Misfit

Copyright © 2017 Alyne Roberts

All Rights Reserved. 

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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V. 1

Cover by:  R.B.A. Designs

Editing:  Polished Pen

For anyone that feels like they don’t belong. You don’t need to. Stand out.

CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER

7 YEARS AGO

Time to get out of the car, September.

I pull my stare away from the large house outside my foggy window and look at Betty. As far as social workers go, I suppose I got lucky with her. I am almost sixteen and could be heading to a group home today, but instead I’m looking at a house that’s actually nice. I’ve learned by now that looks can be deceiving.

This is a nice family, Betty promises as she shuts off the engine. They have taken several of my teens in the past and they were happy here, September.

Betty told me all about my new family on the drive from the city. The new couple I will be living with runs a real estate company and have two kids of their own. Betty says she’s known them for years and thinks I will like them. She didn’t say that about the last family she left me with. They didn’t seem to work at all and only kept me for a month before sending me away.

Let’s get this over with, I mumble before shoving open my door. This is my fifth home in a little over two years, but meeting my new foster parents hasn’t gotten easier.

The front door opens and a couple steps out onto the front porch while Betty grabs my single bag from the backseat. It contains the few items of clothing I own, my mom’s journal, and a photo of my mom and me. I hang it over my shoulder and follow Betty up to the house.

September, this is Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, Betty introduces.

Call me Rachel, the woman says, taking my cold hands in hers. Her eyes are dark brown like chocolate, warm and inviting. We are so glad to have you.

I want to believe her but my past has me suspicious. She’s too nice. Too pretty.

You can call me Luke, Mr. Grayson says as he wraps an arm around his wife. His smile is gentle and calming.

Nodding, I pull my hands out of Mrs. Grayson’s grip before she can feel them shaking. Behind us, a little girl rides down the sidewalk on a bicycle, complete with a pink basket up front. I can hear the birds chirping and there is actually green grass on their front lawn. Everything looks so innocent and wholesome. I feel out of place, like an intruder lurking in the perfect suburban neighborhood. I don’t belong here.

Let’s go inside. You can meet our son and daughter, and we can show you to your room, Mrs. Grayson suggests.

I look to Betty and see her nod. Reluctantly, I follow them inside the house. The warmth and scent of vanilla immediately envelopes me. I stand in the entryway, awkward and wanting to flee. Shoes without holes are lined up neatly by the door, new backpacks on hooks above them.

Betty nudges me toward the living room. It is just as neat as I suspected with a large sectional couch decorated with oversized pillows. Everything should make me feel comfortable and welcome, but I feel even more out of place. There should be scattered clothes, ashtrays, and broken toys. I’m used to a half a dozen or so other kids running around shouting. Kids like me don’t get nice.

September, this is our daughter Alexandra. Mrs. Grayson puts her arm around a smaller version of herself.

You can call me Alex, she says. No name should be more than three syllables.

I laugh because it’s true.

You can call me Ember. That’s what my friends call me, I tell her. I don’t actually have many friends because just when I start getting close to someone, I have to move. I gave up trying. Most people prefer to call me something shorter as soon as they met me.

Cool. I’m eleven. How old are you?

I’m fifteen. Almost sixteen, I tell her. I like her already. Kids are easier to read than the grown-ups.

I turn around at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. A boy around my age stops at the last stair and leans against the banister. With dark hair and dark eyes, he looks like a younger version of Mr. Grayson. He looks me over with a deep frown and grunts, annoyed. I shiver under his stare, feeling like I’m intruding on his perfect life.

This is our son Keaton, Mr. Grayson says. Come down and say hello.

Keaton rolls his eyes and crosses his arms like he’d rather be doing anything else than meeting the newest addition to his family. After a pause, he finally steps down and shakes my hand. His grip is firm and warm. I immediately pull my hand out of his.

Can you show September to her room? his mom asks. I hear the warning in her voice. That subtle tone that says be nice.

This is the part: where the grown-ups whisper about me. Betty tells them the story about my mother and how I ended up here. They read my file before agreeing to take me, but Betty likes to tell them the parts not on paper. The parts I will never tell them myself.

Reluctantly, I follow Keaton up the stairs. Family portraits line the walls on the way up. In the hall, the first door is a bathroom. Across the hall, Alex is painted on the door with pink paint. The door next to it has a Keep Out sign nailed to the front. Keaton opens the door across the hall and walks inside.

