9. Norah

BEFORE

For the first few weeks at Wild Meadows, Norah watched. Having been a foster child for most of her life, she'd learned it was a good idea to get the lay of the land early. The more information you gleaned in the early days of a placement—a foster father's pet peeves, the fact that meals come only once a day or that the first one up got their pick of the shared clothing—the better. So she learned that Miss Fairchild was a woman of routine who spent most of her time cleaning. She drank wine, but not a worrying amount, and thus far it had not preceded violence or rage. She liked conversation to revolve around herself. And she was exceptionally frugal.

"It's not cheap to run the farm and to feed and clothe you," Miss Fairchild said, as she served up a meal that seemed to Norah to be lacking in both quantity and nutrition. After a few weeks of it, Norah felt the hunger gnawing day and night.

Also notable to Norah was the fact that Miss Fairchild knew things. Things she shouldn't rightfully know—like the fact that Norah ate her entire lunch at recess rather than splitting it into recess and lunchtime, or that she'd stopped at the skate park for a few minutes on the way home from school to play on the abandoned board that she'd found.

Miss Fairchild also appeared to like Norah, which was both good and bad. She'd had foster parents who had taken an instant dislike to her, and that never worked out well. At the same time, she'd learned to be leery of adults who liked her too much.

"You did the laundry?" she'd exclaim, when Norah would perform her allocated chore. "What on earth did we do without you?"

It was bizarre. Norah might have written her off as one of those oddly nice people—like Dulcie, the receptionist at her previous school, who called everyone "sweet babycakes"—except that, unlike Dulcie, Miss Fairchild wasn't nice all the time. She was unpredictable—lashing out at unexpected times—usually at Jessica, who followed her around like a puppy dog, working overtime to get her attention. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. For the life of her, Norah couldn't work out why she bothered.

Still, Norah fell into a routine. (It was annoying, because getting into a routine usually guaranteed she'd be yanked out of it without notice or explanation and planted somewhere new. For this reason, she hadn't bothered asking Scott if this would be a permanent placement. She knew the answer would be "If you're lucky," and if Norah had figured out one thing by now, it was that she wasn't.) School was part of this routine. Unlike most kids her age, Norah enjoyed school immensely. It was one of the few places where she could know with reasonable certainty what was going to happen. At her new school—one of those small-town places housing prep through to Year 12 and grouping two or even three year-levels into one classroom—each day started with circle time, then literacy, then maths, then sport. As usual, maths was her favorite subject, but she enjoyed nearly all the lessons, apart from art, which was unnecessarily messy and had no discernible point.

Norah was aware that she was extremely intelligent. The teachers were always saying so. Norah and Jessica were grouped together, so Norah knew that Jessica was also (surprisingly) smart too, and (unsurprisingly) eager to please, always with her hand up, always volunteering to help the teacher. Like Norah, she seemed happiest in the classroom. Jessica spent most of her lunchtimes in the library or alone in the playground, while Norah spent them scavenging for leftover food or picking fights. One such lunchtime, she had just discovered an uneaten apple on the grass when she heard a commotion.

Turning toward the sound, Norah saw a large girl pointing a menacing finger at Jessica, who was sitting on a swing. The large girl was Sandra. Sandra was the youngest child of a dairy farmer and had six older brothers. She was as tall as Norah, with wide shoulders and hips, and as strong as one of her father's cows.

"I—I'm sorry," Jessica was stammering.

Norah moved closer.

"Not sorry enough." Thrusting her hand forward, the girl knocked Jessica backward off the swing onto the tanbark. A couple of onlookers shrieked, high on the scandal of it.

When Sandra advanced on Jessica, now sprawled on the ground, Norah sprung into action. It wasn't that she was a fan of Jessica. Truth be told, she found her annoying and whiny. But a strange code existed in foster care. While you could torment your foster siblings all you wanted at home, out in the real world, you were a pack.

Norah easily knocked Sandra off balance with barely a push. Once the girl was on the ground, Norah kneeled heavily on her side.

"Get off me!" Sandra cried.

"What's going on?" Norah asked Jessica, who was crab-crawling away from Sandra. When she stood, tanbark hung from her like ornaments on a tree.

"I said get off me!" Sandra shouted, trying to wriggle free. "What's your problem?"

