Adopted by Albert | ✔

1 | a taxi drive

The man who drove the taxi opened the door for me. He had a scruffy beard and kind eyes, which he flashed at me as I got out, probably knowing who I was and where he was driving me. Taxi drivers always know somehow.

I didn't return the look, my eyes never leaving the house we'd parked in front of. The house I was going to live in for the next few weeks. The house that was going to be home. Or, at least, temporary home, until the month passed and I was taken away to another home as I had been time and time again.

Finally tearing my gaze off of the tall house, I walked around towards the trunk of the car, hauling the suitcase from the baggage. It wasn't too big, with only a few clothes and toiletries I'd be need for my temporary stay.

"There it is," said Mr. Grant, a thin man sporting an expensive suit, hair graying rapidly despite his best efforts of making it look alive over the past few months. He was escorting me, like he had been for years now. He was supposed to give my new guardians all the information that was legally required to be given, and then he'd be on his way.

He'd done it so many times already, I've almost perfectly memorized the script from experience alone.

"Thanks." I nodded awkwardly to the kind taxi man who gave me my suitcase, turning away without another glance and starting down the walkway. Mr. Grant's polished shoes clopped almost horse-like against the concrete as we made our way towards the front door.

The house looked really nice, like most of the homes did in Orlando. It was white on the outside, and it had a grey door with a window on it, which was fogged up to make everything inside look warped. I approached it cautiously as Mr. Grant went in front and rang the doorbell.

It gave a little chime, and I stood nervously, seconds away from meeting them. My parents. Of course, it was the same cycle every time, but constantly meeting new people has always been hard for anyone to get used to. I could feel my heart pounding lightly against my chest, and I took a few silent, deep breaths, hoping to calm myself. 

Although it would save me from meeting them, passing out on the front steps of this nice-looking home was not on the agenda today. Mr. Grant, who'd forced conversation with me on the ride here, was obviously more than ready to get back to his office, where undoubtedly a cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle was waiting for him at his desk. Fainting would only increase the amount of time he'd have to put up with me.

After about ten seconds of waiting, the window displayed a flesh-colored distorted figure walking towards the door, and it opened, revealing a woman. In her early twenties, she had silver-blonde hair, brown eyes, and a big, nervous smile.

"Hi," she greeted us, "Please, come in."

I rolled in the suitcase, struggling over the bump in the doorway. My escort began to talk, and I just turned slowly in a circle, trying to take everything in. It was one of those modern houses, the types that smelled fresh and eerily modern. I got the feeling these were the types of people who put those automatic air-fresheners everywhere. 

Not that I was complaining, of course. If there was one thing I learned from moving between twenty houses a year, it was that living without air-fresheners should be punishable by law.

From here I could see the living room. The couch was made of white leather, and it had several fluffy dark pillows strewn across it, facing a large television. My second parent was probably upstairs, but what could he be doing? I thought that surely both of them would come to greet me. Nevertheless, a part of me felt relieved. Meeting one person at a time was better than two at once.

Finally, Mr. Grant stopped talking. It took me a moment to realize they had, because when I turned to them, they were both staring at me inspecting the house. I felt my face heat up in embarrassment.

"Well, I'll be on my way, now," he said, "Blair, if you need me, you have my number, and so do your foster parents. I'll be here to pick you up in about a month." He smiled and nodded reassuringly, and then he left.

The woman extended her arm to shake and said, "Hi, Blair. You can call me Kirsten, I think it'll be weirder for both of us if you call me Mom." 

I shook it and asked, "So, where's my Dad? Or Mom. Parent."

"Albert's upstairs working, he told me to tell you he's sorry he can't be here right now, but also he wanted me to say hello for him. He'll be downstairs in about an hour or so for dinner. Want me to show you your room?" I nodded and followed her up the stairs.

All of the doors were open except for one, and I could hear someone talking from inside of it. Probably where my dad, Albert, was working. Kirsten passed that room to another one next to it, which, thankfully, wasn't pink like the bedrooms I've been given in other houses.

I don't know why most people think pink is the universal color for girls. I'll swallow a brick whole before asking for a pink room.

My bedroom was actually really cool. There was a full-sized bed with a nightstand, and a desk with a PC sitting on it, which was way above usual standards.

"I'll let you get unpacked, we'll be getting dinner in about an hour. Feel free to do whatever you want until then. If you need me, I'll be in my room, which is just down the hall." She smiled and left, leaving me on my own in my new bedroom.

I went around inspecting everything. I guess I must've been their first foster kid, since they tried so hard to keep it clean. There was a carpet that was vacuumed, the bed was made, and the closet was empty, with the exception of some hoodies that had flamingos all over them.

Mostly, I was just thankful I was the only kid they had. My time in the orphanage has proved that having other kids around me is a hazard.

I sighed and finally sat down on the bed, staring down at my feet. So this was my life for the next month.

I was home.