The Teen Years
Okay, so I used to write shit all the time. This shouldn’t be too hard.
“Write a short story,” said Mrs. Bateman as she pointed to the whiteboard. “Just write a story. Get your creative juices flowing. Write about whatever—love, life, dragons; I don’t care. We’re going to start this year off with our minds wide open and our fingertips stained from the ink of our pens.” She looked around the class. “Or, in these modern times, our fingers strained from pressing the keys on our keyboard too hard.”
I snorted as quietly as I could, because I wasn’t going to be one of those dumbasses who laugh when the teacher makes a – okay, it was a good joke... but still, not going to happen. As a seventeen-year-old foster kid, I had the responsibility to act as severe and pissed off at the world as I could. I was a roll-my-eyes-because-you’re-not-funny kind of girl, even when something did... sometimes... tickle my funny bone.
As it happens, I’m going to try and be an inceptive little weasel and write in my point of view. That’s the only point-of-view I can really think of, at least. I don’t really know anybody else well enough to write as if I was inside their head, and I sure as hell can’t make somebody up. I’m not that creative.
God, I really don’t know how to start this. I guess the story I’m trying to tell happened two years ago; it was the start of August. School was rapidly approaching, and I was living with my new foster parents, Hannah and Clide.
Wait – before I let you go ANY further, I need to warn you: this is not a depressing story. I realise the way I’m writing this is making it sound like a rip-off of a John Green novel. It’s not! It is not a love story, either. Not even a story about love. (Okay, I’m kinda fibbing now.)
So... August 2012. Clide and Hannah welcomed me into their home. I remember setting my small suitcase into my little room, staring at the pretty purple walls and the ruffled plum blanket that covered my bed. A light blue dream catcher hung above my head, catching the light that streamed in through the windows.
I felt a rush of anxiety, of panic. It was more because of the jolt of realisation that I was in a new house, with new people, rather being terrified of the colour scheme or something. The room was nice, homely. Were the people, though? I took deep breaths, sat awkwardly at the edge of the bed—my bed, now, I guessed.
I waited for my new foster-parents to come in and greet me with the speech I get every time I start out a new home. It’s always the same, sometimes slightly varied, but the overall message is always the same: we’re welcoming and open-minded, but step out of line, and you’re out.
That’s why I liked stepping out of line – getting out. Why bother with people who were just humouring you? There’s no point. I was fifteen as of then, holding out till July 2nd, 2015, when I would turn eighteen and leave the foster-programme, free forever.
Fun fact: Foster homes are nothing like the ones you read about in Jacqueline Wilson novels. It’s way more messed up than that. I remember us all crowding around in the living room, eyes fixed on the Television, watching Tracy Beaker and smiling wryly. CBBC was one of the very few channels we got on that TV.
I heard a knock at the door, thought “Here it goes” and crossed my legs when Clide and Hannah walked in. Hannah came in first, her long billowy skirt swishing at her ankles; a bandana was tied in her hair. Clide tied his dreads back with a green scrunchie. They were both grinning.
I furrowed my eyebrows slightly.
“Hi,” I said, looking at the pair of them curiously. They sure weren’t your stereotypical pair of foster-parents.
“Hello, yourself,” Hannah said. She came and sat down right beside me. Clide stayed put at the door. I squirmed uncomfortably, but didn’t make a move to stop her. She placed a hand under my chin, lifted it up, turned it side to side. She scrutinised me, her kohl-rimmed eyes staring into, like, my soul or something. Her eyes were this weird shade of grey-blue. It was pretty startling when paired with the eyeliner.
“You need to lighten up,” she said next. “I’ll run you a bath and make you some tea, if you want.”
I couldn’t come up with a reply other than Sorry, what?
“A bath. Hot water, some nice scented oils, lots of bubbles. It’ll do you some good. You’re very tense.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Hannah clamped her hands together, delighted. “It’s fine! Aw, you’re polite. Clide, did you hear that? How cute!”
Clide laughed, a deep rumble that came straight from his gut. “We’ve never had a teenager before. Can you tell, Jenna?” Hannah moved towards her husband, wrapping a long arm around his waist and squeezing herself into his side.
“This isn’t your first time fostering?” I asked.
They both shook their heads. “We always got the youngins, and by the time they’re your age, they’re too used to us to be shy.”
Hannah played with the bangles that danced up her wrists. She smiled tenderly at me. “You don’t need to be worried about staying with us, Jenna. We’re good folks. We won’t make you do anything you don’t want; we’re not gonna start braiding dreads into your hair in your sleep or anything.” She cackled at her own joke.