"That's what I was about to ask you," Norah said.

Sandra pointed at Jessica. "She was supposed to do my homework, but she didn't. Now I have a detention."

"I was going to do it last night," Jessica said weakly. "But I… I…"

She drifted off. Norah understood. Miss Fairchild had been in a volatile mood and had tasked Jessica with extra cleaning duties right up until bedtime.

"I tried to do it in class this morning," Jessica continued, "but Mr. Walker caught me."

"How much are you paying her?" Norah asked Sandra, who was still pinned beneath Norah's knees.

When Sandra looked baffled, Norah looked at Jessica, who was scuffing her feet. Her cheeks were pink. "Jessica?"

"She's not paying me," Jessica muttered.

Norah frowned. "Well… what's she doing for you?"

"Nothing."

Norah stared at her. "Then why are you doing her homework?"

Jessica shrugged. "Because she asked me to."

"Will you get off me?" Sandra spat.

Norah responded by adding more pressure. "From now on it's two dollars per worksheet," Norah said to Sandra. "Ninety percent or above, or you get your money back."

It took a minute for Sandra to catch her breath. "I'm not paying—"

"We'll also take payment in food. Homework in exchange for lunch. Your mark will vary in direct correlation to the quality of the lunch."

When Sandra didn't respond, Norah leaned forward to put more weight on her knees.

"Fine!"Sandra gasped.

"Good."

The bell went then, so Norah stood up, releasing Sandra. The girl's face contorted as she struggled to her feet. "Who the fuck are you anyway?" she said to Norah.

"The name's Norah. With an h." Norah said. "I'm Jessica's sister."

By the end of the day, Norah and Jessica already had two additional customers for their homework racket.

"Why did you tell Sandra I was your sister?" Jessica asked that afternoon as they trudged home from school.

Norah considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Announcing you're a foster child rarely leads to anything good."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Strange sad looks from parents. Kids asking what happened to your parents. Teachers who want you to stay late after school to help them organize the sports shed." Norah drew air quotes around the words "organize the sports shed."

Jessica's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "Oh."

"I know you're not my actual sister, obviously," Norah said. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

When Jessica replied, her voice was small. "Actually," she said, "I liked it."

Norah didn't know what to say to that, and clearly neither did Jessica, because they walked the rest of the way home in silence.

"Why hasn't the laundry been put away?" Miss Fairchild demanded.

Jessica and Norah had been having a nice afternoon until that point. As they did their chores, they'd actually chatted a little. Norah wasn't a huge one for chatting, but she had managed to turn the conversation to dogs and before she knew it she was enjoying herself. Until Miss Fairchild had arrived home from running errands and found them taking the laundry off the clothesline together.

"How sweet," she'd said, in a voice that made it clear she meant the opposite. "You two are friends now."

Ever since then she'd been in a mood. Norah could have sworn that it was brought on by the sight of Jessica and Norah getting along. Norah had finished folding the laundry and had ducked into the bathroom before putting it away when she heard Miss Fairchild holler.

By the time she got back to the kitchen, Miss Fairchild looked incensed. "Well? Why hasn't it been put away?"

Their foster mother was wearing a lolly-pink dress with puffed sleeves. Her lipstick was a similar shade; she resembled a children's party entertainer or host, which made her thunderous expression even more terrifying.

"Laundry is Norah's job," Jessica protested. She shot Norah an apologetic look, but Norah didn't mind. It was accurate, after all. Besides, she could handle Miss Fairchild far better than Jessica could.

"I was just using the bathroom," Norah said. "I'll finish now."

She headed toward the piles of laundry, but Miss Fairchild's arm shot out, stopping her. Her gaze remained on Jessica. "What did you say?"

An alarm bell went off inside Norah. Danger—but not for her. Miss Fairchild was glaring at Jessica.

The other girl was already rigid with fear. "I said… laundry is…" But she couldn't finish the sentence. Tears welled in her eyes.

"You selfish, selfish girl. Only ever doing things if they are your job."

This was spectacularly inaccurate, given that Jessica spent the majority of her waking hours seeking out jobs she could do to win Miss Fairchild's favor, but Norah had already learned there was no point in arguing with her. Her wrath, when it came, was like a runaway train—once it got going there was no way stop it.

