Tone Deaf

Chapter Nine

"So," he declares, looking back up at me as if that whole exchange hadn't happened. "Why'd you stop going to church? Were you declared a heathen?"

I shake my head at him. "Now who's being dramatic? Nah, it's because I started doing music more professionally when I was only fifteen. What with that and the fact that my mother insisted I finish high school or at least get my GED, I didn't really have time for anything else."

"Your poor parents." Kyle says, putting a hand over his heart, and I can tell he's being sarcastic. "They probably just wanted a nice churchgoing son who grew up to be something respectable but not too smarmy, like an accountant or a schoolteacher."

I look at him disbelievingly. "Your talent for spontaneously pulling this stuff from your ass astounds me."

Kyle just gives me a cocky smirk. "Don't worry, Dev, my ass astounds a lot of people."

I can't even stop my jaw from dropping slightly at that.

"You know damn well that's not what I meant, and don't ever call me Dev again, you prick."

Kyle just laughs again.

Kyle:

It hasn't escaped my attention that I've shared more with Devon Pine over the past two months or so than I have with Tay in the six years I've known her. The frustrating thing is that I don't have an explanation for it. I'm not doing it on purpose, it's just felt so natural, which is a completely different problem by itself. I'm so comfortable being around him that I don't even realize I'm revealing completely private details about my life until it's too late.

I haven't felt at ease with anyone in my life since I was twelve and Mrs. Ingram decided she no longer wanted to keep me as a foster child.

Mrs. Ingram was the fifteenth foster home I was put into in four years. I had been shuffled from here to there, never staying in one place long. A few homes just had too many kids and had to get rid of the 'expendable' ones. Other times, they just said I was more trouble than I was worth.

At the beginning, I tried to be good, I really did. But I was a scrawny little kid back then, and the other kids I was lumped with took every opportunity to get as much as they could out of me, like my lunch or my clothes or my books—any physical possession they could get their grubby hands on they took. And if I tried to stand up for myself, I got a bloody nose for my efforts. Then I was always accused of starting the fight. And thus, a pattern was born.

By the time I was ten, I was already jaded enough to not hold any false hope that the next foster home I stepped foot into would be my last. It had been three years and despite all my begging and bothering of my social worker, I still had no clue where my sister was and no way to get in touch with her. I was a dirty, bitter, angry little kid.

And then came Mrs. Ingram, a kind but firm woman in her mid-forties who owned her own bakery. She had four other foster kids with her at the time, which was actually a small amount compared to some of my previous placements. There were three girls—Brooke, Grace, and Kelsie—and one boy—a ten-year-old like me, with messy black hair and a mischievous grin that guaranteed he was no angel to have around the house. His name was Eric.

They were all incredibly well-behaved for foster kids, but Eric did like to push the boundaries a little. I went along with him, because as the only boy in a house full of women, he had welcomingly taken me under his wing. I was so happy to have a friend at last that I participated in any scheme he could come up with.

One time, Mrs. Ingram caught us sneaking back into the house at two in the morning after spending the night exploring the woods behind the backyard and climbing trees.