I breathed out unsurely.
“We’ll go run you that bath. You settle in, unpack, get yourself comfortable. Feel free to have a nose around.” Hannah smirked, her eyes gleaming with a look that said I-know-something-you-don’t. “We have a lot of interesting rooms in this house.”
They laughed to themselves, leaving the room with mirth in their movements. I saw the last swish of the skirt, and then the door was closed gently.
My mouth opened and closed.
Clide and Hannah – my new foster parents. That was them, and this was me. And that’s how it was, and how it always will be.
✍
My first day at Celdarwood Secondary was greatly anticipated— for all the wrong reasons. I was bricking it. I normally didn’t mind new schools – when they’re big ones, filled with like two-thousand kids. In schools like that, nobody really cared about the new kid. New kids sort of just appeared, and people didn’t bat an eyelash. I liked that. I liked that a lot.
Whose grand idea was it to enroll me into a secondary school that had less than five-hundred kids in it? Seriously, whose? I stared at the woman sipping herbal tea across from me, her legs splayed casually over her husband’s. “I really don’t see what the big fuss is about,” she said.
I looked at her, my mouth open.
Clide chipped in, “I see what Jenna’s problem is, but she needs to know she doesn’t have to worry.” Hannah and Clide did that a lot, speaking indirectly about people. Even themselves. I had presumed it came with the whole hippie packaging.
“Jenna really doesn’t feel too good about this,” Jenna said.
(Sorry. Being sarcastic again. I do that sometimes.)
“Viewers, hold still. We are witnessing a teenage girl in the wild. She’s in her prime. Note the slight scowl that appears; hear the snark in her voice. I wonder if it’s safe to approach. Onto you, Reporter No. 2.”
Clide took up the gig. “Now, Hannah, don’t make any sudden movements. I think if we take any further forms of action, she may startle. Keep well away.”
“I’ll bite,” I contributed.
“That’s a direct quote, gang.”
I stuck out my lower lip slightly. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I’d just like to let you know, it’s not working.”
A collective sigh.
“Jenna, you’re fooling yourself if you’re thinking you can go your whole life without some form of human interaction.” I scoffed in my head... Wanna bet? “People aren’t as scary as you’d like to think. I mean, take Clide for example. Look at him. Most people would take one look in his direction and run for the hills.”
“That’s a slight over-exaggeration,” I muttered.
“It’s true!” Hannah squawked. She took another quick sip of her tea, the liquid sloshing around in her teacup. “Look, the point is, people look scary. They act scary. But people themselves? They’re not actually that scary. They have thoughts and feelings and insecurities, just like we do. They’re not from Mars. They’re just different variations of us. Don’t be scared of them. Sure, people won’t know you, won’t know what to make of you. But that’s where you come in, Jenna! You get to show them that you’re not scary.”
“As if I could be scary,” I grumbled, still not buying it.
“I bet that’s what they think to themselves. Come on, Jenna. At least try. Smile at people, don’t hide away. I know it’ll be hard, but you can do it. Your true self will ring true and if people have any sense, they’ll love you.”
Well, what if they don’t? I wanted to ask. I wanted to shout, it isn’t that easy! It never is! But what if it was?
I felt a rush of doubt. Self-doubt. Nervousness. I hated feeling unsure of myself, hated being put in the position of second-guessing myself. I wanted to be one of those strong individuals who raise their head high, clamp down on a seat next to the friendliest person they can find, and say “Hello” without a hint of reserve.
Like I said, I’d been in this position before. When I did end up striking up a conversation with the odd few people, they always found out about me being a foster kid. I don’t know how, but it always came up. And you could see it, a little something changing in their expression. A little intrigue, a little bit of... something else.
“You’ll be fine, Jen,” Clide encouraged. “Stop over thinking things. If I over-thought myself, I wouldn’t have dreads. I wouldn’t have married Hannah. I’d probably be a miserable little shit. I definitely wouldn’t be who I am today. You think like, what will people think? How will you get a job looking like you do? People will label you stoner, hippie, all that. But does it matter, really, if you’re happy?”
I touched my forehead to my hands. “You’re right,” I moaned miserably.
Hannah let out a woop, and the tea went flying. Clide left to go get a rag to clean up with. Hannah grinned and grinned and grinned.
“So you’re going to try?” she asked.
“I’m going to try.”
“You’re going to use those words of yours, and say something like... Gee, I dunno... ‘Hello’?”
