From January-May of 2012, I worked on a book centered aroud a girl named Allison who discovers a secret that has been kept from her after a life of lonliness. I am hoping that by posting the first page and a half here, I will force myself to remember to get back on track and continue using the gifts God gave me to make something of myself.
Freedom is a
word I have been repeating over and over in my head for the past eighteen
years. I said it each time I crossed off a day on my calendar. I said it each
time I was forced to share a bedroom with someone I had just met. I said it as
I rode the public school bus every morning, and when I graduated high school
just seven months ago. Freedom is a word I am very familiar with. I know how it
sounds. I know how each letter fits together when I write it in cursive, and
how much space it will take up on college ruled paper in between the lines. I
just don’t know what freedom is actually like.
I am hereby dubbed “a foster kid” and I live in a system rather than a home. I own few possessions and I have never known anyone I could call ‘family’. Luckily, the agency I was set up with did not drop me in the most of disastrous of homes, so I was never the victim of the foster mother who only fosters for the money and ignore the child. On the other hand, there are some cases where families do get paid more for more difficult children, to compensate for their hard-to-handle attitudes. For a while, as a younger child, I was one of those. I guess as I grew up I’ve always subconsciously been aware of the money and felt like some sort of transaction instead of an actual human being.
Eventually, school became an outlet where I could concentrate on words and numbers rather than the chaos happening in whatever house I was staying in at the time. Having an outstanding GPA and a state-funded scholarship for 10,000 dollars does not mean I am going to imprison myself in college for four years though. Another system is out of the question; I haven’t even an inkling of desire to doubt my decision about that. Why waste my time for another four years when I am ready to live my life now? Instead of focusing on people, I’ll focus on myself and find a career that really suits me. I gripped onto the six pieces of printer paper in my hands that held my future and stood outside Monica’s bedroom. Monica is my latest foster mother. I admit, Monica has been the most down-to-earth and loving out of all of them, but I like to think of myself as an old dog, and you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Especially when that old dog is on a mission. When I graduated and began to beg for early release, I got a long lecture on waiting until I was eighteen and coming up with a plan before I moved. Well lady, my eighteenth birthday was last week and I’ve been working on this plan for a lot longer than that. Today is the first day of the New Year and I am determined to get this year right.
Without her knowing, I have been doing a lot of contacting and researching and have managed to find an affordable apartment with a nearby job. Cindy Lancaster, the manager of The Ritz of Rink’s has approved my application and agreed to hire me after a brief interview. Personally, I’m proud of myself because I know what good reviews the venue gets and how many people actually go there. I knocked on Monica’s door and waited for her okay to enter. It’s a common courtesy rule in the house, even if we are the only two people living in it.
“Come in Allie,” she piped. Monica is a tiny lady with a lot of will. I couldn’t even look like her daughter if I tried. My dark brown hair, fair skin and defined features contrast her [ ] culture and delicate frame. Monica was sitting on the floor of her bedroom with spools of yarn spread out around her and an open instruction book held open under the weight of her left foot.
“You’re trying to teach yourself how to sew.” I commented.
“It’s a motherly thing to do, don’t you think?” Monica winked at me and I tried my best to hold my wince back. It annoys me how desperate she is to cling to me, when she should know it isn’t supposed to last. She is almost as desperate to hold on, as I am to get away.
“Here, I want you to take a look at this.” I handed her the papers and tried to act professional because I wanted to steer clear from the emotional sappy route this scene could take at any second. It took her almost ten minutes to read the whole thing, and I ended up sitting on the floor next to her in impatience. She didn’t say a word. I knew she was carefully debating in her head how to handle the situation, but I didn’t feel bad because she had already prolonged this as long as she could. I didn’t even need her permission for the love of God. I am not a normal child, I am a foster child. I wanted to yell that out and kill the elephant in the room. It’s time! You have a legal obligation to let me go now! It bothers me that Monica thinks that we are going to be mother and daughter for the rest of my life because the whole foster situation is not supposed to be permanent. In fact, if my birth mother were alive, or if I knew she was alive, I’m not really sure, Monica would have to have her permission to even keep in touch with me after our separation. I think she could see in my eyes how much I was holding in so she just handed me back the papers and simply said,
“We can start packing in the morning, but let’s give it a few days before we make any real changes.” And that was that.
