One Day At A Time

I could sneak in by shimmying up the tree by my window and though it went slowly; I hauled up the bags from my excursion. The house was quiet, which meant the boys were still at films and Allison left for her weekly coffee klatch with the other mothers in town. Since Brett always stayed for drinks at the club when he golfed, I knew I’d be able to get my things in order, so when the people from Discordia showed up, I’d be ready.

Like most foster kids who have been shuffled around a lot, I’m always prepared to be re-homed. I’m lucky enough to have bought a suitcase three homes ago, so I pull it out from under the bed and lay it out. It has some of my most treasured possessions still safely ensconced in the top zipper area—a trick you learn early on. If you don’t need it every day and want to make sure it always comes with you, keep it in the go bag. It’s hard enough to pack your shit while fuming or crying, much less remember everything you cannot leave behind.

Walking to my closet, I choose a few pieces of clothing that will pass for neutral and a few girly pieces, folding them for maximum space conservation. Next, I pare down my shoes, only taking what I absolutely need and leaving my boots for day to day wear. Inch by inch, I go through my meager possessions, from accessories to books to keepsakes, packing everything I can. I leave enough out to get through a week of classes if need be and make sure my day-to-day needs are all gathered on the top of the dresser in a compact group.

Finally, I empty the bags on my bed. Everything from my journey today is tucked in carefully and I make sure there’s space for the few items that should arrive tomorrow. When I’m satisfied, I bite my lip. I should raid the bathroom, but I’m afraid to get caught having to take toiletries back and forth until my saviors arrive. With a sigh, I close the suitcase, leaving it unzipped as I slide it back under the bed. I’ll go get the things I know I don’t need in the next week to put inside, and I’ll make sure I can grab anything else before I go.

Lord knows I’ll need emergency tampons squirreled away until I know the lay of the land at this boys’ haven.

Dottie scampers over from where she’s been perched on the bookshelf, looking at me with her doe eyes. I can’t tell if she’s worried about me or if she senses my anxiety ramping up. Now that I’ve used up all my adrenaline from hiding all the activities I needed to complete, I can feel the wave of uncertainty creeping in. I reach over and run my hand over her head, letting the soft feel of her fur calm me down slightly.

I’ll have to employ a lot of my coping mechanisms to get through the wait for whomever to get here. Logically, I know the chances of my fosters or even the twins paying enough attention to me to go rooting through my room a second time is unlikely. But Allison’s never gone through it before—to my knowledge—and I can’t figure out why she’d think I’m hiding some mind blowing acceptance letter that would eclipse the twins’ D1 placement in a football town.

Even Harvard or Yale wouldn’t matter to the sports people like ‘Bama.

It’s been a very bizarre week and everyone around me is making it worse by not acting as they normally do. Routine is integral to quelling my anxious demeanor, so even if the boys are being dicks, it’s fine because I expect that. However, they’re the only constant this week, so I’m left to deal with their shit and worry. Having mental health issues is a pain in the ass—especially ones you’re fully aware of and can’t control. People do not understand how upsetting it is to have a complete understanding of why you’re behaving this way, but no ability to change it.

They’d rather poke fun at how you’re ‘triggered’ or get frustrated you don’t change to make them more comfortable.

“I have to distract myself for a while or I’ll go nuts. The last thing I need is a big ass panic attack on top of everything else.” The kinkajou makes a funny squeaky sound and I chuckle. “How about I go grab some snacks downstairs and we can watch a movie until it’s time to face the firing squad?”

That gets me a resoundingly positive animal sound, so I point at the closet or under the bed. Dottie’s head bobs and she takes off, scrambling under the dust ruffle where she won’t be seen if someone from my family opens the door randomly. I tug the beanie I’m still wearing down, making sure I’m covered completely before I exit my room and head down to the kitchen.

There’s still no one around when I raid the fridge and the pantry, which helps the thrum of tension in my veins. Based on what the letter and the website indicated, I shouldn’t have to wait long before someone will show up to usher me into my new life, but they didn’t give a timeframe. I know it wouldn’t bother most teenagers, but my condition makes that far more stressful than it should be.

I decide to be careful with my choices—no coffee or soda. I don’t need more restless energy. Grabbing a bowl of fruit for my secret companion and two bottles of water, I rustle up some cheese and meats, crackers, pretzels, and a yogurt. This should tide the both of us over until dinner, and once I get through that, I can bring Dottie a meal as well.

As long as she behaves until my new professors or minders get here, this may actually work.

“Katarina Camponella!”