The room is nice and clean, like the rest of the house. It’s bigger than any other room I’ve had. A bed with a white comforter and pillows sits in the center. There is a white desk against one wall and a matching dresser. Everything is generic and simple, just waiting for its next guest. I drop my battered bag on the floor at the end of the bed and glance out the window that overlooks the front yard.

Thanks, I say. It’s nice.

Listen to me, September, Keaton says. His voice is low and deeper than I expected it to be at our age. Don’t screw them over. Don’t steal from them, lie, or get your ass in more trouble.

I shake my head, my jaw dropping to defend myself.

No, he cuts me off. You all are the same. You come in here, take advantage, and then leave. My mom keeps taking in more strays even though each one keeps letting her down. I won’t see her cry over another reject that stays here for a few months then stabs them in the back. Understand?

Ouch. I nod because I don’t have words. It’s not like he is way off base with his accusations. I’ve stolen before, cheated, and lied to make my way through life, but I don’t plan on wronging the Graysons. If they do their job, I’ll never have to do those things again. I won’t explain myself to Keaton, though. Just like my past foster families, he hasn’t even given me a chance. I’m just a temporary houseguest.

If I felt unwanted and alienated before, that feeling has multiplied. Keaton obviously doesn’t want me here and judging by the fire in his eyes, he might actually hate me already. I don’t flinch as he storms past me, into his own room across the hall. I’m used to being alone and ignored. Living here will be no different than the past homes I was unlucky enough to be discarded in.

CHAPTER 2

SEPTEMBER

SEPTEMBER? LIKE THE month?

Yes. Like the month, I repeat. September Evans. I’m her daughter.

The young girl clicks on the computer a few more times while I try to hide my frustration. I’m here every week. While I missed the last few weeks, they must have hired this new girl that can’t perform the simple task of finding a name on the approved visitors list.

Ah. Here you are. She’s in room 114, she tells me.

I wave and finally make my way down the hall to my mom’s room. I keep my eyes forward as I walk so I don’t accidentally look into another patient’s room. Too many other lost souls are here.

When I reach the closed door labeled with the number 114, I knock twice before letting myself in. My stomach sinks when I see her frail body sitting on the bed. Her shoulders are bony and her hair is thinning. Her hair used to be full and a vibrant red much like my own, but now it looks a dull brown like this place actually stole all her color. Her frantic eyes meet mine.

Momma. How are you? I ask, trying to hide the pain and concern in my voice.

September! There you are, she reaches for me, and I sit next to her on the hard bed.

I’m here. Don’t worry.

She puts a thin finger to my lips, cutting off my apologies. Hush. They’re listening.

A sigh pushes past my lips. They aren’t listening today, Momma. I checked.

She shakes her head, refusing to listen. Her eyes have dulled to a light gray from their once vivid blue. I watch them dart around the room, looking for invisible dangers.

They tried to poison me, she insists. I can’t tell you much, but they are here. They found me, and now they want to take me.

My heart breaks at the honest fear on her face. Horror fills her eyes, and I grip her hands in mine. I hold them gently, afraid to hurt her if I squeeze too hard.

No one will take you. I promise. I have guards protecting you.

She seems to relax after my lie. I hate lying to my mom, but I learned very young that sometimes it’s the only way to keep her calm. She imagines dangers and I make up the solutions.

Did you see your father when you walked in? He should be home by now.

I wait for a beat while I decide my answer. Is this a time I lie and say I saw him to keep her from worrying over why he hasn’t returned? Do I tell her I have never, in all my twenty-two years, seen my father? That’s the truth, and I hate that she sees someone that isn’t there.

I didn’t see him, I finally admit. The sadness that washes over her almost breaks me. I hate that he lets her down even though he left before I was born. He shouldn’t be able to hurt her anymore, yet in her ill mind he does.

A knock on the door interrupts the tense moment as the head nurse, Bonnie, comes in with medication. I rise from the bed and watch as my mother swallows five pills. When they are gone, I follow the nurse out to the hall.

September, right? she asks once we are alone. Emily’s daughter?

I am. How’s she been doing?

Three weeks is the longest I have gone without seeing her. I know I shouldn’t have left her alone that long. I avoid Willow Creek if possible, only venturing to town once or twice a week to visit my mom. This small town in South Carolina has too many memories and people I want to forget.

Well, you can see she lost has weight. She thinks the food is poisoned so it’s difficult to get her to eat. With this combination of medications, she is less volatile. Less breakdowns, but you probably noticed, the delusions are still there. The depression is worse.