I am hereby dubbed “a foster kid” and I live in a system rather than a home. I own few possessions and I have never known anyone I could call ‘family’. Luckily, the agency I was set up with did not drop me in the most of disastrous of homes, so I was never the victim of the foster mother who only fosters for the money and ignore the child. On the other hand, there are some cases where families do get paid more for more difficult children, to compensate for their hard-to-handle attitudes. For a while, as a younger child, I was one of those. I guess as I grew up I’ve always subconsciously been aware of the money and felt like some sort of transaction instead of an actual human being.
Eventually, school became an outlet where I could concentrate on words and numbers rather than the chaos happening in whatever house I was staying in at the time. Having an outstanding GPA and a state-funded scholarship for 10,000 dollars does not mean I am going to imprison myself in college for four years though. Another system is out of the question; I haven’t even an inkling of desire to doubt my decision about that. Why waste my time for another four years when I am ready to live my life now? Instead of focusing on people, I’ll focus on myself and find a career that really suits me. I gripped onto the six pieces of printer paper in my hands that held my future and stood outside Monica’s bedroom. Monica is my latest foster mother. I admit, Monica has been the most down-to-earth and loving out of all of them, but I like to think of myself as an old dog, and you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Especially when that old dog is on a mission. When I graduated and began to beg for early release, I got a long lecture on waiting until I was eighteen and coming up with a plan before I moved. Well lady, my eighteenth birthday was last week and I’ve been working on this plan for a lot longer than that. Today is the first day of the New Year and I am determined to get this year right.
Without her knowing, I have been doing a lot of contacting and researching and have managed to find an affordable apartment with a nearby job. Cindy Lancaster, the manager of The Ritz of Rink’s has approved my application and agreed to hire me after a brief interview. Personally, I’m proud of myself because I know what good reviews the venue gets and how many people actually go there. I knocked on Monica’s door and waited for her okay to enter. It’s a common courtesy rule in the house, even if we are the only two people living in it.
“Come in Allie,” she piped. Monica is a tiny lady with a lot of will. I couldn’t even look like her daughter if I tried. My dark brown hair, fair skin and defined features contrast her [ ] culture and delicate frame. Monica was sitting on the floor of her bedroom with spools of yarn spread out around her and an open instruction book held open under the weight of her left foot.
“You’re trying to teach yourself how to sew.” I commented.
“It’s a motherly thing to do, don’t you think?” Monica winked at me and I tried my best to hold my wince back. It annoys me how desperate she is to cling to me, when she should know it isn’t supposed to last. She is almost as desperate to hold on, as I am to get away.
“Here, I want you to take a look at this.” I handed her the papers and tried to act professional because I wanted to steer clear from the emotional sappy route this scene could take at any second. It took her almost ten minutes to read the whole thing, and I ended up sitting on the floor next to her in impatience. She didn’t say a word. I knew she was carefully debating in her head how to handle the situation, but I didn’t feel bad because she had already prolonged this as long as she could. I didn’t even need her permission for the love of God. I am not a normal child, I am a foster child. I wanted to yell that out and kill the elephant in the room. It’s time! You have a legal obligation to let me go now! It bothers me that Monica thinks that we are going to be mother and daughter for the rest of my life because the whole foster situation is not supposed to be permanent. In fact, if my birth mother were alive, or if I knew she was alive, I’m not really sure, Monica would have to have her permission to even keep in touch with me after our separation. I think she could see in my eyes how much I was holding in so she just handed me back the papers and simply said,
“We can start packing in the morning, but let’s give it a few days before we make any real changes.” And that was that.
Ms.Will..the first few pages of your novel seem very interesting...though it is my belief that it can get way more engaging
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