Finding London - Ellie Wade (best pdf ebook reader for android .txt) š
- Author: Ellie Wade
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What? Does she have a photographic memory or some shit? What the hell?
Apparently, I canāt have a moment of undoubtedly stupid weakness where I confess my deep-seated attraction to her without her rubbing it in my face.
I donāt have the fire in me to fight her. Iāll never win in a battle of words because hers will always make more sense. She will continually be right. I know Iām fucked up. I understand more than anyone that I hold on to irrational fears and block people out. Deep down, I realize that isnāt the way to live. But knowing something and having the courage to do differently, to choose the hard and scary route, are two separate things.
Bottom line, when it comes down to the core of the issue, Iām weak. Iāve tried not to be, but my dad was wrong about me.
āI canāt fight with you, London.ā My words sound pathetic, and I wish I could take them back and replace them with ones that would show that Iām strong and in control. But Iām not those things, so what does it matter? āPlease, just get in the truck.ā
Her lip trembles, and I think sheās going to cry, but she holds it in. Her face carries a frown as she all but stomps to the passenger side and gets in. I have to stop myself from smiling. I get that this situation isnāt remotely funny, but, God, I love when sheās all feisty, and her pouty attitude comes out.
I hop up into the truck. Starting the engine, I begin our trip back.
After a few minutes, London asks, āWhat does this mean? Do you just need to call it an early night? Do you need a few days to think about stuff? Or are we over?ā
Are we over? Those words resonate in my brain.
We were over before we even started. One intriguing, drop-dead gorgeous woman isnāt going to heal a lifetime of hurt overnight. I tried to avoid her. I told her no multiple times, but she wouldnāt hear it. This frustrating, beautiful woman wouldnāt take no for an answer.
Doesnāt she know that I was trying to be a good person? That I was trying to stop her from feeling like this? And this is how we feel after a handful of meetings and two dates. Two. Fucking. Dates.
But I canāt make myself voice my thoughts out loud even though I know them to be true. So, instead, I say, āI donāt know.ā
London sighs beside me but doesnāt say anything else the rest of the ride. Sheās the type of girl to battle for what she wants, but sheās also prideful. I think sheās found herself at the spot where sheās put up enough of a fight to make sure I know how she is feeling. But sheās not going to beg for me to like her either. Her stubborn pride is one of the many things I love about herā¦or loved, past tenseāI mean, liked, used to like. Ugh, I donāt know.
I pull into Londonās drive and opt for not being a total dick, so I walk her to the front door. She turns to say good-bye, and the tension between us is more than a little uncomfortable.
āListen, LoĆÆc,ā she starts to say, her voice sweet and kind.
āJust save it, London,ā I snap before I can stop myself. My walls and ability to be an eternal asshole are back in full effect.
Her eyes widen, but she quickly composes herself. She stands on her tiptoes and gives me a small kiss on the cheek. My body stiffens at the contact. She turns to leave, and her hand grabs the knob of the door.
But then, almost on instinct, she looks back at me. āI was just going to say that I really want to be fucked up together. And whatever reason you have for thinking you donāt deserve someone to love you is wrong. I see you, LoĆÆc, more than you think I do. Youāre a good person, and you deserve way more in this life than youāre allowing yourself to have. I donāt know why youāre punishing yourself, but you should stop. Maybe Iām not the person you need, but you need to find the one who is. Everyone needs love, even a big, bad warrior. Not everything in life should be a battle.ā
Iām stunned, standing frozen on Londonās front porch, staring at the door she just closed behind her.
What the hell? Those three words are on repeat inside my head. I grasp the back of my neck and turn to leave. Seriously, what the hell?
This entire day consisted of 351 reasons why I donāt date. I can barely think clearly enough to put one foot in front of the other to get off this porch.
I just need to get home and go to bed. Then, in the morning, Iāll work on forgetting that I ever knew a girl named London.
āHope is a powerful thing. It always kept me fighting for every tomorrow.ā
āLoĆÆc Berkeley
I spy black mold running along the caulk on the back of the sink, a sponge that is more gray than the teal color itās supposed to be, and a sink full of dishes that should have been washed last week.
I think back to Glendaās house. I havenāt lived there in two years, but Iāll never forget the maddening whiteness of it.
But which is worseādisgusting grossness or insanity-inducing starkness?
I think Iām going to pick black mold for $500, Alex.