“I’m going to smile and say hello. I’m going to be their new best friend. They’re not going to know what hit them. They’ll be like, hi, and then the next thing they know we’ll be best friends. Within the next day, they’ll be at the house, drinking your tea and asking for tarot-card readings and all that. We’ll be tight as a closed fist.” I held up mine to demonstrate that.
“Correct!”
I smiled—wide this time. An honest smile.
“And you’re going to go to bed at a reasonable time, say 10 O’clock, so you’ll be up bright and early for your first day tomorrow?”
“Okaaay, let’s not go that far.”
Hannah came over to wrap me up into a hug. She smelled like the rosemary she grew and the tea she drank, and I happily buried my nose into her scarf. “I really like you, Jenna. You know that right?”
My muffled reply was lost in the material of her scarf. Chifon. It suited her.
She patted my cheek. “You’re going to do fine. Try not to stay up all night tonight, alright? It’ll destroy you when it’s time to wake up tomorrow morning. Seven sharp. I’ll be singing, and Clide will be strumming on his banjo. We’ll have a heck of a time.”
She untangled herself from my embrace, dancing in the light. “What do you think I should go for? Some Shakira maybe? I have a hip skirt I could dish out for the occasion. Jenna’s first day! This is so exciting!”
I rolled my eyes. “Surprise me.”
She winked at me. “Don’t worry. I will.”
That night, I trudged up to my bedroom, closing the door behind me once I was safely in my room. It had just gone 11. You know what I realised right at the moment? People tend to overreact a lot. I don’t get why we do that. We always assume the worst will happen and we worry about it and worry about it, until the moment has passed and we go, “Ah, that wasn’t so bad.”
But we continue to do that. Every time. Until one day something does happen that one time, and we do it even MORE. That’s messed up. It’s biological (whoa, feel that hint of reserve as you approach that tiger; ‘cause, y’know, it could kill you). But things have come a little further than that: like Hannah said, people aren’t as scary as tigers.
Sure, I didn’t want people staring at me all day, trying to figure out what I was like, but would anything really be that bad? I wasn’t, like, a serial killer or something. I couldn’t give off that bad of a vibe.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror (why am I doing this to mysellfff), saw a short blonde staring back at me. Unfortunately, not Beyonce. Although that would have been good, too. I didn’t really look that odd, did I? My wide eyes stared back at me, and I squinted to try and make myself appear more threatening. People don’t tend to view you as that much of a threat when you barely reach their shoulders and look a five-year-old. In my previous schools, I’d been called Bo-Peep.
But wait, wasn’t Hannah’s whole speech telling me to appear friendly? Not a thug. I replaced my scowl with a huge grin. I saw a little too much gum and grimaced. God, I was a weirdo.
I was doing that thing again... over thinking things. I could have huffed at myself. At least I was trying, even if I was doing an arse of a job of it.
I rifled through my suitcase (despite having been there for a month now, I still hadn’t gotten round to unpacking) and pulled out a pair of soft pyjama bottoms, covered in dancing, smirking strawberries. I have a thing for pyjamas. They’re kind of the reason I live. Alright, maybe I’m exaggerating again, but I LOVE pyjamas. They’re so soft and there are so many designs to pick from, and okay, so what, this is a little weird, but whilst some people collect stamps (still have yet to meet someone who actually does that, but whatever), I collect pyjamas with the wildest designs possible. My suitcase is filled with pyjamas; some casual clothes, three pairs of shoes (trainers, flats and sandals) and PYJAMAS.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a human being of any shape, form, size or gender can never own too many pairs of pyjamas. That’s how the quote goes, right? Sorry, Austen.
I knew a guy a couple years back who used to make his own pyjamas. I’d never known anything like it. He had a talent. He was staying at the same group home as me and I remember him walking downstairs and into the kitchen (where I was sat, eating cocopops from the cereal box like I had the tendency to do when everyone was asleep), and I had full-on gasped. Suffice to say, he’d given me a weird look.
But when I had actually explained why I had gasped, and he had explained that he made his pyjamas, we formed a mutual alliance. And he’d made me a pair for myself. They fell apart a few months ago. I have grieved nothing harder.
My strawberries will never compare, but they’re still cute.
I got under my covers at half past, staring up at the ever-swaying dream catcher that hung above me. The window in my room didn’t close properly, so there was a constant breeze. It was alright, though; it meant I could bury myself in more blankets to make up for it.
I knew I wasn’t getting any sleep tonight, so I just strained my ears for any sound and looked around my room a couple thousand times. Eventually, I heard Clide’s noisy footsteps up the stairs, a creak in the passageway, and the quiet slam of their bedroom door. Their door didn’t shut properly either, so you had to give it a good slam to get it closed.
