Hostile(11)

“How are things?” I ask quietly, cautiously probing into his life like I always do but keeping in the back of my mind how much I hated when anyone would do that to me. When I was trapped in foster care. Bouncing from house to house, from one foster parent to another who didn’t want me. Who only wanted the small check from the government to take me under their shitty, dripping roofs but used the money for god knows what while my stomach grumbled and my clothes fell apart.

His small—too small for his age—shoulders shrug as he sketches absently, not risking a look in my direction. “It’s fine.”

Fine. The universal code for so fucking not okay.

I look over at the table against the wall. It’s stocked with juices and different snacks. “You get something to eat?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I stare at him, trying to decide whether I believe him, but the kid’s not dumb. He knows this may be the only time he eats tonight. It’s not an exaggeration. I know some people would think it is. That, of course, foster parents want to take kids in out of the kindness of their heart. Otherwise, why else would they do it? And I’m sure some do, but I know the system from the inside. And I know, without a doubt, at least half, if not all, these kids—who are crammed into this old, deteriorating room that luckily has heat—have gone without dinner more times than is ever okay for kids to go without food.

“Good. Maybe take some to go, yeah?”

Another absent nod because he doesn’t want to talk about it. How this program is only once a week, and he knows he has to take advantage of it for him and his younger sister, Carly. They were lucky to get placed in the same home this time, but who knows how long that will last.

“I can’t get the shading right on this.” He sounds frustrated, and I smile because I know how seriously he takes his art. I take the pencil from his hand and try to show him, knowing the time for talking is pretty much over.

But as I work, it’s eyes on me from across the room—big, dark-blue eyes that I’ve only just noticed have some golden flecks in them—that leave me feeling uneasy and distracted.

I can’t figure out what his deal is. And I want to scream at him to leave. To not mess with their world, but Laney actually giggles at something he says, and he tears his eyes away from me to look back to her. Now, it’s my turn to stare, and it pisses me off.

He’s drawing something that has her laughing, but I can’t see it. It better not be something inappropriate. Fucker.

But something tells me it’s not. I have no idea why. I don’t know this guy. Not at all. He could be a creep. I learned long ago that good looks and charm have nothing to do with how good a person is.

Still, Grayson, with his big dumb smile that widens as another kid moves to Laney and him and also laughs at his picture, just doesn’t scream bad. I can’t take it anymore and scramble off my seat to look.

I see a poorly drawn truck with what looks like a dog hanging out of the door with its ears pushed back and its tongue flopped out. As I look at it, it’s not as poorly drawn as I thought. It’s just obvious he did it fast. “What the hell is that?”

His big blue eyes look up at me with an impish grin on his full red lips. “It’s a dog on a windy day, man. Don’t tell me you couldn’t figure that out.”

Laney laughs again. “I like his ears. They remind me of a dog one of my foster parents had once.” Her eyes grow sad now, and she seems to retreat into herself. That’s the kid I’m used to, but then she looks at Grayson. “He died.”

He looks at her with sadness, but oddly enough, not pity. “I’m sorry. That’s rough. Everyone knows dogs are much better than people.”

That makes her laugh. I mean a cute, small laugh, but still. The sadness imprinted on her little face nearly disappears as she grabs some crayons. “It needs color.”

“I agree,” Grayson says as he watches her color in his sketch.

I don’t know what to say. I hate that he’s here in my space, doing better with these kids than me. But I can’t deny them this if, for whatever reason, they like him.

Tanya, the woman who runs the program, sits next to me when I return to Max, and her eyes stay on Grayson. “Who’s your friend?”

I grunt something unintelligible as I work on my own art piece, and then my eyes drift to him. His dark hair is still wet from earlier, and he has it slicked back. He’s wearing a tight red t-shirt that’s damp and clings to insane muscles, sculpted from years of playing sports.

Stop. Looking. At. Him.

I pull my eyes away and turn to Tanya, who’s eyeing me suspiciously now. I shrug. “Just some guy from school who gave me a ride.”

Max snickers. “From your rich kid’s school.”

I don’t hide anything from these kids. They know I was a foster kid who lucked out and found a home. They know about the fancy prep school I go to, but they don’t judge me for it, aside from occasionally giving me a hard time.

“Yes. From the Douchebag Academy.”

Tanya shakes her head at me, admonishing me for the nickname, but she grins slightly. “Well, he certainly looks like he belongs there.” She turns serious as her eyes dart to Max. “But we all know looks can be deceiving, right?”

Max shrugs. “I guess.” His eyes meet mine. “What do you think of him?”