Leather shoes are only for those who can afford to do nothing in this life.
Whatever that means. A lot of what she says makes no sense anyway, but I don’t think she cares. She even laughs whenever I mention I will have some awesome job someday.
According to her, without money, you can’t do shit, but I don’t believe her. How can I if she always lies to social workers about how much she loves us and then shows us the belt and its power the minute they are out of the house?
He kicks the sand again, dragging my attention back to him, and I frown, wondering what he’s doing here.
The playground is secluded with barely anything working besides the two swings and the sandbox full of wet dirt that I wouldn’t touch if they begged me to.
I saw a boy pee in it once!
Our neighborhood doesn’t have a playground though, so I have to ride my bike a few blocks to a bit nicer neighborhood, even though the houses are still very old.
Maybe he’s lost and that’s why he’s so angry?
Dropping the chalk back on the ground, I dust off my hands and walk to him, giving him a tentative smile when his green eyes land on me, but he flattens his lips, his face flashing anger at me.
I’m familiar with anger and disinterest in my life, so it’s not hard to recognize.
“What do you want?” he asks, kicking the sand again, and I cough a little and step back when it flies in the air.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” I reply, and he laughs, although it lacks any humor, and his eyes narrow on me.
“So what? Does this playground belong to you?” He drags his gaze over me, and I shift uncomfortably thinking about my stained T-shirt and old leggings that are too small for me and barely reach my calves. “Doubt it.” He turns his head to the side, swinging a little, and I don’t know what to do.
He doesn’t seem lost anymore, but he must be around my age or a little bit older, so where are his parents?
All the kids I see in such places usually have grown-ups with them making sure nothing happens to their children, and I sometimes wonder what it’s like to know someone loves you this much.
That’s something I’ll never know, because Ms. Thomson said I’m too ugly and stupid for any real family to adopt me.
So, against my better judgment—I still have a few bruises from the last time I asked a kid if anything was wrong, and he hit me with a rock—I sit on the swing next to him and announce, “You’re mean.”
He places his foot on the sand, stopping the swing abruptly, and looks at me, disbelief replacing the anger.
“Why are you so mean to me? You don’t know me.”
Instead of answering, he asks, “Why are you talking to me? I don’t know you.”
I huff in exasperation, resting my cheek against the swing’s chain. “You seemed sad. When I’m sad, I like to talk to people.”
He blinks in surprise. “And do they listen to you?”
I shake my head, sighing heavily. “Never. So, I talk to my teddy bear.”
“Teddy bear,” he repeats and then shifts a little so now he’s propping his back against the chain. “How old are you?”
“Seven and one quarter!” I shout proudly. “And you?”
“I’m ten. And I’m not deaf, so don’t shout.”
Oh, so he is older after all.
“I’m sorry. I have to yell at home or no one listens to me.” My voice is too soft, so it’s almost impossible to get anyone’s eyes on me if I talk normally.
“Just go do whatever you were doing.” He gets up, trying to walk away, but I jump up too, clasping my hands together.
“Would you like to draw with me?”
“No.”
“Eh, too bad.” I freeze when I hear the music of the ice cream truck in the distance, remembering the taste of the strawberry flavor on my tongue when Ms. Thomson bought it for us before social services showed up so we would keep our mouths shut about what’s going on inside.
No one dared to speak up anyway; it’s not like anyone would’ve had a better home for us. In my years, I’ve changed three houses, and all of them were awful, so what’s the difference?
“Ice cream,” I whisper, sending a longing look toward the road where the truck is standing several feet from us with a few kids already running toward it. Then I swing my head, ready to say bye to the boy, but he’s already moved away.
“Bye!” I shout, and he raises his hand, waving without turning his face to me, and I dart back to my chalk, picking it up again, and start to draw, a bit disappointed the boy left even though I tried to be friendly.
Maybe Ms. Thomson is right. It’s my stupidity that keeps people from liking me.
The chalk scratches loudly as I finish the circle of the sun and start to draw light falling, along with adding eyes and a smile to it. Because this way, at least someone smiles back at me. “Hi, sun!” I greet it, and I’m about to shift lower and draw some grass when a shadow falls on me, and I glance up.
The boy is holding two ice creams in his hands, and he extends one to me. “Take it.”
I do and open it up, jumping up in excitement when I see it’s strawberry. “Thank you,” I say, and before he can do anything else, I hug him and squeeze him so tight he stills in my arms. “Thank you so much!”
He forcefully removes himself from me and mutters, “It’s just an ice cream.”
“I only tasted it once about a year ago,” I share with him but then quickly bite into it, knowing full well he doesn’t want to talk, but his jaw drops at this.
“Your parents don’t buy you ice cream?”
“I don’t have them.” I go to the bench a few feet away and sit. I stop eating, because my teeth hurt from the cold, and my brain freezes for a second. “I live in foster care.”
An emotion I don’t understand flickers on his face before he occupies the seat next to me, munching on his own ice cream that’s chocolate by the looks of it, since it’s brown, and he notices my eyes on it.
Exhaling in resignation, he extends it to me, and I bite, enjoying how it melts inside my mouth, but I still like mine better.
“My mom is sick. Cancer,” he suddenly says, and I blink, not knowing what to say. I heard cancer was an illness that might result in death—at least that’s what the TV lady said. “There is no hope, since she has a brain tumor in the fourth stage.” Even though I don’t understand what he means, I get it’s something very bad. “That’s why I’m sad. My mom is dying.”
Goose bumps break on my skin, and I gasp, my stomach flipping inside me while my heart aches for the boy who has so much sadness and pain in his words. “I’m so sorry.” But I think those words mean nothing on the large scale of things.
Because whenever people said them to me… it never made me feel better.
Only worse.
“Me too.” He wipes away the tears sliding down his cheeks and then laughs, although it’s so cold it sends chills down my spine. “Dad probably can’t wait.”
I stay silent, not knowing what to do, and just let him speak.
Sometimes, silence is the only support we can offer when someone grieves. Or at least that’s what my teacher at school claims.