Shoving my quarters back in my pocket, I pick up my fork and press it into the table, gone soft with age, scratching in another gouge. Nobody will ever notice. This table looks like it’s been through a lot of families.

But it feels like a small rebellion and it distracts me from Parker and Jacob on the other side, laughing about some prank their friend pulled at school yesterday.

I deepen my gouge, then smooth my finger over the gash, suddenly wishing I could magic it away. But scars don’t work like that.

I drag my plate over the mark and grimace as Parker shovels lukewarm spaghetti into his mouth. He hangs his jaw open so the noodles drip down his chin and lets out a low death gurgle.

Jacob snorts, spraying flecks of milk almost to my plate.

Disgusting.

I glare, but they’re too wrapped up in their zombie lovefest to notice.

Jacob turns serious, widening his dark brown eyes. “Dude, I would totally put you down if you got bit.”

Parker nods. “Same.” He swallows the spaghetti he’s talking around. “No hesitation.”

“I’m going to put you both down if you don’t shut up and eat,” I growl.

They laugh in the high-pitched, cracking sound of twelve-year-old boys and start debating who the best zombie-fighting badass is.

I twirl a bite of spaghetti on my fork and shove it into my mouth, chewing without tasting.

For the hundredth time, I glance at the hideous clock above the refrigerator. The hour hand settles on the faded drawing of the rooster by the number seven. Deb is late. She’s almost never late. I actually like that about her. She’s not the worst foster-whatever. I’m just supposed to get the boys dinner, and she makes sure it ends up in their mouths and not all over the floor like entrails.

“Ava, can we be done?” Parker and Jacob stare at me with wide, innocent eyes, their plates still half full. I’m sure they have a stash of cookies in their room.

“I don’t care.”

They bolt and leave me alone to clean up their mess.

Figures.

Pushing back my chair with a scrape, I start stacking the dishes, then dump them in the sink.

I look at the clock again. Seven p.m. on a Friday night. Friday. I let myself smile a little. Parker and I watch The NeverEnding Story together every Friday night no matter where we are. Even if we don’t have a DVD player, we tell the story to each other. I can recite that movie scene by scene—but that’s not something I usually brag about.

My steps lighten as I hurry from the kitchen and dart up the stairs, dusting the banister with my hand as I go.