Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

02 | Steal A Car

LUNES
7:11 AM

Reid Harlow

God, I fucking hate Mondays.

It's no better when you just moved into a new foster home, because you've been kicked out of the last one. Actually, kicked seems more like a nice approach to the whole situation. It was actually because my foster father and I were screaming in the front yard due to a disagreement and somehow, it led to one of the neighbors calling the cops.

I told my side of the story, he told his.

Guess who they believed?

It's cool. I don't fucking care. The foster system has always been full of shits when it comes to recruiting people to take in helpless children that need a home. I could probably count on one hand how many times a foster family seems genuine about their intentions.

And I've been in the system since I was five.

I reach into the trash bag my social worker had given me when I was hurried out of the home. She assured me she believed me, that what I told the police was true, but even with her—wide-rimmed glasses, a soft empathic smile—it seemed forced. She looked like she was trying to insert herself as someone I should trust, but couldn't. I mean, this lady knows everything about me and yet, the one thing she never afford to ask me was: was I happy?

I mean, granted, I probably would've never answered but the fucking effort would probably be nice.

"REID!" The bedroom door swings forward, the hinges squeaking at the opening. My roommate, a former foster kid, walks in with his arms wide open. He stood at about six-foot, and had jet-black hair and a glassy fair complexion. He had mono eyelids, a straight nose and his hair was cut off with a slight fringe. His name was Presley and he's Korean, I think.

"Don't call me that," I snap, returning back to the trash bag in front of me. My backpack sits at the edge of my bed, a twin-sized mattress, and has a couple of fresh notebooks the foster parents here—Sebastian Godfrey and Noelia Soberano—gave me. It was for my first day of school here. "It's Harlow."

"Alright, Harlow it is," Presley nods, swinging an arm around my shoulders. "You almost settled? There's breakfast downstairs and the rest of the family really wants to meet you."

I give him a look, which reads that I don't believe a single one of his words. And I truly don't. "Why would they want to meet me?"

"Well," Presley drags, his arm still settled around my shoulders. "You came in pretty late last night, and everyone was off to bed so, maybe that's a reason?"

I could sense the hint of humor behind his words, trying to cut the tension in the room, but it didn't work for me. I knew the bottom line of our relationship and it would not progress further than a couple of conversations here and there.

I shove his arm off my shoulders, dropping the trash bag to the floor. I'll handle this later.

Presley mumbles something under his breath, backing away from me as he goes towards his side of the room—with the neatly made bed and trophies that stock the shelves. He crosses his arms. "You know, I get it. I was a foster kid too, and I didn't like meeting new people either. But it's not so bad here. Sebastian and Nini are good people. They actually care about us."

I scoff, I'll believe it when I see it.

"I thought her name was Noelia?"

"Oh, so you do care about us," he teases. I shoot him a dark look. "What? I thought you were the type of person who didn't care to learn people's names or all that stuff. The type of person who likes to be alone. I mean, you dress the part."