JORGEN - EIGHT YEARS PRIOR
I was adopted at age three by the Hadley family. To be entirely honest, I'm still not sure why.
I mean, I know why. But I don't know why me. They could've adopted anyone else, a newborn, perhaps, like most people do. Not a three year old without a proper birth certificate and no real birthday. Not a three year old that had been initially brought home into another family before getting tossed into general foster care. Reject toddler.
They knew a few things about me when they got me. I was from the middle east, mixed race, probably the result of several generations of pairings from different ethic backgrounds, I was and still am a general mutt of a hundred things at once. I, unlike other adopted kids, can't point to a map and say that it's where my origin culture is from. I don't know. Someone asked once in high school and I had to get up and stab my finger on the map somewhere in the south-eastern Mediterranean, praying they wouldn't ask further questions. I just don't know.
They also knew that I was prone to outbursts, I would spook easily at things other toddlers didn't care about. They knew my initial family had given me a name, Jorgen Locke. It just changed over, Jorgen Hadley. No middle name, just Jorgen. Jorgen, a Scandinavian name for someone so far from Scandinavian its laughable.
Jorgen, who's birthday is probably somewhere in April, Jorgen who's big for a three year old, Jorgen, who came into foster care with some interesting scars, Jorgen, who's first parents didn't really even seem to adopt him, just came into possession of him. Just... Jorgen.
My brother is biological. I don't know why he is and I'm not, considering I don't think my Mom ever had trouble with having kids and I know no record of anything else. All I know is that he's held it over my head for my entire life.
The night of January 9th was no different.
***
"What are you doing?" Peter's voice cut through my thoughts.
I kept my eyes on the sink, water rushing between my fingers.
"Cmon, you're not afraid of me, right?"
Eyes. Down.
"Whatever, my parents are hosting a family dinner, they told me you can come too," he chuckles. "Course they don't seem to understand that because you're not family you need an invitation."
"Get out, Peter."
"Jeez, I was just being nice. I don't think my parents will appreciate your attitude at dinner."
"Peter."
"You've been washing your hands forever," he comments, then leans forward and smacks off the sink.
I cautiously reach up and push it back on again, getting the last of the soap off the back of my wrist before he shuts it off again.
"I thought you'd've run off to your little reject house by now, normally it doesn't take much. Shouldn't you be out there with them not with us? I mean it's only a matter of time before you realize that Mom and Dad treat me differently because I'm their actual son."
I settled my hands on the counter, squeezing it for a moment, then releasing, then squeezing. I was so excited for him to go to college. University of Illinois at Chicago. I had daydreamed about dropping him off at the dorm and flipping him off through the window before the twenty minute drive home. And then he decided that he would be a commuter student.
He stayed at home.
"They treat me the same as you," I kept my head down.
"Oh, they do? So why are you being told you should look into options that aren't college? Last time I checked it's because they didn't save much for you. Oh, and why did I get a car for my sixteenth and you didn't? And why did they attend all my football games and none of your anything? Why do they tell other parents all about me and nothing about you? Honestly, Jorgen, it's not worth it to argue. You can be as helpless as you want but you're never going to be biological. I'm their son, you're the pity kid. The second you're eighteen I'm pretty sure they're going to tell you to get lost. They know getting you was a mistake."
I pushed past him, slipping into my room. My backpack was packed, homework already done. It took me twenty seconds to throw my uniform into the top and another second and a half to dig my boots out of the closet to pull them on.
The one flaw to my plan was the creaking step at the bottom of the staircase.
"Jorgen?" Mom called from the kitchen, drawing me to a stop as I reached for my jacket.
"I'm staying over at a friend's," I responded. "They can get me to school tomorrow too."
"O-okay," she called, knowing she wouldn't be able to stop me. "Be careful."
I didn't respond, shutting the door quietly behind me and starting the half mile walk to the spot they normally picked me up.
J: someone come get me
ZUCHS: give me 20
I waited all 20 on the little bench at the end of the road, one dark kid in all of white suburbia. One little cloaked figure against the grey of winter. One of me.