I suddenly remembered every horror movie I’d ever watched in my life. I imagined the guy from The Shining pressing his face up against the glass of my window and shouting, “Here’s Johnny!”
Why here? Why now?
I bit my lip.
Aw, Jenna, you’re a fool. An absolute idiot. That guy from The Shining is like eighty now. But my eyes still wouldn’t leave the window, checking out for any signs of... creepy axe-wielding guys. As if this was The Purge or something.
I wonder what would happen if I... if I...
✍
I blinked, disoriented. There was light pouring in from the windows. The curtains were drawn back, and the blinds wide open. I heard the gentle strum of some instrument I couldn’t identify (what time is it again???) and then heard an awful screech.
“RISE AND SHINE, JENNA. GUESS WHOSE FIRST DAY IT IS TODAY? NOT OURS. YOURS. WAKE UP, SHINE, GLOOOOW.” She was singing—shouting—screeching. Whatever you wanted to call that—that noise.
I shot up out of bed. The dream catcher swung forward. Clide had put down his – was that a banjo? They seriously had one of those? He and Hannah were dancing. Music was playing from somewhere, quiet but deafening in my ears. It was so early.
I blinked up the clock. 6:45. “You’re early,” I croaked.
“We got excited,” they said together.
Huh. I bet they rehearsed that.
“Can I go back to bed then?”
I knew the answer already. Hannah gasped at me, falling into her husband’s chest. I rolled my eyes at her drama. “Most definitely not. I’ve made breakfast. The table is set. What do you want me to do, unset it? And while I’m at it, should I ring the school up and cancel, tell me them we’re going to home-school you instead?”
Didn’t sound so bad actually... I smirked at her. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
She huffed.
I grinned.
Clide was still swaying to Bob Marley.
“Okay... Well I guess I should start getting ready then,” I said, hoping they got the hint. You know, leave. So I could get naked.
“You should do that, yes,” Hannah replied; clearly the hint had taken a dive at her, swerved and exited existence.
Clide wrapped an arm around her. “Han. She wants us to leave.”
Another gasp.
She trudged out dramatically, thinking I didn’t see the huge grin plastered to her face. I did. Clide followed after her, winking. They were certainly something, those two. I’d never (and I still haven’t) met anyone like them. But I liked that. I liked that a lot. I looked back at the clock. 6:52. Should I risk it? I could only imagine what would happen if Hannah came back in here and saw me snoring away.
She’d probably gut me and use the meat from my bones in the stews she liked to make so often.
Another hippie stereotype (along with the weed): they’re all vegetarians. Very wrong. Skip this part, vegans. You’ll be horrified. Clide and Hannah’s best friend is meat. They have it with everything. Any meat. Any meal. They’d find away to stick it in somewhere.
And they didn’t get it from supermarkets, either. Oh no. The butcher’s, of course. Where else? The skinned, bloodied animals hung up from the shop window and, for some reason unknown to me, no one seemed to be dismayed by that. Alvin’s Butcher’s was a favourite of many.
I shook my head, as if that could clear my thoughts. I never stopped thinking.
The uniform for Celdarwood Secondary was, thankfully, alright-looking. I mean, it was uniform so it couldn’t look good in any way, shape or form – but it wasn’t so bad as to resemble St. Ann’s. I went there when I started year 7, and ohhhh god was it bad. Two words: white cardigans.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time before breathing out slowly. In the words of Kel Mitchell from the hit Nickelodeon sitcom Kenan and Kel... Aww, here it goes.
-
As it was the first day of Year 10, and I hadn’t been at the school previously in order to have been able pick my GCSE option myself, the faculty of Celdarwood had stuck me in the only lessons they had free. My free options were RE and Childcare.
RE and Childcare.
Great. Awesome. Perfect. I’d be getting A*s out of those, for sure.
My form tutor was a beady, thin-as-a-stick blonde woman who towered over the rest of us. She had jerky hand movements and said things like “finicky”. Luckily, there was none of that stand-at-the-front-and-introduce-yourself bullshit. She’d just jerked towards me and said, “This is the new student I was telling you about. Jenna. Welcome.”
People glanced up at me. I froze. Err. What did Hannah tell me to do again? Smile! I lifted the corners of my mouth up in a small smile. Now what? Where the Hell did I sit?
My form tutor (she’s called Miss Kelly by the way; oh god, I’m going to get like a C for this, aren’t I?) must have sensed my discomfort because she said, “Ah, Jenna... Ummm.” Jerk jerk jerk. “What’s your last name again?”
“Lachs,” I mumbled.