Yep, Iād take the white over this any day.
I smile as I think of Mrs. Peters, the sweet old lady I stayed with for a few weeks before coming here. To say that she had an obsession with Alex Trebek would be an understatement. She recorded every episode of Jeopardy! onto stacks of VHS tapes and then would watch it all day long, every day. She would pause it to make meals and cookies. She made the best oatmealāchocolate chip cookies in the entire world.
Oh, I miss Mrs. Peters.
I wished that I could have stayed with her for a long time. She was the nicest person Iāve stayed with. I didnāt have the nerve to ask her, of course, but I think she knew that I was happy there. Before my caseworker came to bring me here, Mrs. Peters explained to me that she was just too old to have kids full-time. She said us kids deserved better and that she could only be a temporary placement situation.
If she only knew.
After leaving Glendaās, I stayed in five homes before coming here. Iām hoping this one will be temporary as well, but if weāre basing my stay off my luck, Iāll probably be here forever. I havenāt been here long, but I already know I donāt want to be either.
Bev and Carl seem nice enoughānot really. Nice is a relative term, and in my experience, it signifies not cruel more than it stands for kindness.
Carl is overweight and just kinda gross. When heās not at workāIām not sure where that is yetāheās sitting in the brown-and-yellow plaid armchair in the living room. When heās gone, you can still see the outline of where his body sits. The fabric and cushions are completely worn down in a perfect Carl-shaped form.
Bev reminds me of a witch, like the one who tried to eat Hansel and Gretel. She comes off as decent, but thereās a part of her thatās off, that scares me. Itās like sheās being accommodating enough so as not to frighten me away, and then sheāll attack. She knows that I have nowhere else to go anyway. So, if it is indeed an act, she should know itās an unnecessary one.
I have a feeling that Bev and Carl are going to be a permanent placement.
They have another foster kid named Sarah whoās been here for three years. Sheās shy and quiet. I tried to talk to her last night, which goes against my usual behavior. Iād stopped trying to be friends with the other foster kids a long time ago. But something about Sarah makes me think she could use a friend. I didnāt get much out of her last night, other than the amount of time sheād lived here.
But I donāt like the way she acts around Carl. She never looks at him. The second she enters the living room, she keeps her eyes focused in the opposite direction of where he sits. I have the impression that sheās petrified to look at him, and thatās weird. I mean, heās pretty ugly, but I think itās more than that.
āBoy, the dishes arenāt going to wash themselves.ā Bevās presence in the kitchen startles me.
āI know. Iām working on it.ā
āTo me, it looks like youāre just standing there,ā she snaps.
And just like that, the witch is here.
I donāt say anything else as I continue to scrub the mildew-infested gray sponge against the caked-on lasagna pan. Iāve learned, most times, itās best to be quiet.
āYou know, itās hard to find placements for teenage boys. I would think youād be a little more grateful when people take you in.ā She continues yammering, but itās almost as if sheās talking for her own benefit.
I try to block her out as I continue to scrub.
āWeāre always offered teenagers, and nine times out of ten, theyāre boys. You see, girls are adopted much earlierāat least, the good ones. Unless heās a cute little baby, no oneās standing in line to adopt a boy. Did you hear me? I said, boys are useless. No one wants them.ā
I know sheās expecting a response, but I donāt have the desire to play this game. Iāve played it too many times before. So, I simply nod.
Apparently, thatās not the response she wants because, in a clipped tone, she adds, āWhat do you expect? Even your own parents didnāt want you.ā
āShut up,ā I say under my breath, barely containing my rage.
āExcuse me?ā she spits out.
I turn and throw the disease-infested sponge on the ground. Through gritted teeth, I say, āShut up.ā My hands clench at my sides, and I have to talk myself out of hitting her in her big, crooked nose.
Iāve had it with these excuses for human beings who sign up to take in kids. Why do they do it? Money? It surely canāt be that much. I mean, look at this dump. Power? They obviously get their thrills from kicking someone else when theyāre down. But it still doesnāt add up.
I canāt take it anymore. Years of bottled up despair and anger threaten to explode. And what if it does? What can these people possibly do to me that hasnāt already been done? Kick me out? Being homeless doesnāt seem too bad. Send me to jail? Sounds good to me. Is Carl going to hit me? Hardly. I can outrun him any day. Fat ass.
Iām done.
āMy parents died, you stupid twat, and
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