The Secret Sister by M. DeLuca (leveled readers txt) 📗

I never made it to see the cops because the social workers were waiting for me at the motel when I got back. Never found out if Birdie’s pimp or sugar daddy had ratted on me. She was the only one who knew exactly where I’d been staying. I still can’t be sure who told them because everything that happened next was a blur.

Down at the social worker’s office a dough-faced woman with a lisp told me how fortunate I was that the Flatts had agreed to take me back, which was truly selfless of them considering what Birdie and her friends did to Lester’s jaw, but they’d both assured the authorities that there were no hard feelings and, since I wasn’t the troublesome one, I’d be better off without the influence of my delinquent sister. In other words, the income from one foster kid was preferable to none.

The words they threw at me suddenly merged into a blur. I fixed my eyes on the mustard yellow walls that pressed in on me, squashing me into a two-dimensional cutout. I thought about Colby and school and the mall and how I was always fighting to eat and sleep and learn. And how Birdie would try to have a baby and the kid would live a crappy life as well, with a brainless kid for a mother and I couldn’t save her from Earl and her own stupidity. Then something snapped inside me. Twanging like some fraying thread that’d held me in check for the last six years of neglect and abuse, but now was stretched to breaking point. It came apart so fast I swear I heard it ping in my ears, sending shock waves across my brain.

That’s when I let it all go, buoyed by a tidal wave of anguish and rage. I screamed, kicked, thrashed, swept pens, pencils, staplers into the air. Watched orange fire flare from their edges. I screamed and yelled every curse that came to me – every piece of filth I could muster until my head rang with the sound of my own voice. Then someone with hairy arms grabbed me from behind and I felt the sweet stab of a needle in my shoulder. Purple clouds rolled across my eyes and my limbs went numb and woolly as the sun was finally blotted out.

34

At breakfast Guy reminded me we were invited over to his research assistant, Brian Metcalf’s place for supper, but I barely registered the information. My mind was stuck on Earl Rafferty and Birdie and my meltdown in the social worker’s office.

How things can change so drastically in fifteen years.

This was my life now. Friendly but casual dinner parties, reading the papers in bed on Sunday, a bowl of fresh fruit balanced on my lap and fresh-ground coffee steaming on the night table beside me.

My thoughts drifted to Brian’s place, and I imagined a quaint one and a half story craft style bungalow complete with Dad, Mom, new baby in eco-friendly hemp or bamboo cloth diapers. A front garden filled with lavender bushes and Spot the dog prancing around like a trusted old friend. No snarling pit bulls or hissing feral cats ready to carve your eyes out if you messed with their territory.

I knew I’d have to get to the mall at some point that day to calm myself down, but there was no need to dress up in a fancy new outfit, with the likelihood of a rancid stream of baby vomit on the shoulder. Instead I’d scour the stores for lovely baby gifts. Guy beamed at the mention of it. He tossed the rest of his coffee back, leaned over and stroked my hair.

“Maybe it’ll give you some ideas,” he said.

The sun broke through a cloud and lit up the kitchen. “Meaning?”

He shrugged. “You know, baby stuff. The maternal instinct.”

My mind went numb. Like cold water had trickled into my head. I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“No pressure,” he said, backing off. I wanted to hug him for his sensitivity, but I dug my nails into my palms instead. He stood up. “See you back here at five. I’ll get the wine.”

“Thanks,” I said, my voice husky with the tide of emotion I was holding in check. He was so good to me and so good for me. I didn’t deserve him and all the loveliness he’d brought to my life. The sun on his hair, the gleam of the orange juice jug, the velvet mounds of peaches in the bowl. All now so familiar to me, I could’ve burst out in song right then. Instead I reached up and caught his fingers, traced the smooth edge of the wedding ring, took in the calm contours of his mouth.

“See you at five,” I said, relishing the certainty of it.

At school I went to see Robin again. Asked him what was being done about Carla and Rafferty and the whole sickening mess. He shook his head and gave me a bloodshot, mournful look.

“I’ve talked to the cops, Anna. They assured me they’re looking into it. Seems they’ve had their eyes on this sleaze, Rafferty, for a long time now, but they can’t get anything concrete on him. Every time they get close enough to flush him out of his rat hole, all their witnesses clam up. He’s got too many friends in high places. Probably has so much on them, they won’t spill a thing.”

I studied the crêpey pouches under his eyes, the thinning strands of hair plastered across his crown, the frayed collar on his faded plaid shirt. Maybe I could pick up a couple of new shirts for him. Get him a haircut. Spruce him up a bit then the cops would take him more seriously. I’d learned long ago that appearances count for a lot in our screwed-up society.

He shook his head, scratched at his wrinkled ear. A tide of sympathy washed over me. After all these years of dedication he deserved to be sitting on