The Foster Kid (GirlxGirl)

Chapter Two

When I thought of school, I thought of the fiery hell that some people liked to believe in. Of course I couldn't force myself to believe in heaven or hell or the omniscient being that people liked to call God, simply because I couldn't understand how if there really was a god, that he'd let me suffer through seventeen years of my life while other people got to live their lives happily.

School had always been a drag for me, but high school especially had been rough. During my first three years, I'd been moved around to so many high schools that by the time I was adopted, I couldn't even remember the names of half of them. I never bothered making friends because I'd either be sent to a different foster home and ripped away from them, or they would realize how much baggage I had and bail. Dating had been even worse, and I decided that I would never even try to maintain a relationship. That's not to say that when someone came on to me, I didn't do something about it, but I had never been with anyone for any other reason than to relieve my anger, frustration, or sadness.

I didn't know what to expect my senior year. I'd never really been a good student because I just didn't understand the point. Why would I try to make something of my future when I'd never have one? I would never have enough money of my own to pay for college, let alone a good one, and I knew that even if Brian could help me, he wouldn't. He might pay for me to go to community college, but going to a good school would require me leaving the house, and I knew he wouldn't allow that.

But either way, I'd insisted on taking advanced proficient biology and chemistry because science had always interested me, and though I'd hated high school since it began three years ago, I wanted to at least try to enjoy my senior year. I'd also taken honors art four, because I had loved drawing ever since I was a child, and three other general required classes. I needed to fill my schedule because there was no way in hell that I was going to go home early and deal with Brian every day.

I woke up on the first day of school, both my stomach and the back of my head a little sore from that night at the hotel. Thankfully, I hadn't seen Brian at all since that night so I didn't have to worry about covering up any new scratches or bruises. There was no use trying to look nice, mainly because I knew there was no one at the school that I'd want to impress. I wasn't going to make friends and I didn't give a shit about what people thought of me. I slid into a pair of distressed jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and though I'd been using makeup since Brian bought it for me, it was merely for myself. I liked my look with makeup better than the look of a sad little girl with baggage.

When I finished, I looked a little bit older. Though I knew I appeared older than seventeen even without makeup, the small things I was able to change with a little bit of help made me appear years older than I really was. I grabbed my old book bag and rushed down the stairs, looking for Sara, my former step-mom and now adoptive mother, to drive me to school. It was that or I'd have to take the bus, which was an option I did not favor.

When I entered the kitchen, I saw Brian standing by a skillet in dress pants, but bare chested as his shirt was thrown over his shoulder. He turned to me and offered me the slightest smile.

Two-faced piece of shit.

"Good morning Rebecca."

I still wasn't sure if his sober brain remembered everything he did to me when he was drunk or if he just chose not to acknowledge it. I shook my head at him, gritting my teeth. "Hardly."

His lips formed a frown as he put a plate of pancakes in front of me, reaching into his back pocket. "Well that's not what I like to hear. Here's a fifty, use it for lunch and buy a new bag while you're at it, that one's filthy."

This bag had been through hell and back with me, and I would never get rid of it. Instead of fighting him though, I accepted the fifty and ate the pancakes quietly. I knew they weren't poisoned or anything of the sort; this was his way of acting like the good father my social worker saw him to be. If I wasn't terrified of being sent back into the system, I would simply show my social worker the bruises and the scars Brian had given me in the year that I'd lived with him. But I would never do that, because I wasn't going back. I would never go back. I would be eighteen soon enough and then I'd be free to move out if I could. Problem was that I didn't have any money, and so I swore to myself that I'd do everything in my power to get a job. I knew making minimum wage for a year wouldn't even give me enough to buy my own car, let alone my own place, but it was better than sitting around doing nothing.