I really like to write. Sometimes I write stories for fun in my free time. Recently, in my post God calling…, I told you all about how my family fosters children. Also recently, I started working on a story about foster care. It is from the perspective of a girl in a family who is going to foster a child, which she is not exactly thrilled about. Here’s the first chapter (and the prologue) of my story.
I am thirsty. So thirsty. But I am in my room, and I refuse to come out, refuse to talk to anyone. Especially them. My parents. After what they did, I may never talk to them again. I may be forced to live the rest of my life until I die of starvation, in this room, cut off from civilization. That’s probably just as well, since I’m grounded for yelling at my parents and the only civilization I would be seeing is them again. So now I’m back where I started, so thirsty but not coming out. At least not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.
“Ciara! Dinner!” I guess I will come out, because today’s dinner is spaghetti. My favorite. “Ciara! Now!”
I groan, sit up, and trudge across my room to the door. Before I flip the light switch, I take one last long glance at the room, that after today, will no longer be mine. Why? Because after today, I will have to share it. With her. The girl. The foster girl.
Tick, tick, tick. The clock’s insistent counting seems not its usual cheerful self. Instead, on this day, it seems to be the ticking of a time bomb, counting down to doom time. Of course, my sister isn’t getting that vibe. Annabelle is dancing around the room, chanting, “We’re going to get a sister, we’re going to get a sister.” All I’m getting is a headache.
My parents heard about foster care a long time ago, and apparently they’ve always wanted to give it a try. But they didn’t even think to ask me what I thought. Of course Annabelle absolutely loves the idea of having a sister. But then again, she’s not the one who has to share a room. There’s some kind of rule that says two children can’t share a room unless they’re less than five years apart in age. Ugh. Annabelle is, of course, too young. So I am the only one in this house that fits the bill. Lucky me.
Finally I can hear my dad’s key turn in the keyhole and the front door open. I stand up and walk to the entryway, where Annabelle and my mom are already standing. As much as I am completely against this idea, I’m still curious. And I definitely want to get a good look at the person I will have to share my room with for the next…I don’t even know how long.
My dad comes into the house, trailing a girl who looks about eight or so. I do some quick math in my head. If she is eight, then that means that if she had been two years younger, I wouldn’t be able to share a room with her. So not fair!
My parents start doing introductions, but it’s pretty late, so I can tell they’re trying to speed things along. My mind starts to wander. I don’t even pay attention until my mom says something that snaps me back into reality.
“…The same age! It works out perfectly!”
Hold on. Back up. Did she just say the words “same” and “age” together in one sentence? Well, Annabelle’s five. They can’t possibly be the same age, can they? If they were, then they would be sharing a room. So that must mean…oh no. My jaw drops. This tiny girl is the same age as me? How is that possible? I’m so busy thinking about ages and heights that, once again, I stop paying attention. That is, until my mom starts talking again.
“…Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure Ciara has some clothes that would fit you.”
What? For the second time in one day, I can feel my jaw hit the floor. That must be a record.
“But…but…” is all I manage to stammer for a few seconds. Then I regain my voice. “That’s not fair!” Then quieter, “She’s probably closer to Annabelle’s size anyway.” Now I’m grumbling under my breath, but somehow my mom still hears me.
She gasps and turns to the girl, “Emily, I’m so sorry!”
Well I’m not. Now the girl, oh excuse me, Emily is glaring at me from underneath her bangs. Now would be a good time to escape to my room, while it’s still mine. I heave a dramatic sigh and tromp up the stairs.
Behind me, I can hear my mom apologizing profusely for me. I glance backwards. Emily is still glaring at the spot where I was standing, looking like she wishes that lasers would shoot out of her eyes and incinerate me, even though I am no longer in the room. Apparently height is a sore subject for her.
We are off to a great start.
What do you think of my story so far? Comment and tell me what you think!
P.S. Here’s the first link I ripped off of my chain that I made in the post Sunny Days Ahead! I ripped this link off after school on Friday. As you can see, I’m thankful for the beach!