The Teen Years

The Actual Story

The Teen Years

Okay, so I used to write shit all the time. This shouldn’t be too hard.

“Write a short story,” said Mrs. Bateman as she pointed to the whiteboard. “Just write a story. Get your creative juices flowing. Write about whatever—love, life, dragons; I don’t care. We’re going to start this year off with our minds wide open and our fingertips stained from the ink of our pens.” She looked around the class. “Or, in these modern times, our fingers strained from pressing the keys on our keyboard too hard.”

I snorted as quietly as I could, because I wasn’t going to be one of those dumbasses who laugh when the teacher makes a – okay, it was a good joke... but still, not going to happen. As a seventeen-year-old foster kid, I had the responsibility to act as severe and pissed off at the world as I could. I was a roll-my-eyes-because-you’re-not-funny kind of girl, even when something did... sometimes... tickle my funny bone.

As it happens, I’m going to try and be an inceptive little weasel and write in my point of view. That’s the only point-of-view I can really think of, at least. I don’t really know anybody else well enough to write as if I was inside their head, and I sure as hell can’t make somebody up. I’m not that creative.

God, I really don’t know how to start this. I guess the story I’m trying to tell happened two years ago; it was the start of August. School was rapidly approaching, and I was living with my new foster parents, Hannah and Clide.

Wait – before I let you go ANY further, I need to warn you: this is not a depressing story. I realise the way I’m writing this is making it sound like a rip-off of a John Green novel. It’s not! It is not a love story, either. Not even a story about love. (Okay, I’m kinda fibbing now.)

So... August 2012. Clide and Hannah welcomed me into their home. I remember setting my small suitcase into my little room, staring at the pretty purple walls and the ruffled plum blanket that covered my bed. A light blue dream catcher hung above my head, catching the light that streamed in through the windows.

I felt a rush of anxiety, of panic. It was more because of the jolt of realisation that I was in a new house, with new people, rather being terrified of the colour scheme or something. The room was nice, homely. Were the people, though? I took deep breaths, sat awkwardly at the edge of the bed—my bed, now, I guessed.

I waited for my new foster-parents to come in and greet me with the speech I get every time I start out a new home. It’s always the same, sometimes slightly varied, but the overall message is always the same: we’re welcoming and open-minded, but step out of line, and you’re out.

That’s why I liked stepping out of line – getting out. Why bother with people who were just humouring you? There’s no point. I was fifteen as of then, holding out till July 2nd, 2015, when I would turn eighteen and leave the foster-programme, free forever.

Fun fact: Foster homes are nothing like the ones you read about in Jacqueline Wilson novels. It’s way more messed up than that. I remember us all crowding around in the living room, eyes fixed on the Television, watching Tracy Beaker and smiling wryly. CBBC was one of the very few channels we got on that TV.

I heard a knock at the door, thought “Here it goes” and crossed my legs when Clide and Hannah walked in. Hannah came in first, her long billowy skirt swishing at her ankles; a bandana was tied in her hair. Clide tied his dreads back with a green scrunchie. They were both grinning.

I furrowed my eyebrows slightly.

“Hi,” I said, looking at the pair of them curiously. They sure weren’t your stereotypical pair of foster-parents.