Prologue:
Shalya's POV
"Shayla, I know you're in there. Please come out already!" My social worker, Bianca, said to me from the other side of the bathroom door. She was trying to get me out so I could meet with my potential foster parents. I didn't want to, though. I hated meeting the people. They would always seem nice but behind closed doors, they were monsters. So far I've ended up in several foster homes; and I'm only thirteen! None of them have worked out for me so I always end up back with Bianca. She's becoming very adamant on finding me the perfect foster parents. Since all the others she's set me up with were complete tools, she feels like she must make it up to me somehow. I don't know how this can be her way of making it up to me.
"I don't want to, Bianca. I've told you, I'm done with the interviews. I'd rather stay with you and your poor excuse for a home." I said leaning my head against the door knowing she was on the other side, grinning to herself. She knows how I feel about her house. I love it, especially since I get paid for babysitting her sons and daughter-even if her sons are older than me.
"Shay, I've told you time and time before; I can't."
"You mean you don't want to."
"You know that if I could I-"
"I checked the rules, Blanca! You can take me in until I find a 'proper home.'" I spat referring to her as Blanca. She hates it when I call her that. It makes her feel paler than she already is.
"All right, fine. If your interview with these people doesn't work out, I'll take you home with me. Miss Maxson is not going to be pleased." I smiled in triumphant. Miss Maxson is the owner of the girls' shelter I've been currently residing in. She's a bit of a bitch, but she's not a total bitch. I opened the door and shut it behind me looking at Bianca with uncertainty. She sent me a reassuring smile.
"I have a feeling these people will take you off my hands." She joked. I nudged her side making her laugh.
We walked down the corridors. Every sound from each room was heard evidently. You could hear the teen moms shushing their babies, the teen couples arguing with one another, and my personal favorite; the teens fighting with their biological parents about custody. Most of the girls here were sent here because their parents basically sucked at being parents. They got arrested and police sent the kids to shelters or foster homes such as the one I'm in. When the parents got released, they'd ask to see their kids again, claiming their clean. Most of the time they have money trouble so they use the kids as a way to get the green (money). I didn't have to deal with this problem, though.
Moments later, Bianca and I appeared in front of the interview room. I looked through the one-way glass and see a man with a full head of dark black hair. His eyes appear to be bright blue, and he's Caucasian. The woman sitting beside him is a light skinned African- American. She has a head full of crazy curls and has brown eyes. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I began to feel angry. Bianca tenses next to me and forces me to look at her.
"Shayla, did you take your meds this morning?" she asks concerned. I blink back the tears that are beginning to form in my eyes and shake my head. She lets out an angry sigh and pulls out a bottle of my prescribed pills and hands me her water bottle. You see, I have a mood disorder, I'm bipolar, I have depression, post-traumatic stress syndrome, anxiety and I'm claustrophobic. Yeah, I'm fucked up. I swallow the pills and take a deep breath.
"You've got this." She reassures me. I give her a look.
"You know I always am purposely rude to the folks so they don't like me, right?"
"Yup," she confesses, popping the P. I chuckle before pushing the door open and walking inside. Bianca's walked in behind me to introduce us to one another.