I nod and glance back at the closed door. I’ve known since I was eight that my mom needed help. She had us running from men that she believed were going to eat us. She would tell me demons or bad men were watching us, and I used to believe her when I was very young. She always had every faucet in our small apartment running so they couldn’t hear us or randomly smashed lamps and radios because she thought they were bugged. When I was ten she started to see my dad when he wasn’t around.

By the time I turned twelve, I was raising us both. I was a kid trying to steer a grown woman through a world of delusions and paranoia. I did whatever I needed to make sure we survived. I stole, lied, and cheated. We squatted in empty houses when she lost her job, and we were evicted from our apartment. I was only a kid, but I had more responsibility than most adults. When I was thirteen, she experienced a breakdown that resulted in with me going into foster care and her in a mental facility.

For five years I bounced around from foster home to foster home, unable to help my mom. I was nothing but a burden to most of the families and I moved so often, I never made many friends. After I turned eighteen and aged out of the system, I left the one family I almost considered my own to make enough money to get her the help she needs.

I know Mom isn’t getting the medical care she needs on social security and government assistance. She needs more than a facility where they dump all the county’s poor and sick. She’s a schizophrenic stuck with drug addicts and people struggling with eating disorders or depression. They aren’t equipped to handle her after her episodes, and most of the staff are afraid of her or don’t know how to talk to her.

Okay, thank you, I tell the nurse, and I head back to my mom’s room.

We spend the afternoon together. Sometimes she talks to my dad, who isn’t in the room, but I try to keep her focused on me. The pressure on me to save her grows every second I spend with her. It’s a constant weight on my heart that I have felt most of my life. But now, so close to finally seeing a way out, the pressure is almost crushing.

Will you feed the cat before you leave? she asks.

I nod because what kind of person would I be if I refused to feed her cat? Invisible or not.

And tell that young man of yours to stay out of trouble. He’s going to regret all those tattoos when he’s old.

I inhale though my tightening throat and kiss my mom on the forehead. I don’t want to ask whom she is talking about. Delusional or not, I don’t want to hear it right now.

I love you, Momma. I’ll be by in a few days, okay?

She nods and squeezes my hand with her bony and cold fingers. It takes all my strength to keep my lips in a smile when they want to frown.

Okay, baby. And tell Keaton I said hello. And remind him to bring the chocolate cookies next time.

And there it is. The very name I don’t want to hear. Those two syllables punch me in the gut. A thousand memories fight to be unburied, but I push them back. Not today. Not in this town.

I have spent the last four years avoiding Keaton and the rest of the Graysons. I lived with them for a little over two years before I left, breaking my heart in the process. Most days I can pretend it never happened, but Momma always has a way to remind me.

Keaton was more than a foster brother to me, but he never should have been.

CHAPTER 3

KEATON

UNIT 345, RHYS reminds me before getting out of the truck.

I put on my glasses and follow him into the storage facility. A young woman stands straighter at the front desk as we walk in the door.

Welcome to Spartan Self-Storage. How can I help you? she says.

I’m Tom Miller and this is Rick Duke. We’re from corporate. Just doing our quarterly security audit, darling, Rhys says easily.

Oh! Do you need anything? she asks, clearly nervous that corporate personnel are in the building.

Not at all, I tell her. Just continue as usual. Don’t forget to tell them about our special on boxes.

Of course. The girl nods, and we walk past the front door like we belong there.

She was cute, Rhys says as we walk the rows of storage units.

Cute. Boring, I reply. Just a little too sweet and innocent for my taste.

You always did like the bad girls.

I laugh as we approach the unit. We keep our heads down as Rhys enters the combination on the lock and slides the door up.

Speaking of bad girls, my friend Nine is going to come stay with us a bit, he says, and we slip inside the dark unit.

Nine? Like the number?

Yeah. Nine.

I flip on the light and bite my lip in appreciation.

Fucking gorgeous, I mutter. 1969 Boss 429 Mustang. Only 859 were built in that year.

Rhys works quickly, opening his briefcase to pull out the fake plates and fastening them to the car. I jump in the front seat and pull down the visor. A set of keys drop in my lap.

Got keys, I tell him.

Great. Javier was pissed last time we fucked up the steering column when we had to hot wire that Jag.

Well, our intel was right this time.

I start the car, squeezing the leather steering wheel. The sound of the engine echoes in the small storage unit. Shifting into reverse, I quickly pull out, waiting for Rhys to close the door and hop inside.

Go.

Like this is my car and I’m taking it for a Sunday cruise, I drive to the gate and enter the pin code. Rhys bounces his knees, waiting for it to lift slowly. I check