1986, May 22nd.
"OK, this is where you’re going to sleep," Margaret is saying to me, unfastening the door to a large bedroom. The walls are lilac, with a bunch of paintings and a poster of Madonna. Sweet. I spot a vase of lilies and - holy crap, is that a painting by Monet? These people are yuppies.
I take a minute to process this. I mean, my mind is still adjusting to the fact that I am now going to live in what is, to me, basically a mansion. The people that I am meant to stay with call it a house. Go figure.
"You can put your clothes in there." Margaret gestures towards an open cabinet besides the dressing table.
My jaw drops when I take a peak inside. There is an entire wardrobe here, complete with blouses, night gowns, leggings, dresses, purses, and about a hundred pair of jeans. I turn to Margaret, ready to express my thanks. "These clothes - "
"Oh, this all belongs to Julia..." she mumbles, seemingly to herself.
Julia? Who the hell is Julia? Am I going to have a foster sister? How come nobody told me about this?
Margaret stares at me, her brows furrowing. I think this is supposed to tell me she’s making a decision.
"Well, you know, Julia was slightly - um - more slender than you," she adds, nodding approvingly at her choice of word. "But not to worry, we can buy you clothes for girls with, um, a healthy size as yours."
I flush a deep crimson. I know what ‘healthy’ actually means in her dictionary. She thinks I’m large. To hell with what she thinks.
"Dinner will be ready in about. . ." she glances down at her watch, "two hours, I should say. Make yourself comfortable." She makes her way to the door.
"Margaret, who is Julia?" I blurt out, before she leaves. I have already decided that I don’t like this Julia person. I bet she’s a schmooze who is skinny and attractive and uses phrases like ‘gag me with a spoon.’ Oh God, my foster sister is going to be a total dipstick. This thought scares me and cheers me up at the same time.
Margaret looks over her shoulder at me. And keeps looking.
Erm, OK, this is not how I expected this conversation to go. What, does she think I’m going to freak out if she tells me I’m not the only person she’s fostering? Come on, I’ve been in a house with so many kids I don’t even think my foster parents knew who I was half of the time. I was always called Judy. I gave up correcting them after the first two months.
"Julia was our foster child for a few years," she explains finally, her expression unreadable.
Oh. OK. So I’m not going to have a total dipstick for a foster sister. Or any foster sister, really. Hmm. I guess that means all the attention will be on me. Is that a good thing? I mean, it’s definitely going to make sneaking out of the house a little harder without all the distractions. Crap.
"Julia was quite troubled," Margaret says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Did they send her away? Yeah, of course they did. Heck, they probably foster children to keep themselves entertained. Then when they realize we’re actual human beings with needs they send them back to the orphanages. Everyone knows that yuppies don’t have feelings.
"What happened to her?" I ask, knowing perfectly well I’m not gonna like her answer.
Margaret takes one look at me and bursts into tears. I am so surprised by this I don’t even make a move. I just watch her as she buries her face in her hands, crying so hard I swear she’s gonna barf. I take a step back just in case I’m right. Because, you know, I’m usually right about most things. I’m not bragging. I wouldn’t do that. I’m not the bragging type. I just know what I’m good at. And I’m good with instincts.
Except that one time I went to a Guns n' Roses concert with a friend of mine, and I thought this guy was kind of cool, so I had a drink with him, because he asked, and well, he seemed nice. But he tried to force himself on me, which wasn’t very nice. Anyway, I basically sucker-punched him and knocked him out, the way Carrie showed me to treat the pervs. Apart from that one time, though, I’m great at judging people.
OK, I’m getting a little sidetracked here. Margaret is still crying. I bite my lip. I’m kind of uncomfortable around people who openly show emotion, to tell you the truth. Can’t they just wait until they’re alone to blubber and have snot running from their noses? It’s not something pretty to look at. It’s like, you know, pooping! It should be done alone. OK, maybe not to that extent, but you get the picture.
I don’t know if Margaret is expecting me to hug her, because that’s the last thing I plan on doing. I feel kind of bad for her and everything, but not enough to have her puke all over me.
"Julia died last year. She took her own life."