Jessica's chin trembled. It wasn't the first time Norah had watched as other kids were shouted at and punished. But in those instances, the kid typically hated their foster parent. Jessica loved Miss Fairchild. She was stupidly, hopelessly, loyal. It was like watching a dog being kicked.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered.

"You will be."

Miss Fairchild marched to the sink. A moment later she returned, clutching a fresh bar of soap. Norah watched in horror as she plunged it into Jessica's mouth.

"This is what we do to people who talk back!"

The soap was so large Jessica's eyes bulged as her lips strained around it. There seemed no possible way it would fit, but Miss Fairchild kept pushing until the entire bar was in Jessica's mouth. Then she covered Jessica's mouth with her hand.

Jessica's eyes became wide and panicked. Bubbles formed around the edge of her lips, leaking between Miss Fairchild's fingers.

"I think… I think she's choking," Norah said. But her uncertainty about the situation kept her rooted to the spot. Did Jessica want her to intervene? Or would that make things worse?

Miss Fairchild ignored her.

Jessica gagged. Tears leaked from her eyes. Bubbles came out her nose. Miss Fairchild kept her hand over the girl's mouth, staring into Jessica's rolling, terrified eyes.

Finally, Norah couldn't bear it any longer. "Stop it!" she cried, stepping forward and slapping Miss Fairchild's hand away from Jessica's mouth. Instantly, the soap shot from Jessica's mouth and skidded across the floor. Jessica ran to the sink and vomited. Her body heaved violently as she gripped the edge of the counter.

Norah looked at Miss Fairchild, who just stood there breathing heavily, as if recovering from a terrible shock.

"Put the laundry away," she said finally, and turned and walked out of the room.

There was no retribution for Norah for intervening—at least, not that day. When it came to vengeance, Miss Fairchild preferred to play the long game.

Scott returned for his first visit when Norah had been at Wild Meadows for four months. He smelled like the communal microwave at the police station, and the sweat patches under his arms dipped nearly to his waist. Norah found herself unable to look at him, focusing instead on the blue plastic clipboard on his lap. He'd scribbled Norah's name at the top, spelling it without an h. When she pointed this out, he didn't bother to correct it.

"How are things, Norah?" he asked.

Miss Fairchild wasn't in the room when they had their catch-up—that was one of the rules. Scott, like the social workers before him, always told Norah she should speak freely, and tell him if anything about her new home made her uncomfortable. Her previous two social workers had said the same thing, word for word, leading Norah to deduce they were all reciting from the same brochure.

"Which things?" she asked.

"Any things?" He looked up from his clipboard, already frustrated. "All of the things?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

Scott sighed. "Do we have to do this every time?"

Norah sighed back. "If you keep asking me about things without specifying what things you mean, then yes, we do."

"Are you settling in?" he said slowly, as if Norah were the dimwit.

"I guess," she replied equally slowly.

"School's okay?"

"Fine."

"Do you have any concerns that I can help you to resolve?"

That one was easy. Norah was completely confident that Scott was incapable of resolving any concern she might have. "No."

"Right then." Scott ticked a couple of boxes on his form. "I'll make a note that the placement is working out well."

"I didn't say that," Norah said.

But Scott was already on his way to the door, like he was in a big hurry. Fine by Norah. Except a few seconds later she heard him talking to Miss Fairchild in the hallway.

"I've got another one, if you're interested," she heard Scott say. "Same age as these two. A respite case. Her grandmother, who's been raising the girl, has been taken to hospital."

"A respite case?"

"Short-term. A few weeks or months. It's her first time in foster care and she's had a fairly stable upbringing, no trauma that we know of so she shouldn't give you any trouble."

Miss Fairchild didn't respond for a couple of seconds.

"You'd prefer a traumatized child?" Scott asked in disbelief.

"Of course not." She sounded irritated at the suggestion. "I just want to help the kids who need it the most, that's all."

"Well," Scott said, "respite money is quite good. But I can give it to someone else if you're not interested—"

"I'll take her," Miss Fairchild said. Money, of course, trumped everything.

But when Alicia arrived a few days later, Norah started to wonder if Miss Fairchild did want a traumatized child. Because this time, there was no honeymoon period of adjustment, no demented smile or declarations that she was safe at Wild Meadows. Rather, it seemed like Miss Fairchild hated Alicia on sight.