block me out | station 19

IV

"Fuck you!" Vada screamed at her foster dad, slamming the door behind her and locking herself in the room. "Fucking pervert," she whispered as she sat with her back against the door, her knees pulled up to her chest.

Two weeks. Only two weeks, and she was already exhausted from her new placement. Seriously, what is wrong with people? She thought to herself. Why was everyone in her life out to hurt her? Mr. Ramos had given her a bad vibe from the first day she arrived, but as Mrs. Anderson had told her, it was either that or the office. And to be honest, the chair in her office was the most uncomfortable thing anyone could ever sleep in. How she didn't have the decency to put a couch in there was beyond Vada's comprehension.

"Just wait until you get out, you little bitch!" Mr. Ramos yelled, pounding on the girl's door. "You can't stay in there forever," he chuckled, his voice filled with wickedness.

"Try me," she spat angrily.

Attempting to vent her frustration, she kicked the chair in the room repeatedly until her foot started to hurt, and collapsed on the bed, placing a pillow over her face to muffle her screams. Saying she was mad was an understatement. She was furious, but she was also tired and sad. She felt like the unluckiest girl in the world. Everywhere she went, trouble followed. Maybe she was the problem. She knew that's what her social worker thought, but of course, Mrs. Anderson didn't live with her foster families, so to her, they were all great.

No longer caring, she began to pack her things, which consisted only of her backpack with two sweatshirts, three shirts, and two pairs of jeans. It was enough, at least for her.  As she was folding her jeans, a piece of paper fell out. This is my number. She remembered the firefighter telling her. Call me if you ever need anything— to talk, or if you need a ride, or just to get out of your place for a bit. No questions asked. She could use a ride. She needed to get out of there.

Taking a deep breath, she read the number, typing it into her old and cracked phone that she stole years ago, and somehow still worked.  She let it ring, wondering if it was a good idea or if she should hang up and not bother the woman.

"Hello?" a tired voice came through the line. Vada couldn't find her words as fear crept through her body. "Hi? Who's there?"

"Hi," she whispered. "It's Vada."

"Vada?" the woman sounded surprised, her tiredness suddenly disappearing. "What's wrong?"

"I need a ride," she said quietly. If she didn't want Mr. Ramos to hear her, she needed to stay as quiet as possible.

"Text me your address," Maya told her, getting out of bed, being careful not to wake up her wife, and grabbing her keys from the house.

She drove to the address as quickly as she could, without breaking any laws, and found Vada fighting with a man on the porch of a small, dilapidated house. Paint was peeling off the walls, broken windows littered the area, and piles of trash were stacked on the sidewalk.

As the car came to a stop, she quickly got out and ran to stand next to the brunette. "Hey, hey!" she yelled, positioning herself between them. "What's going on?"

"This asshole won't give me my backpack," the teenager spat, unsuccessfully trying to maneuver around the blonde.

"Who are you calling an asshole, you ungrateful brat!" the man yelled, hurling a beer bottle in their direction.

Maya's eyes widened in shock as the bottle narrowly missed the young girl. "What do you think you're doing?" she yelled, approaching the man. "You could've hurt her!"

"Oh, come on. We all need some pain in our lives," he slurred, his words muddled by the effects of alcohol.

"I'll show you pain," Vada hissed angrily.