Mom and dad came home at 3:00 AM last night. As usual. I don't know why I even care anymore. It's not like they care about me. If they did, then they wouldn't spend all day, everyday at bars or passed out on the couch, intoxicated beyond recognition. Leaving me to get my own food and buy my own clothes, not that I have any money to buy them. Which is fine with me, I don't need their (nonexistent) money. Of course, the special services never find out about any of it. My folks have got them thinking that my (paid) aunt Petunia and uncle Mark are Clare and Joseph Marcus, my parents. I know what you are thinking, 'why don't I tell the special services?' My answer? DON'T YOU THINK I'VE TRIED THAT?! No one listens to me! It's like I don't exist! Not that I'm not used to that. Look, there's the doorbell. Don't worry, I'll get it. No surprise there. I climb down from my cave (really just a pile of dirty blankets on the ledge above our hardly used washing machine) and walk down the hall of our cramped little apartment. I open the door and am prepared to say 'What do you want', but my words get stuck in my throat. Standing there in the doorway, like a gift from heaven, was two social workers.
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"Are you miss Jordin Marcus of Oakwood Lane, apartment B27?" The social worker with the clipboard askes in a voice like honey.
"Depends on who's asking," I say flatly. The second social worker, the man, covers a laugh,
"Oh, it's her alright," he says, "The Wachowskis said she'd be 'fiesty'." Wachowskis? As in aunt Petunia and uncle Mark Wachowski?
"Are your parents here?" The first worker, the woman, askes.
"You could say that," I grumble.
"Can we see them?" She asks.
"That's not possible at the moment," I say, "They are both currently passed out from alcohol usage, one on the sofa and one on the floor so I'm afraid there will be nowhere to sit but, by all means, come right on in." They both stare at me for a second and then the the woman says,
"Miss Jordin, I am Sylvia Blake, you make call me Ms. Sylvia or Ms. Blake, whichever you prefer. This is my partner, Lance Collins," she says, gesturing to the man—Lance, "We are with child services. Please pack your bags, your parents have proven to not be adequately fit to take care of a 16 year old. You will now be placed into foster care until further notice." Whatever reaction they expected, it wasn't for me to pump my fist in the air, run up to my cave, grab my journal, sketch book and my cropped leather jacket and race back down to them in record time.
"Ready!" I say, out of breath, "can we go now?"
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After that, things were mostly a blur of documents and legalese. I managed to piece together what happened though. Apparently my old social workers quit so Ms. Sylvia and Lance became my new ones. They decided to come over to introduce themselves. They got to my aunt and uncle's house, I wasn't there, and my aunt and uncle sold my parents out because they had been late on their last three payments. Long story short? I am in a car on my way to a family of four (counting their cat) called the Chris's. They have a daughter who is my age. Her name is Tess. We pull into a parking lot in front of a mall. "What are we doing here Ms. Sylvia?" I ask.
"This is my treat," she replies, "we are here for you to pick out a new outfit." she eyes my tee shirt, ripped jeans (not on purpose) and beat up tennis shoes. We walk into the mall and head straight to Macy's. "Pick out whatever you like," she tells me. I don't want to abuse her gift so I decide to only choose one outfit. When I'm done, I survey myself in the mirror with satisfaction. I've got on a white criss cross top, cropped leather jacket, black cargo pants, burgundy combat boots, and a black beanie covering my mess of long black hair. "You look nice," Ms. Sylvia comments as I step out of the changing room, "It's makeover time!" So we head over to the salon and I get my nails painted a pretty shade of dark purple. Then, she sits me down in the barbers chair and says, "pick out whatever style you want."