“L! Right.” She checked her seating plan. “You sit between Lucy and Nick.” She pointed them out to me, and I kind of forgot to walk.
Just my luck! I was now sitting next to someone who fell under the category Attractive Boy. Yes. I was SO good with those. Note the capital letters AND THE ITALICS. So what if I couldn’t talk to attractive people without blushing and squirming and making a tit of myself. So what? No problem. I’ll just sit down and then not say anything like a mentally-deficient individual and if he says hello (which he probably won’t, right?? RIGHT??) then I’ll say hello back and hopefully I won’t blush but COME ON I’m probably going to blush—
I took a seat. Keep that smile on, Jen. Come on, you’ve got this. Oh god. I was probably grimacing.
“Hi!” It was the girl. Phewph. That Nick person wasn’t looking at me. After a quick glance and a smile in my direction, he’d turned away to continue his conversation with the person he was talking to before. He was cuuuute.
He looked like that guy – what’s he called again? Brandon—from The Fosters! He looked like him. All soft features and light green eyes.
“Hey.” That was my reply. I didn’t really know what else to say, and I didn’t have the confidence to be as chipper as she was. It would have probably sounded so fake and awkward coming out of my mouth.
She smiled widely, revealing a set of colourful braces. “I’m Lucy, but you know that already.”
“Jenna,” I said back.
Why was I not capable of forming anything other than one-word answers?
“So... Welcome to Celdarwood. We don’t normally get new people. People don’t tend to like small schools for some reason.” She frowned softly at that. I remember thinking that was some dramatic irony, right there, that even Shakespeare would be proud of.
“Really?” I asked, playing along. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Yeah I know, right? So why did you decide to come here, then? Have you just moved to this area? I’ve never seen you around before. Not even on Facebook or something.”
“Uh... Yeah. I’ve just moved here.” I wasn’t going to bring up the whole foster-kid situation just yet. Not that I was ashamed of it or anything! It was just... a little too soon, maybe, I thought deflatedly. Yeah. That was it.
She grinned. “Why the Hell did you do that? This place is a shithole.”
I blinked.
“Ah... You know. Go where the wind blows you and all that.” Someone snickered from my right and said “blows” as if they couldn’t believe that was an actual world in the English language. All the boys started laughing and flicking their wrists and even some of the girls started giggling.
“Blows!” some guy screamed from the back row.
Everyone in the class was laughing – even Lucy. She held her hand in front of her mouth as if trying to conceal it, but her eyes were bright.
Miss Kelly looked up from her computer, frowned and said, “What’s all this about blowing?”
And we all dissolved into hysterics.
✍
Right, so I guess it’s time to somewhat bring this mess of memories to an end. Only not really. I’m going to hand this in tomorrow (Mrs. Bateman, hello! I literally wrote this the night before). And maybe... hopefully (if I’ve done this story-writing thing correctly) you might want to know what happened next, two years later?
Well nothing too interesting, actually.
I got a C in Childcare (C for Childcare!) and a surprising A in RE. My teacher wasn’t actually half bad. Remember, roll-my-eyes-because-you’re-not-funny – nothing less, nothing more. I’m keeping up pretenses. No half-assed shit.
Oh yeah. Sorry for swearing like a demon. Remember, an accurate portrayal of teenagedom. It’s for science.
Hannah and Clide are still as dopey as ever. We’ve having lamb stew for dinner. Again, sorry, vegetarians. Are you a vegetarian, Mrs. Bateman? That would be really quite awkward. On second thought, don’t answer that. Please. Whilst it’s okay for some to chat happily with teachers like they go way back, it’s not really a habit I want to start getting into any time soon. No offense! It’s nothing personal. Just, you know, roll-my-eyes-because-you’re-not-funny.
Oh.
And that Nick thing (whose name I have changed for the purpose of anonymity because this would be really, really embarrassing if you were like “Ha ha, I know who your crush is!”)... uh... it didn’t really um, what’s the word? It didn’t happen.
Simply put: he’s gay. That guy he was chatting to when I first joined my form group? His boyfriend.
But that’s okay! Because I now have a super attractive boyfriend to call my own, who loves me just as much as I love him. Just kidding! I don’t. I’m looking into getting a cat.
Right at this precise moment, I have written just over four-thousand, five-hundred words for this assignment. Exactly what you asked. Sorry for the lack of dragons, romance... and normally all the other interesting stuff that makes a good novel.
I realise this isn’t really much a story.
Honestly, I consider this a set of jumbled-up memoirs from when I was lost, confused.
But I’m not as confused now. Not quite so lost.
—Jenna