Driven(book one)(13)

“Look, I don’t know the guy,” I relent, hoping if I give her some information she’ll be satisfied and not pry any further. “Teddy introduced me to him before I was pulled into being a contestant. His name is Donavan something, and he’s the son of one of the chairpersons. That’s all I know.” I cringe at my blatant omission to my best friend.

I hear her hum of approval on the end of the line and know the exact expression that is on her flawless face. Her button nose is scrunched up in disbelief while her heart-shaped lips purse as she tries to figure out if I’m telling the truth. “I really am at work now, Had. I have to go. Love ya, bye.” I say, our usual parting words.

“Love ya, bye.”

***

There is chaos in The House as usual when I walk in the door. I step over six book bags that lay haphazardly in the entryway. I can hear Top 40 music coming from one bedroom and the beginning of an argument coming from another as I pass the hallway on my way to the core of the house.

I hear the pop of a baseball mitt coming through the open windows at the rear of the house, and I know that Kyle and Ricky are in the midst of their usual bout of catch. Any minute, one of them will be complaining that the other one has horrible aim. They’ll argue and then move to the next activity, playing with their Bakugan or competing at baseball on the Wii.

I walk into the great room to hear Scooter giggling as he sits next to my fellow counselor, Jackson, on the couch, arguing the merits of Spiderman versus Batman.

The great room is a common area of the house, combining the kitchen with a large open living area. Large windows open up to the backyard where I can see the boys playing catch. The room has couches on one end that form a U-shape around a small media center while the other end houses a big wooden table, currently covered with what appears to be incomplete homework. The earth-tone furniture is neither new nor shabby but rather gently worn and well used.

“Hey, guys,” I say as I place my bag on the kitchen island, appraising the state of dinner that appears to be in two large crock-pots on the counter.

I hear various versions of “Hi, Rylee” from the occupants of The House.

Jackson looks up from the couch, his brown eyes full of humor over his debate with eight-year-old Scooter, and smiles. “We were just taking a break from homework. They’ll have it finished before dinner is ready.”

I lift the lid off a crock-pot and stir what appears to be pot roast and vegetables inside. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I’d worked through lunch today at the corporate office. “Smells good,” I say, smacking Shane’s hand as he reaches to pinch a piece of the freshly baked loaves of bread that sit on cookie sheets on top of the stove. “Hand’s off. That’s for dinner. Go get a piece of fruit if you’re hungry.”

He rolls his eyes at me as only a fifteen-year-old boy can. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying,” he counters, his prepubescent voice cracking, as he skirts around me, brushing his shaggy blonde hair off his forehead.

“You need a haircut, bud.” He shrugs at me, his lopsided grin stealing my heart as it does regularly. “Did you finish your paper yet so I can review it?”

He turns around to face me, walking backwards, “Yes, Mom!” he replies, the term of endearment not lost on me. For that, in fact, is what the staff here is to these boys: we are the parents they no longer have, whether as a result of death, drugs, or other circumstances.

To the seven boys in my charge, my staff and I are guardians, since no other family member has come forward to claim them. And in most instances, the chance of adoption once they are above a certain age diminishes drastically. The state has turned over their guardianship to my company and this facility of which I am in charge.

I work mostly in the corporate office several miles away, but require that all of my trained staff work at least one twenty-four hour shift per week. This time allows them to connect with the boys, and to never forget whom exactly we are fighting on behalf of on a daily basis.

These boys and my staff are my second family. They fuel me emotionally and challenge me mentally. At times they try my patience and push my limits, but I love them with all my heart. I’d do anything for them.

Connor comes flying though the kitchen, running to the back door with something under his arm, Aiden chasing after him. “Hey, guys, calm down,” I reprimand as I hear Aiden shout that he’s going to get it back and make him pay.

“Cool it, boys,” Jackson says in his deep baritone, rising from the couch to watch the interaction. Those two have a habit of antagonizing each other, sometimes to the point where it becomes physical.

I feel small hands wrap around my thigh, and I look down into the angelic eyes of Scooter. “Hey, bud.” I smile, taking slow and deliberate movements to reciprocate the hug. I can see him steel himself for my touch, but he does not flinch. It has taken me sixteen months to elicit this reaction from an eight-year-old whose only physical contact in his short life with his mother was through fists or objects. I squat down to his eye level and kiss him softly on the cheek. Trusting, chocolate-brown eyes look to me. “I agree with you. Spiderman is way cooler than Batman. He’s got that spidey-sense that Batman only wishes he had.” He smiles at me, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Why don’t you go pick up your mess? It’s almost time for dinner.”

He nods, granting me a shy smile, and I watch him walk back to the family room and his beloved comic books, which are sprawled haphazardly across the floor. I move my gaze from Scooter to the figure huddled on the other couch.