BIG SIS

11.1 Your Mama is Sick of Your Drama, Save It For Someone Else

Collin tapped his pen against the desk in time with the clock, a tap for each second. He'd been keeping tact of time for good ten minutes. The guy sitting on Collin's right'd been glaring at him for about as long. Collin fought the urge to bare his teeth. It wasn't the poor asshole's fault that Collin was in a bad mood.

The bell rang. Collin stumbled up, feet dragging like anchors. He didn't look at Iris' empty desk.

Collin's pocket buzzed. He checked the message and ducked into a nearby bathroom, thumb sliding over the screen. The call clicked through immediately.

"That bad?" Collin asked.

"What mess did you get yourself into, man?" the voice on the other side sighed.

Collin thunked his head against the wall. He smiled, laughing at himself and Pak's familiar, exasperated drawl. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Don't tell me, then," Pak said. There was a crunching noise – Pak was never far from food, the crappier the better – and his next words were slightly muffled, likely spoken around potato chips. "The brat's daddy is the local DA. He won the seat two years ago. The campaign banked big on a kidnapping case that turned into a murder. Got the voters all worked up over a boogeyman right before the election and, bam! The old guard's out."

A cold shiver ran up Collin's spine. "Makes sense," he forced out.

"Mm. So," Pak said, munching through another mouthful of chips.

"So, what?" Collin asked.

Pak grunted in exasperation. "How have you been? We haven't talked, in – what? A year? Since Boston, at least. And now you call me up for shit on some schmoozy politician. What's up with that?"

"I thought you weren't gonna ask," Collin said, tone mocking. He swore he heard Pak rolling his eyes on the other side.

"I'm curious! And concerned. But mostly curious," Pak slurped at something that likely contained more sugar than the hyperactive man needed. "You've got the worst luck with fosters. At least if shit hits the fan this time, you can leave for real. Your birthday's in what, a month? Then it's bah-bye foster care, hello freedom."

Collin had been doing his best not to think about that. Pak was a headache without trying. "That's not-" important, he began to say. The lie got stuck in his throat.

Pak was Collin's oldest friend. They met in a group home, back when Collin was still trying to make sense of a world that didn't have his parents in it. Pak was two years older. He'd ran away from home, or so he told people. He was loud and smiled all the time. Collin'd wanted to punch him in the face until the day Pak found him hiding in a cupboard in the attic. Collin'd thought the older boy would laugh, but Pak had only sat with him, for hours, quiet for once.

Other than his parents, Pak was the only person who'd ever seen Collin cry.

"They want to adopt me," Collin said, the words spilling out in a rush.

Pak stopped chewing. "And?" he prompted.

"And, I'm thinking about it," Collin said.

A keyboard clacked on the other end of the line. "Where did you say you were?" Pak asked.

"I didn't," Collin said. Pak shushed him.

"Never mind, found ya. Illinois, huh? Been to Chicago yet? Always wanted to try the deep-dish pizza."

Collin parsed through the babble, swallowing back questions about Pak's stalkerish ways to focus on the most relevant point. "You're not coming here," he said.