Future Shock

2

The words pour out of me before I can stop them: “A bacon cheeseburger without mayo, with mustard, no tomatoes, Swiss cheese instead of cheddar, extra avocado and bacon, onion rings instead of fries, and an extra side of coleslaw. Plus an order of the mixed green salad with no tomatoes, and a Diet Coke with no ice.” I stop to take a breath, and then I add, “And he ordered the blue cheese burger with a Sprite.”

Everyone’s staring at me now—the manager, the waitress, and the couple at the table. Even a few people across the restaurant. Eyes wide, mouths open, suspicion and shock creasing their brows. I know these looks. I’ve seen them before.

My face burns, and I wish I could take back everything I said, redo the entire moment. I spin around and head for the exit before they can say anything.

A blast of heat and sunshine hits me as I step outside. I wanted to show them I could do this job just as well—if not better—than they could. But like a pendeja I let my anger get the best of me and proved to everyone in there what a freak I am. And the worst part is, I’ll never forget this moment either.

Because I never forget anything.The doorbell rings at 8:34 p.m. I stare at the green numbers on the clock, while Katie reads out loud from her homework. The doorbell doesn’t mean anything. It could be a salesman or a neighbor. But I know better. Sudden arrivals in a foster home are never a good thing.

“Elena, you’re not listening,” Katie says as she looks up from her Spanish textbook.

“I am.” I tear my gaze away from the clock and force a smile. “You’re going to the ‘discoteca.’ Keep reading.”

We’re huddled next to a flimsy desk light because the bulb overhead is out and no one’s bothered to change it yet. Not that there’s much to see—two twin beds crammed into a room not much bigger than a closet with one dresser between them. It’s obvious our foster mom once put some effort into decorating it with lavender walls and fluffy, pastel pillows, but a steady stream of rotating kids has worn the place down. At least with the light out it’s harder to see the stains in the carpet, the fraying edges of the sheets, or the peeling paint around the windowsill. Still, I’ve lived in worse places. And I only have to survive this one for another two months.

Katie though, she’s only fourteen. She has a long way to go before she gets out. I don’t know who will take care of her when I’m gone. Not the Robertsons, that’s for damn sure. They try, but they’re stretched thin enough as it is. Not the other girls living here, who pick on Katie for being tiny and having hair so pale it’s almost silver. Or they used to, anyway. I took her under my wing when she came here a month ago, after her mom OD’d on drugs. No one messed with her much after that.

Katie’s kind and smart, and the system hasn’t worn her down yet. I pray it never does, but who am I kidding? It gets to us all in time.

But once I get out, maybe I can help her. Or if not her, then other foster kids like us. Sometimes that thought is the only thing that keeps me going.

She starts reading again, and we work on conjugating the verb “to go” for her homework. I ignore the heavy feeling in my gut until my foster mom calls my name from downstairs.

Katie chews on her pen and looks up at me. “You should go see what she wants.”

“I know.” I sigh and drag myself off the bed. “Start working on the next section.”

It has to be a social worker. No one else would come to the house looking for me. But I only have two months until I turn eighteen. They wouldn’t make me move now, would they? I don’t want to leave Katie, and even though this house is cramped and rundown, the Robertsons treat us pretty well and always have food in the kitchen. That’s more than I can say for some of the homes I’ve lived in. But where I live has never been up to me. If they say I have to go, then that’s that.

“There’s a woman in the dining room who wants to speak with you,” my foster mom says when I get downstairs. Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles and she’s wearing one of her ridiculous aprons. This one is pink and says, Life is precious, handle with prayer. The TV in the living room isn’t blasting sports at full volume, so my foster dad must be working late again. He’s been doing overtime more and more these days.

From what I’ve gathered, the Robertsons couldn’t have children of their own and thought they would do some good by taking in foster kids. A worthy goal, but they got in over their heads and now they’re barely keeping it together. They’re overworked and underpaid and have no idea how to deal with six kids who’ve all been through hell and back.

Once we turn eighteen, they’re done. The instant the checks stop coming, we’ll be out on the street. Everyone here knows it, and there’s nothing we can do. The Robertsons are doing the best they can, just like the rest of us. It’s the system that’s messed up.

One of the other girls living here races through the hallway and up the stairs, followed by another one who yells, “Give that back. It’s mine!”

Mrs. Robertson pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Go on. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

“Thanks.”

I hold my breath as I head to the dining room, steeling myself for what’s coming. It has to be a social worker, even though our weekly meetings are always scheduled in the afternoon. But who else would come to see me?