I hate sports. People assume I'm athletic because of my height and build, but I have the worst coordination.
"So kid, you throw the ball like this. Your goal is to get the ball into the basket alright?" I don't think Paul understands. I don't suck at sports because I don't know how to play. I suck at sports because I just suck at sports.
"Yea but you see the way the net is set up, I don't think that's ever going to happen." I said. I get what he's trying to do. Bond with me, toughen me up a little. Do things regular guys do.
"That's the problem Jude, You're too negative. Haven't even tried and already think you won't make it." No, my problem is this man has me up at the ass crack of dawn on a saturday morning. I'm tired and hungry.
"But Pau-" he cut me off before I could even finish, throwing the orange ball into my hands.
"No butts unless we're at a strip club." He commanded. "Now shut shut up, straighten up, bend your knees and take the shot."
~Present Day~
You know, I never really understood why terrible people would sign up to be Foster parents. If you don't like kids, why bother yourself? Maybe it's about the money. Actually no, everything is always about the fucking money.
At this point there's no turning back. Mrs. Philips wasted no time driving off, I couldn't hop back in her ride even if I wanted to.
As I walked through the front of the house mentally prepared myself. Prepared myself to hate everything. Prepared myself to have zero expectations, setting high hopes only leads to hurt and pain. With each step I prepared myself to hate Steve and whoever is wife is. I'll hate their home from the fucking furniture down to their crappy wallpaper. In truth their home didn't look that bad. The couches in the living room were a strange mixture of new and old but oddly enough still matched. Everything looked stylish, yet comfortable.
"Steve! Steve is he here yet? Is the boy here yet?" a high voice yelled from upstairs. The voice obviously belonged to a woman but sounded like sharp nails dragging across a chalkboard. Each word she spoke was worst than the last.
"Yes Marge he's walking in right now, the boy only has two legs, can't expect him to walk any faster."
Hilarious. Maybe I wouldn't have to try that hard to hate them.
"I'm coming down Steve" she said.
I was jolted out of my thoughts when out stepped a presence I wasn't expecting.
Usually foster "mothers" allude an aura letting you know they don't give any fucks about you. An aura letting you know their care for you only extends as far as the check attached to your name every month. I'm used to it. But Marge was far from this. She alluded some sickening mixture of happiness and sunshine. Sort of like she ate a rainbow and now can't stop shitting happiness. It was weird and I hated it. I hate false first impressions. Aunt Jemima one day and Mrs. Trunchbull the next. What the fuck.
A/N Hello! This is a story I started years ago and for some reason never got around to writing it. But Im baaackkkkk!
