House Thirteen

And last

My mother always told me to never show weakness. Never cry, never show pain, never let on that you're upset. That pain is for the weak. Yet here I am, in the back of a social workers car, shaking.
The social worker, Mrs. Fherris, pulls out of the hospital parking lot
While I stare out the window. It's been raining for the last two days if I remember correctly. Who knows. I can't even sit still. I wonder what Mrs. Fherris would do if I opened the window and let the raindrops in. She'd probable use her calm, cool, social worker voice and tell me to close the window. I smile just thinking about it and immediately I hear my mother's voice saying " There's my beautiful Ivory!" My ever-present frown returns.
I twirl my hospital bracelet around and stare at my name Ivory Armstrong 15 yrs. old. Fourteen letters. Thirteen foster homes. Huh.

My mother was something else all together. I never knew which mom I was going to get when I wake up. I wonder if she's out of the hospital yet. No one would tell me.
The sky is a dreary, blank, gray color. Maybe it'll snow.
My daydreaming was interrupted as Mrs. Fherris pulled into a driveway.
"Here we are, Ivory." Mrs. Fherris
says.
It's a brown, two story house with a few trees surrounding it, like guards. There's a "54" on the mailbox.

Mrs. Fherris grabs my bag from the trunk, "This is a very nice family, Ivory." She puts emphasis on my name and I know she's giving me a warning. "And this is their first time fostering..." I know this is her way of telling me to be a "good girl." It feels like I'm wading through waist-high water walking up to the front door.
I know what foster homes are really like, parents smoke cigars and feed you saltines for breakfast.

Three steps up to the front door, and I take each one as slowly as I can. Mrs. Fherris knocks in the door firmly as if she'd been waiting a while for them to answer. The door swings open and a young woman, maybe late twenties or early thirties. She had blonde hair to her collar bone, a chartreuse green sweater that matches her eyes, and dark jeans. Plain, but pretty in a mom way I guess.
She holds out her hand and says, "Hi Ivory, nice to meet you. I'm Julia McAlister."

"Wait, what?" I think as I reach to shake her hand. Why is she happy to meet me? How much does she know? I hope I don't like her.
If things could get worse, they did. Just then three small children ran to the door. The smallest one reaches up and Julia swoops her up in her arms.
I'll probably end up being a full-time babysitter or modern Cinderella.
The oldest boy looks like he's scared of me. I can't blame him really.
I haven't cried in a while, but I want to cry now. Mrs. McAlister tilts her head and holds her gaze as she says, "Come on in, Ivory."

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Ok I know there are some mistakes bear with me I'm trying to figure out all the works on here. Update soon.
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