Zuchs' real name is a mystery, I still don't know it, but he went by Zucchini, or Zuch/Zuchs for short. I'm not sure why, never was, but that's what we called him. Zuch, like Zucchini.
His window rolled down as he pulled up to me, dusk cutting the wind to a sharp sting instead of a dull bite.
"Get in, buddy. You staying over?"
I nodded, slipping into his passenger seat and ducking my head, wringing my fingers together.
"What happened?"
I pressed my hands into the sockets of my eyes, holding a moment before wiping under my nose.
His arm reached out, big palm resting on the center of my back, rubbing it gently. "Jorg, buddy, let yourself feel it, it's alright."
I curled forward, shoulders caving, hair flopping in front of my eyes. It took a half of another rub of his hand across my back for me to break down entirely, shoulders shaking, eyes burning. It hurt in every part of my body, pain egging it's way into my limbs, my joints, the hollow center of my chest.
"What did he do this time?"
My body was trembling like a leaf, exhausted and overworked. "I-it's not-not j-just h-him any-anymore."
Zuch's hand stops on the center of my back. I had already told him and the rest of the guys to keep their hands off Peter. I didn't want to cause harm. New people meant more chances for them to get at whoever it is.
"Who?" Zuch's voice flipped easily into a demand.
I coughed and cleared my throat just to find it knotted up again. "Everyone."
Zuch let out a long long long sigh, slipping his hand back up my spine. "You have to give me more than that, J."
I was fucking sobbing, I don't really even remember why. "I-I can't g-go to sch-school without someone m-making a r-race joke a-and I c-can't get aw-way fr-from Evan P-Peters n-no ma-atter how-how hard I f-ight and Pe-Peter st-still lives at-at h-home e-even though he h-has the m-money to l-live on c-campus and-and he said th-they don't-don't care ab-about m-me and I-I f-feel stupid telling-telling you guys-you guys a-about a-all thi-this b-because it's n-nothing. L-Luka's p-parents ov-overdosed and N-Nino n-never had any and-and you and Z-Zak-"
"Your pain is valid, J. It's just different from other peoples," he put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.
"I'm tired," I choked out. "I'm tired of it."
"Which parts?"
I cleared my throat and wiped off my eyes, shame creeping into me. "Of not knowing who I am. I have no birthday, no name, n-no origin." My throat hurt from crying like that, achy and raw.
"Why does that matter to you?"
It was a question I didn't know the answer to. "F-family, I guess."
Zuchs was silent for a moment, just driving, both hands up on the steering wheel. "I don't think that's what you want."
"Of course it's what I wa-"
"No, I know you want that somewhere, but I don't think it's that strong on it's own. I think the only reason you want your birthday and your original name and your biological family is because you lack personal identity down to your core. You're floundering because you don't know who you are in the tiniest parts of you," he breathed out, shifting lanes to get on the highway.
"W-wh-" I hiccuped, trying to get air in again. "What do I do?"
"M'not sure," he sighed, glancing at me.
The rest of that drive was silent, he offered me a tissue and another back rub as we got closer to the Barn, other than that neither of us had anything to say.
At that point in my life, I was a few months to eighteen and he was 23, a far bit older than me. Now, I'm 26 and he's 31. I haven't seen him in at least five years.
When we got to the Barn, Zak was the first person to greet us in the door, ruffling my hair and asking how I was. The answer was like usual, "shit, Zak, you?" to which he always answered, "flying high, like testicles in Antarctica." and that was that.
Zuch gathered a few people into the kitchen that he thought could help. Only 5 out of the probably 11-ish people living there at the time, I'm not sure that Logan counted. He got Pitty, who, at that point was 20 even, now he's 28. Ian, not a minute over 18 then, barely off the street and still skinny enough to snap over your knee, he's 26 now, still older than me but not by much, and still a little on the skinny side, though I doubt it'll ever change. Even at that point Pitty refused to be farther than a foot away from him, snapping at anyone who got close. Pitty doesn't speak much unless Ian is threatened, then he's a chatterbox and a half. He got Nino, one of the other older people in the house and then let in Zak and Luka. Zak, then 17, Luka, then the youngest at 15. It would be another 5 months until we got Kazian, 8 until Duke.
