A lifetime in foster care can make a person really hate bunk beds. But there’s a lot to be said for always having someone below or above you to ask in the dark, “Are you crying? Are you okay?” Which was always me. Asking.

I had a pillow under my arm, ready to sneak down to the couch, when a hollow scratching came from the stairwell. I shined my key chain flashlight, new batteries blazing, to the bottom of the steps, where two round eyes reflected in the blackness.

I carried Terry Johnson up the stairs, lifted him onto the bed, and he burrowed under the covers.

“Don’t get too comfortable, sir,” I whispered to him. “I’m only here for a little while.”

I turned to lie on my side. Still just a lump under the blanket, he nosed his way into the crook of my bent knees, curled tight into a dog cinnamon roll, and slept there pressed against me all night.

Chapter Nine

“I TOLD HIM I’D GO to a movie with him. Just us,” I whined to Kira after school the next day, my Blackbird seat near the window now firmly established as homework central before Salishwood.

“Well done!” She handed me half a scone, untied her apron, and sat across from me for her ten-minute break to eat her half. “I don’t know that he’s had a girlfriend since I’ve been here….He was waiting for you.”

“Not his girlfriend,” I whispered desperately.

“Not yet. It’ll drive Katiana insane. A date!”

I wrung my hands in my lap. “Just going out; it’s not a date. I’ve never had a date; I can’t date anyone.”

“Never? Really? Like, legally you can’t?”

“Not illegal.” I laughed without meaning to. “Just not a great idea.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Francine’s never had someone your age—only, like, fifth grade, younger. Summers here with my grandparents, we’d always play with her kids.”

I sat up straight. “You played with Francine’s foster kids? Where?”

“Uh…here? Francine’s house. Our house.”

Every neighborhood I’ve ever lived in, we were never allowed in any neighbor’s house. Neighborhood kids were not allowed to come to our house to play with us. We were persona non grata to the moms whose kids had come out of their vaginas. They knew our houses, they knew us, and they kept their precious angels away.

“Francine told us she wasn’t going to take any more kids,” Kira said.

“My social worker was desperate. She talks a good line—she’s like my agent.”

“Good thing for me,” she said, through a huge bite of scone. “For Sean, too.”