Playing a meta-game with the same theme

The next morning Linda woke to her father's ranting shouts from the front yard. She hurried down the white spiral staircase to the front door, which was standing wide open. A steaming coffee mug was sitting next to the newspaper on the front step, where her father had abandoned it. He was in the driveway, circling the yellow porsche, screaming.

Linda opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, when she saw: all four of the tires were slashed, the car sunk low down on them as if exhausted. She took a few steps and then stopped, her eyes following the deep gouges in the car's body, made by something strong and heavy. “A crowbar!” screamed her father, pointing to the offending object, which was lying on the grass a few feet away from the car.

Aghast, she crept closer. The headlights were smashed, the upholstery ripped to shreds. Unconsciously, Linda began mouthing a prayer. She walked down the steps and circled the car, then stopped as she came in sight of the garage. There, in violently red spray paint, were scrawled the words, “I LOVE YOU.” Continue reading "James (Part 3 of 3)"

When they brought him to the new house, he was relieved to see that there weren't any children's toys in the front yard. Maybe there wouldn't be any younger siblings to babysit at this house. He walked in and was met with a rushing hug from a tall, ginger-haired woman who smelled like rosemary. “James,” she said, “It's so nice to have you here. It's just you and me right now, no other emergency placements—for now,” she raised an eyebrow at the caseworker, who shrugged and laughed. “You're welcome, welcome, welcome,” said the ginger-haired woman to James.

“I can't predict 'em, Wendy,” the caseworker said. “We had a sibling group of seven on the list last week, but their mom's sister took them in last minute.”

“Well, for now we'll be cozy just the two of us. I'm single,” she explained to James' quizzical expression, “and my last couple of placements were allowed to go home to their parents about three weeks ago.”

“Oh,” said James.

“You'll like it here, you'll see,” said Wendy. “I've heard good things about you and I know that we can be a happy little family.”

“Oh,” said James.
___

He did like it at this new, pretty house. All the wood was a red-golden color, and matched Linda's hair. She was always cooking, delicious smells meeting him when he came home from school. She was busy most of the time; she ran an editing business part time from her home computer, and was always running out to the copy store. “I'm gonna buy a new ink cartridge any day now,” she said every time she hurried out the door. “Remind me tonight.”

The days blurred together into a comforting routine. School, homework, dinner, video games or TV. James found himself actually moving his clothes from the black garbage bags to the drawers in his new bedroom. This lasted for several months, until one Monday he came home and Wendy was more cheerful than usual. Too cheerful. Fake cheerful, thought James.

“Got a call from your caseworker today,” she said breezily as she unpacked groceries. “They've got a placement for you that they think could be permanent. Isn't that great?” He didn't respond, so she went on, “the dad is a really good guy, works construction. You could pick up some great skills if he'll take you on some jobs, huh?”

When he still didn't respond, she put down the carton of eggs she was unpacking and locked her warm hazel eyes onto him. “It's gonna be okay, James,” she said sincerely. “You're a good, sweet kid, and you deserve to find a place where they appreciate that.”

“Why can't I stay here with you?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. She sighed. “I'm a temporary stop for you, kiddo,” she said. “I care about you a lot, and I want you to be in a home with a mom and a dad. It was great having you here, and I am truly going to miss you.”

“You care about me?” His voice was soft.

She came around the counter and put her hands on his shoulders. “I care about you,” she said. “I want you to go to the best possible home. I know you'll be great.”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

“You're a good kid, James,” she said sincerely, locking her eyes onto his. “Don't forget that, okay?”

He nodded solemnly, unblinking. “Okay,” he said.

When he got to his new foster home, they showed him a back bedroom with no carpet, just cracked cement. The stained mattress was old and saggy, and nobody had bothered to put sheets onto it yet. He tossed his garbage bags onto the bed and looked around, a cold sensation prickling around the back of his neck.

“Hey, kid,” said his new foster father gruffly. “Sheets are in the hall closet. Chore chart's on the fridge. Dinner's at six. You okay?”

“Yeah,” said James dully. “I'm good.” Continue reading "James (Part 2 of 3)"

Author's note: My story will be published in three installments. This is part 1 of 3.


His earliest memory was not being taken away from his parents, although he had been five years old at the time. He heard all about it later, from the casual conversations that the caseworkers had with his foster parents, but he had no memory of it himself. They described the ropes his mother had used to tie the door shut, the bucket she had left for him to urinate into. But he didn't care. He didn't remember any of that.

No, the first memory he had was when they took him away from Steve.

Steve was a round, soft, balding man who had once been blonde but was now mostly gray.

“James,” Steve had said, gently but firmly holding James' shoulders in his big meaty hands. “Your mom and I love you very much, and we care about you very much. But you are going to live with a new family now, okay?”

Steve's watery blue eyes had skipped upward toward the caseworker, standing somewhere behind James. James heard a baby cry, and knew that Marjorie was trying to feed both the twins at the same time. He remembered the day before, when he had used all the baby bottles to catch grasshoppers in the backyard. Marjorie had cried. “It just goes to show you,” she had sobbed into Steve's shoulder, “I can't watch all of them at once! I can't!”

He had been proud of his grasshopper menagerie, but nobody was proud of him. Both Marjorie and Steve hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the night. He had heard Steve's soft voice from behind their bedroom door. “Maybe it is for the best then,” he had sighed heavily, the sound of air escaping a balloon.

And now this. The caseworker was here, and Marjorie had used this morning while James was at school to pack all of his clothes into two black plastic garbage bags. His toys and stuffed animals and books she had left in his room. “We'll use them for the boys when they get older,” she had explained to Steve.

Those garbage bags full of clothes were now in the caseworker's car, and James was here, looking into Steve's blue eyes and struggling to understand. “I'm sorry about the grasshoppers,” he offered.

Steve smiled briefly, more a wince than anything else. “You're not in trouble, James. It's just time for you to go to a family that has time for you,” he said. Behind him, the caseworker sighed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“We love you and care about you,” said Steve. “And you need to always remember that you are a sweet little guy and you deserve a good life.”

“I'm a sweet little guy,” echoed James, making the caseworker chuckle under her breath.

“Yes you are,” said Steve, attempting joviality. “And you'll be fine.” Continue reading "James"