They all sat down around me in the living room, Zuchs in charge, me: the spotlight.
"Identity," Zuchs started, "what do we think about it?"
Ian's ticks were gentle that night, just a shoulder shake and a repeated tap on Pitty's knee, nothing verbal unless he thought about talking, which he didn't.
"In what context?" Nino's eyes caught on me, slightly challenging.
"Jorgen," Zuchs shrugged. "He doesn't know anything about himself and it's leading to an identity crisis."
"Ah," Nino responded. "So we're trying to find him an identity?"
"And stop his brother from being a dick and stop Evan Peters from being a dick and stop his classmates from being dicks and-"
"Zak." Zuchs scolded his brother.
"Fine, fine," he sighed. "You get the picture, though."
Nino's eyes flicked around the room, "he's got plenty of identity in my eyes. S'just a matter of whether or not he's leaving the Barn with it."
"My thoughts exactly," Zuchs said, looking down at me. "But that's not the major problem for him."
"Questions," Ian got his voice up enough to join. "Things he -wow!- he should know."
"Like what?" Zuchs asked, Pitty pulled Ian closer to him in his lap, reassuring him and giving him a little confidence.
"Favorite color," Ian's voice was almost too quiet for me to hear, "band, movie, class."
"My favorite color is blue, band is Beartooth, movie is Back to the Future, class is biology."
Ian nodded, then ticked. "Identity."
"He's got a good start," Zuchs was putting thought into it. "Religion?"
"None, I think."
"Most prominent trait?"
"I don't know." I responded.
Zak spoke up. "He's smart."
"He's kinda funny if you get him high enough," Luka commented.
"Luka," Zuchs' voice scolded him slightly. "I like smart. Smart is good, it's correct."
"I don't like being smart." I spoke up. "It's annoying. People want things from you if you're smart."
Zuchs took that into consideration. "So, not smart. Intelligent?"
"Same thing."
"Confident."
"But I'm not-"
"Then act like it. If you're not something you want to be, become it. Do now, process later."
"Oh," I mumbled, considering it.
"So he's confident. No religion. Favorite color is blue, favorite band is Beartooth, favorite movie is Back to the Future, favorite class is biology. Sexuality?" Nino asked.
I frowned, "straight."
"Okay. Gender?" Nino, again.
"Male."
"Pronouns?"
"He, him."
Nino nodded, "name?"
"...ah," I cleared my throat. "Jorgen?"
"Jorgen anything?"
"Just... Jorgen."
"Ethnicity?"
"Don't know."
Luka piped up from the corner, "Mixed. As fuck. If you add 'as fuck' to the end it sounds super cool by default."
I glanced at him for a moment, then back at Nino and Zuch. "Mixed... as fuck."
Nino's eyes were burning into me, Zuch's less so but they were still too intense for my liking.
"Age," Pitty spoke up.
"Seventeen."
"Height." He kept going, which was surprising.
"Six foot."
"Eye color."
"Brown."
"State of residence."
"Illinois."
"City?"
"Chicago, sorta."
"Chicago," Pitty reaffirmed.
"So you're Jorgen, just Jorgen, from Chicago, who's six feet tall with brown hair and brown eyes. You're seventeen, eighteen in April. Your pronouns are he and him, you identify as heterosexual and male. You're mixed. As fuck. You're confident. Your favorite color is blue, band is Beartooth, movie is Back to the Future, class is biology. You don't like it when people say you're smart."
I nodded.
Zuchs sighed and continued. "That's an identity, J. That's something to work with. That's who you are."
"But-"
"Now how are you going to make sure you're still Jorgen, Just Jorgen, when you leave here?"
***
anyway
-rabid