Boys of Brayshaw High (Brayshaw High 1)

“Mr. Folk, I’m Maria Vega.”

“Ms. Vega, I appreciate you coming so quickly.” He turns to me as does she.

“Hey there.” She gives a fake hello, her roaming eyes and tight-lipped smile more curious than anything. “Do you mind if we talk for a bit?”

I don’t bother speaking. No matter what I do or don’t say here, she’s already got me figured out as far as she’s concerned.

“Mr. Folk and I have been in contact over the last semester. He’s briefed me on your home situation and past issues, and at this time, we think it’s best you be removed from your mother’s care.”

A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. ‘My mother’s care’ she says. Please.

The woman stares at me for a moment before sighing. She’s quick to lose the sweet, caring woman act. “Look, I get it. You don’t care what I have to say, fine. But we are removing you from the home. I’ll take you to grab your things and then it’s a day’s trip to your new housing. It’s a bit different, you being as old as you are, but we have a safe place for you.”

“Yeah? They make cookies and tuck you in at bedtime? Or is that job left to the man there who creeps into the little girls’ rooms at night?”

The woman’s eyes narrow and Mr. Folk sighs. “Is there something you need to tell me, Ms. Carver?”

“Nothing you’d care about.”

Her eyes jump to the small, fading cut below my left eye. “Try me.”

“Pass.” I hop to my feet, stepping close to her. “I’ll be waiting out front.”

“You’ll wait right here if you want to avoid that girl’s parents who are standing a few feet outside this door.”

“You’re mistaking me for someone who gives a shit.” With that, I shove past the woman and walk toward the front of the student office, toward the loving mother and father of the little bitch who ran her mouth. I look from the girl to her parents, finding all their glares on me, their body language showing exactly what they think of me.

Dirty.

Used.

Worthless.

And they’re not wrong.“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble to myself as I scan the yard.

Ms. Vega shifts toward me. “You’ll get used to it.”

“What the fuck is this place?”

“This is the Bray house.”

“Looks like Michael Myer’s house.”

She laughs lightly, then looks again, a frown taking over her face. “Well shit, it does. I never noticed before.”

The porch is dipping at the center, likely from wood rot, the white paint chipping like large splinters. It’s a perfect square, two small windows on each side of the door mirroring the two on the upper story, a creepy, awning beneath them.

“It seems small, but it widens toward the back.”

Small is a trailer with only enough space for a personal size fridge, one-sided sink, and two outlets for hot plates or a toaster oven.

“Anyway, this is a home for kids getting ready to age out, and a few younger ones who had issues with standard style parenting. It’s for the kids who are more ... challenging.”

“So there’s a bunch of punks living here?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s a bunch of punks at the high school. This place is cake compared.”

“Sounds fantastic,” I deadpan.

With a resigned sigh, Ms. Vega says, “Let’s go.”

She drags the duffle bag she loaned me behind her as she walks up, and I force my feet to follow.

When we showed up at my trailer the day before yesterday, my mother laughed and welcomed us inside. She sat there smoking a joint – of my weed – in front of the social worker and offered to help me pack. I thought for sure she’d flip, try to beat my ass or let her flavor of the week do it, as she always has when I’d get suspended or kicked out of places. She knew if social services stepped in it meant no more welfare for her, and no more welfare meant no more “free” cocaine – she’d have to put in extra time on her back without it. And that was a problem because the prime prostitute from Gateway Trailer park has expensive taste in powder.

I knew it wasn’t because the worker was there, she didn’t give a shit about that. Shit, she talked with the lady like she’d known her all her life – shitty and hateful with a nasty smile on her face. The worst that would happen if she was reported would be a few days in jail, and that meant nothing to her, they already knew her well. According to my mom, it’s almost easier to score a sack in county than it is out here – and there, her trades are welcomed. She doesn’t discriminate against gender. A women’s money is worth just the same, she’d say.