Troy says, shifting the papers around on the table. “Your mother maintained since your first stay in foster care that you had no family other than her, but since she hasn’t yet returned to claim you, we did some more digging, and it seems that you do have some family on your father’s side who are still alive,” Ms. “Is this a joke?” I ask, leaning back in the chair. “The judge will drop the charges if you go into the custody of your aunt and agree to stay in school until graduation.” “And what’s that?” I ask, thinking of my mom and all the bargains she’d made with dealers and johns before she disappeared. “Since you have no previous record, they’re willing to make a bargain.” I explained your unique circumstances.” She neatly avoids saying troubled past, which I’ve taken offense to before. “I’ve talked with the local precinct and a judge. But what she doesn’t understand is that I’m tired of being placed with foster families, sick of being a burden to people who either think they can fix my seventeen years of shit or are just waiting for my support check, and I’m definitely not going back to a group home. Pushing people away is my specialty, even people like Ms. “Bad signal, I guess.” I shrug, like it puzzles me too.
Somehow, despite the years she’s spent trying to fix a broken system, she still manages to seem young and optimistic. Troy was fresh out of college when she took my case the first time, back when I was still a kid. But I’ve been looking for you for six months. “I can see that those other homes didn’t work out for you, Trix. I’d ask, but I don’t suppose they’d give it back to me if they had. I wonder if the cops found my stash of money in the toilet tank, too. We’re sitting in a small office in the police station that smells like old coffee.
Troy is as kind as she has ever been, even though there’s a ziplock bag of stolen wallets from my burn can sitting between us.
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