Sitting up quickly, I pause the movie and nod at Dottie so she scampers into one of her hiding places. I don’t hear footsteps, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t coming. I wait for a follow up, hoping like hell I need to throw the rest of my shit in a bag to get the hell out of here, but it doesn’t come. Shit . Sighing, I look at the clock, realizing I’d been so engrossed in my 90s rom-com that I lost track of time. Allison wants me to set the table for dinner and since I don’t hear the grunts of the boys, they must be on their way.

Not much longer, Kat, I tell myself.

“I’ll be back after dinner with your grub. Don’t get caught; stay hidden.” Dottie doesn’t come out at my words, so I assume she got the hint. If I don’t get down there soon, the bellows will start again and I’ll be in trouble.

I jog down the front steps just as the boys burst through the door, smelling like sweat and jock straps from their practice after films. They barely acknowledge me other than to bump me out of their way, heading straight for the showers before dinner. Rolling my eyes, I head for the kitchen without comment. They never have to do any chores and the excuse is always football. I’ve given up on even trying to bring that tidbit up, and I’ll be out of here soon.

Discretion is the better part of valor in this instance.

When I get to the kitchen, I pick up the stack of plates, napkins, and flatware. Allison is watching me and I’m not sure why, except for the beanie on my head. It’s not like I haven’t worn hats before and it’s not cold for my chosen covering, so I ignore her in hopes she’ll do the same for me. There’s never been a ‘no head covering’ rule in this house because the twins so often have backwards caps on, so I won’t be breaking a dinner tradition if I don’t remove it. I just need them to focus on whatever bullshit Blake and Bryce are pulling, so they don’t question me.

Brett is sitting at the table when I return with the dinnerware, and he narrows his eyes at me, too. Their inspection is making my gut tighten, and I feel the waves of anxiety roiling in my ears. I don’t do a lot of shit. I have to keep it secret for a reason—it’s an exercise in control for me to maintain normal levels of adrenaline, anyway. Having to hide things and wondering if people are onto me is almost torture.

A torture you willingly chose to endure for four years; grow a pair and practice before the time comes.

My brain is often both my worst enemy and my greatest ally, so I have to pick what advice I take from my inner monologue. Sometimes, I only make myself worse with criticism and nitpicking. It’s a delicate balance, and it’d be a lot easier if I had even a little positive reinforcement, but I don’t. I’m a party of one, and I will be at Discordia, too. College won’t change that like I hoped—it’s not in the cards.

“Kat, you seem out of sorts. What’s going on with your college applications?” Brett says as he eyes me, putting down the place settings. “The boys are still celebrating, but you’ve heard nary a word. Did you mess something up?”

Swallowing a biting retort, I smile. “I’ve been told the sports programs announce before the intense academic schools and I shouldn’t be worried. I’ll let you and Allison know as soon as I do.”

His eyes narrow as he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dan said his boy heard from Stanford. Are you certain your information is correct?”

“Doesn’t Dylan row? That’s a sports scholarship, Brett.”

I couldn't care less about his work friends or Allison’s hen party attendees, but I often have to answer to comparisons of their kids. These two aren’t awful people, but their decision to house fosters was not purely out of good intentions. Our achievements elevate them among their friends and not measuring up is unacceptable. I memorized every single one of the people I’d have to be pitted against so I can answer without either of them getting pissy. It just makes life easier.

“Coach said the game Friday was our best,” Blake says as he and Bryce bound in like thundering hippos. “What’s for dinner? I’m fucking starving.”

Allison comes in with a roast, jerking her head, so I go behind her to bring in some of the side dishes. “Hearty food for hearty appetites, boys. You’ll love the potatoes and gravy.”

Rolling my eyes as I gather four bowls, stacking them along my arms as I do at work, then walk out to circle the table. Placing them amongst the other items, I watch the boys heap food on their plates with no regard for anyone else. You’d think they’re feudal lords and we’re their damn serfs who get the scraps. I don’t know why the hell Brett doesn’t throw a fit about how much they hog at meals. It’s shameful, though I honestly don’t eat a lot of Allison’s cooking, anyway. Her shit is full of high calories and high fat, something I have trouble digesting.

Maybe it works out that the boys vacuum up enough that they don’t notice me not eating a lot.

“That’s great, son. You two are going to be the biggest thing to come out of this town in a decade. Ally and I are so proud we could burst.”

If I could shoot lasers from my eyes and kill that asshole, I would. He never says shit like that to me and definitely never calls me ‘daughter’ or any equivalent. Allison doesn’t, either. I may not be looking at them to fill a parental role, but it would have been nice if they ever tried.

I huff quietly, staring at my plate as I push food around and making plans for the future that don’t include assholes.

That’s when the doorbell rings and we all look at one another.