, sporting black paint with a transparent red shower mat at the bottom. The basin itself is long enough for me to lay down in, which is impressive considering my wide 5'9 frame. A large bath pillow is suctioned to the slanting back of the tub. The faucet is made of brass and below it lies three matching knobs that I know will take quite a bit of adjusting to get the water to a comfortable temperature. One of those detachable shower heads sits high up on the wall with a laden down shower caddy hanging from its neck.

I'd love to sit and draw a hot bath for myself but the growling of my stomach is making it impossible to gather that much patience. I sit my things down on the counter and close the door. To my surprise, there's a mirror occupying the back of the door. It runs the full length of the door and is almost as wide. Through it I, have a look at myself for the first time in two days.

"Ugh, no wonder those boys ran off so fast," I note in mild disgust. My usually smooth dark brown complexion is splotchy and light in some areas, either from an eczema flare or lack of sleep over the past few days. Hopefully the latter because I do not have time for a flare this morning. There are major amounts of crut in my eyes and tilting back my head, a couple of bats visible hanging around the cave. I pout and then stop immediately when my already dry lips seem feel oon the verge of cracking. My hair has a dry dullness to it, making the need to wash the frizzy two-day old twist-out more apparent. I shake my head and turn away from the mirror, moving to the tub with a new sense of purpose.

After about five minutes of testing out the knobs to gauge their functions, I managed to get the shower head on but the water remained either too hot or too cold. Giving up, I leave it on hot and undress then jump right into the scalding water.

Ten minutes and many rounds of furious scrubbing later, I leave the shower feeling much less like a cave troll. Another look in the mirror reveals that the color has returned to my face, the crut is gone from my eyes and my hair looks semi-styled thanks to the gel I'd applied after washing it. I brush my teeth and wash my face one more time. I pick my container off Shea butter up  from the counter, only to realize it's practically empty. Resolving to buy some more from the first beauty supply store I find, I use the very last of it then continue to dress and start gathering my things.

There's a knock at the door followed by a muffled groggy voice speaking to me. Unable to understand their words, I open the door, unintentionally releasing the last warm steam left over from my shower. The loss of heat and sudden gush of cool air from the hallway caused me to shiver and recede back into the bathroom a bit.

In front of me stands Mr. Weber in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt that reads "Forks Spartans". He's shifting back and forth uncomfortably and staring at me with a pleading look. I almost chuckle at his childlike appearance.

When I realize what it is that he wants, I let out an embarrassed "Oh" and start to grab my things more quickly. As I try position my self at an angle that wont allow him to see me pick my underwear up off the floor, he begins talking.

"Sorry to disturb you but Wendy's using our bathroom, Lord knows how long that will take, and Angela beat me to the one downstairs."

Turning around, panties now safely tucked away between my towel and pajamas, I smile at him.

"No problem, just finishing anyway. It's all yours."

He nods gratefully as I step out of the bathroom and promptly rushes in. Again, laughter must be stifled as the door closes. I enter my room, dropping my clothes in the small hamper by the closet and putting away my toiletries. Cracking my back, I start to mentally prep myself for the day.

The caseworker informed me that Mrs. Weber planned in registering me at the local high school and taking me on a shopping trip, as well as showing me around town. At some point, I'll hopefully be able to check out the job opportunities here. As much as I love free stuff, I don't want to have to depend on the Webers for my financial needs. There's still about three hundred dollars saved up from my last job hidden in a scarf that now rests under my bed, but I don't want to deplete that hard earned stash too quickly.

I think of calling Devyn, just to have something stabilize my morning, but a glance at the clock puts the thought out of my mind. It's only 8:37, which means it's around 11 back in New York. She's probably knocked out right now. Saturdays are her only day off and she takes her rest time seriously.

I move about the room, making the bed, adjusting already perfect picture frames, checking my phone for messages I know I don't have, and stand for a good five watching dust settle on the window sill. My stomach growls upsettingly , but I ignore it. After performing a few more pointless tasks, I finally decide to woman up and face the thing I'd been dreading all morning, despite my hunger.

The first breakfast.

The thought of it makes me want to crawl back into bed. Most foster families I've stayed with, well at least the more put together ones, make a big deal out of the first morning. They feel it "sets the tone" for my time with them. So they put their best face forward. They might get dressed up, or dress down to try to make me more comfortable, which I still feel should somehow offend me. Some will make huge breakfasts at home, others will take me out to eat, a few have even given me breakfast in bed. The presentation of the food is used as a icebreaker.

The awkward part comes after we've started eating.

Between mouthfuls of eggs and sips of coffee, the adults like to ask questions. Simple harmless ones like "When is your birthday?" , or "What's your favorite T.V. show?" They'll beat around the bush for a bit, then try and get to the personal matters.

"Where are you from?" turns into "How many foster homes have you been in?"

"How old are you?" is now "How old were you when you entered the system?"

The children, almost always with no regard to politeness, ask how I got there. Why I'm a foster kid and not at home some where living the cookie cutter life as a part of a perfect nuclear family.

Those conversations never end well.

Willingly, the Webers would not be so bold.