Chapter One
The Past
Sitting on the cement steps that lead to the porch of the three-story Victorian era home I sprinkle the last of the crumbs from my turkey sandwich onto the sidewalk. The black ants gladly accept my peace offering after I ruined their mound when I crashed my toy car through it. I watch them. Tiny yet they seem strong. Resilient. They disappear between the cracks of the red brick walkway. Sometimes I wish I could disappear too. No one would come looking for me. I doubt anyone would even notice if I left never to return.
I’ve thought about it more times than I can count. I’m chicken shit. Stuck. Afraid to move forward and unable to go back. I have nowhere to go back to and nowhere to run to.
I glance up at the sound of car doors shutting. Social worker. She squats and whispers to a little girl as she swipes her thumbs across her cheeks. I know the drill. Been through the process plenty of times already but the girl has nothing to worry about. Mrs. Winnie is strict and ugly but keeps a clean house and serves good food. Has cable and on Saturday mornings she lets me watch cartoons. Best house I’ve been placed at so far. Place is like a mansion or something. The newest foster is older than dirt and smells like it too. Plus, she’s alone. No family. No kids. I’m told I’m lucky she took me in, and that I’ve not been put into a group home.
That’s me the lucky one.
My clothes smell nice, and my belly keeps full. Not like the last home. I stare at the round scar on my left bicep and shake the memory off.
Yeah. Lucky.
The black wrought iron gate creaks as the woman swings it open while clasping the girl’s hand tightly in her own.
“Hey, Benicio. Remember me?” Her shadow falls over me.
I lift a shoulder. I remember her, but they’re all the same. They simply shuffle us through the system to be forgotten. None of them care about us. No one cares about us. Not our fosters. Not the families that left us behind. All we got is the promise of freedom if we live long enough to age out of the system. I got lucky, so they say, being born on the right side of the border, but my brother was sent back to Mexico to his father. My mother was in the states illegally. Working the streets while my brother was supposed to watch me. A two-year-old when he was only seven. One night she didn’t come back to the motel room we were living in. A maid who worked there found us a few days later dirty and hungry. At least that’s what they told me at the last home I was at.
I never stood a chance. Dirty. Broken. Forgotten. Unloved. Hollow. Unworthy. I’m reminded daily.
No one is coming to save me. To protect me.
One day I’ll be stronger. Tougher. But I’ll always be this. A damaged kid with brown skin. My own kind don’t want me, and the white kids taunt me.
“I’ve brought you a new friend to play with. Is Mrs. Winnie around?”
“Kitchen,” I mutter and glance at the girl wrapped around her leg, dragging a black trash bag with her.
She’s practically a baby. Probably wets the bed. Probably will cry all the time too. Her nose is crusted w
ith dried snot. Her eyes ringed with red give away that she’s been crying. The only thing pretty about her is the mole above her lips.
“Why don’t you get acquainted while I get Mrs. Winnie. Go ahead and make your introductions.” The woman pries the girl from her leg and whirls past me. The sickening floral scent of her perfume washes over me and my stomach drops. The sickness that festers in me uncurls in my belly and claws up my throat. It reminds me of her. The liar. The user. The woman who made me do things I didn’t want to. Told me I’d like it. That the better I got at it the more girls will love me. And when I didn’t do what I was told they’d burn me with their cigarettes.
The girl stands unmoving. We enter a staring contest. I gaze into her caramel-colored eyes and the darkness that lives in me recoils. The monster inside me who tells me to do bad things goes back to sleep.
I blink first and she smiles. At her expression something inside me snaps into place. Something that says she’s mine to protect. That she’s like me. Not on the outside but in. She’s dirty and broken too. I see it in her eyes. That lost look. The hollow shell.
“You got a name?” I don’t know why I’m bothering to ask. Once she’s cleaned up, if there isn’t anything too wrong with her, someone will take her. Someone always wants a cute little girl to dress up. No one wants me, but her— this girl has a chance to make it out of the broken system.
She nods but doesn’t speak.
“I’m Benicio. I’ll call you...” I pause and look around right as a bee lands on the tip of her freckled nose. “Honey Bee,” I whisper.
I’m only a boy on the cusp of puberty but I know this.
She’s mine to protect.
I want her to love me.
To keep the devil within me at bay.
I don’t want to be bad.
I don’t want to be alone anymore.
**
“Who did it?” Mrs. Winnie stares between us. Her dark, beady eyes pinging back and forth like a pinball game. Her lips pucker in distaste, the wrinkles in her face deepen with the hardened expression she wears.
I look down at the tiny fingers trembling in my own. Her bottom lip wobbles. A sob hiccups from her throat. I can smell the urine on her, and I’m sure the hateful bitch does too.
A pointy fingernail presses under her chin. “Do you know what happens to little girls who wet themselves? Cockroaches will come. And they’ll crawl up your legs. Is that what you want?”
“No,” her voice is barely a whisper as her entire body vibrates in fear.