I was right. I knew I was right. I had seen I was right. If nothing else, I felt I was right.
But then why did it feel so wrong?
I knew I gave the boy with the brown hair and blue eyes the right answer. Even though he hadn't said so, his actions spoke volumes. And good game? Why would he say that and walk out if I had been wrong? He would of been the kind of guy who would have laughed.
Or been disappointed.
I shrugged off the feeling. I pushed the thoughts out of my mind, focusing on the text of my book. But my mind wouldn't stop wandering.
Where was the boy, and what was the point of his game?
***
Silence.
Not a hello. How's your day? How was work? How are you?
Pointless questions that I absolutely hate.
In and out of foster homes. Surprisingly, I've been with the Gibsons for over a year. Long enough for me to actually get a job and make money for when I can actually leave this care system.
Only one and a half years until I'm eighteen.
I can make it.
I'm not someone who loves small talk. It's basically meaningless chit chat. Don't get me wrong, it's not hard, just boring, annoying, and frankly, a waste of breath.
That's why they call it small talk.
I make my way upstairs and into my room in complete silence, not once hearing another noise in the house.
I instantly think back to my third foster care family. They had me for about two weeks before they up and left while I was at school. I had come home and the house was completely empty. That was Mississippi. Then after, there was Montana, California, Connecticut, and now Washington. So, seven homes.
Six families that didn't want me.
I'd like to say I really don't care, but honestly, I hate it. You have no idea how much not being wanted can wreck a person's self esteem. Mine's okay though.
I think.
I took off my sandals right as I entered my bedroom and plugged in my phone, turning it off of silent mode. I replaced my jeans and gray t-shirt with black Nike shorts and a teal sleeveless crop-top before slipping out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom, washing my face from the layers of makeup I wear to distance me from the world.
I quickly exited the bathroom, nearly running into Jameson.
Jameson, also known as my oldest step sibling, was also my favorite, although I'm not supposed to have one. He had a younger brother Nick and a little sister Kiara, both of whom were sweet at times but a heck of a lot annoying much more often.
Jameson was the only one I actually talked to. Not small talk, but more important things. He's the only one who really cared about me as a person, not as someone who could help cook or clean or babysit. Lucky for me, I learned all those skills when I was younger.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hi," I whispered back. "Why's it so silent?"
"Kiara and Nick are both in bed because they were grounded, and mom and dad went out for a coffee date," he filled me in. "Want to play basketball or wrestle? Maybe pool?" He asked, raising his eyebrows.
I bit my lip, contemplating my options. "Come on," I said, leading the way outside, him trailing silently behind me as I walked through the kitchen and out to the garage. I walked over to the bin of balls, pulling out a black and neon green striped basketball. "How 'bout horse?"
***
"H! O! R! S! E!" I shouted. Well, more like whisper shouted, since it was past eleven on a weeknight and I didn't want to be getting any complaints from the neighbors.
"Yeah yeah, lucky shots," Jameson teased, knowing that I practiced shooting quite often. It was a pretty good thing too, because with him playing for his school's varsity team, he was a formidable opponent.
"In your dreams." I stuck my tongue out at him and lightly jogged over to the ball sitting in the grass nearby. "Think fast!"
He caught the ball with ease, spinning it on his middle finger. I ran past him and snatched the ball, shouting, "Show off!"
He put his middle finger to his lips, both flipping me off and signaling me to be quiet. I gave a silent laugh and switched off the outside lights from the garage, tossing the ball into the bucket a few feet away. "Yeah! Winning point! And the crowd goes wild!" I whisper holler, waving my arms up in the air and blowing kisses to an imaginary crowd.
Jameson comes into the garage and laughs, shaking his head. "You are something else sometimes, you know that?"
Instead of responding, I just grin and twist the doorknob, heading inside.
***
Down in the basement, I sat down on one of the couches and grabbed the remote to the TV. I started flicking through the channels to find something to watch. Jameson came down the stairs a minute later, a glass of water in one hand and a chocolate chip cookie in the other.
"Why don't we play pool or something?" He asked. "I don't feel like watching something."
"Nah, I always win and I don't think a boy like you could take another hit to your pride," I said, smirking. "Actually though, shouldn't your parents be home?"
The idea of calling my foster parents mom and dad, or even Emily and Clint, to their faces makes me uncomfortable, like a sign of disrespect to either them or my parents. So I always called them 'your parents' to Jameson, or if I was talking directly to them, I'd use Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, even though I could tell they'd rather I be less formal.
"Good question. Maybe the coffee's really good." He winked, and my smirk grew. His mom didn't even like coffee, and her husband didn't even know it. "How did work go today?"
I typically hate this question, because even when work is absolute crap and I feel like I'm running a marathon with a brick in my head, I tell people it was fine. What else was I supposed to say?
Not good. Not bad. Not it was the worst day ever and I'm not in the mood to talk to you. Just...fine.
"Fine," I answered, not looking over at him because I knew I'd see the disappointment in his face at the non-answer. "It was work. Not good, not bad. You feeling in the mood for a horror movie tonight?"
"Yeah, whatever. I'll go make popcorn," he said, walking up the stairs with his empty cup. "But make sure it's not so scary this time."
I laughed to myself as I remembered the high-pitched scream that had woken everyone in the house at three in the morning.
He came down a minute later with a bag of popcorn in his hands. "Oooooh, no. We are not watching It. I'd rather watch one of Kiara's princess movies than that."
"Ok then, how about Mulan? She was always one of my favorites."
"What about a Marvel movie? Civil War? Homecoming? Endgame?"
I was about to respond - Homecoming, duh - when I heard footsteps upstairs. "Well, I guess your parents are home," I say, changing the subject. "Maybe you could ask them how the coffee was." I turned the TV off and reached for the bag of popcorn Jameson was holding in his hands. He held it out of reach.
"Maybe I will." He walks past me and up the stairs, me following on his heels.
We enter the kitchen, and the first thing I notice is the tension between Jameson's parents. They kept giving each other glances, and I could tell they were needing to tell us something bad, but I couldn't place what.
"How was your date?" Jameson asked. I watched his parents closely, wondering if they were thinking about getting a divorce or something.
"It was good," Emily said, looking at a spot just over Jameson's shoulder.
Alarm bells went off in my head.
Lie! Lie! Lie!
I shrugged off the feeling. I'm sure I'm just overreacting.
Right?
I watch as Clint gives Emily a look, and my stomach starts to tie itself into knots, telling me my earlier observation was correct.
"Ok fine," Emily gives in to Clint's stare, turning to me. "Sit down. We need to talk."