got it.” I shoved out of the car and ignored the good night he called out. On my way up the walk to the front door, I suddenly froze.
Mrs. Beckett had planted flowers all along the front yard. Spring colors, lots of blue, white, purple, and pink, sweet smells filling up my nose. I didn’t know much about flowers. There was only one I recognized.
“Mandy, sweetie, hand me that trowel,” Mom had said, and I skipped over to her tools, grabbed the thing with the long curved blade.
“Good girl. Now it’s time to dig. See, flowers like to play in the dirt.”
“Me too!”
Mom touched a finger to my nose and laughed. “I know, and so does the bathtub. Let’s make a nice deep hole…that’s it…perfect. Now I’ll put the flower in, and you scoop some dirt all around it so it stands up.” I’d scooped and patted dirt all around the white flower with its yellow face. Mom grabbed a watering can and gave it a nice shower. We worked together, planting a long row of daisies, and then Mom said it was time to go in.
“But what about this one?”
Mom smiled and handed the last daisy to me. “That’s for you. You can put it in a little vase next to your bed.”
I did. Two days later, it was dead.
I turned and walked into the Becketts’ house. I’d been with the Becketts for a couple of years now—a record. Mrs. Beckett stayed home, and Mr. Beckett was a science teacher at my high school. I liked them both very much, and I liked Larry, another child they fostered. He was a year behind me in school. I hoped I’d get to stay here until I aged out of the system, but there were never any guarantees.
“Amanda. What’s up?” Larry greeted me from the den, surrounded by scraps of paper and poster board.
“Hey,” I replied. “How’s it going?”
“I finished my project. Want to see?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” We’d eaten a whole bushel of apples over the last month because Larry was trying to determine what makes apples turn brown, which had something to do with acids and bases, according to Mr. Beckett. Larry had treated apple slices with a bunch of different things like lemon juice to see if the rate of browning slowed down. “Very cool, Larry.”
“Yeah. Mr. Beckett helped.” He smoothed out a glue bubble under one of his photos. “So how did training go today?”
“Okay. We got a new cadet.”
“Sweet!”
“Amanda? That you?”
“Hi, Mr. Beckett.”
My foster father stood in the doorway, reading glasses perched on top of his head, which meant he was either planning next week’s lessons or grading lab reports.“How was your class today?”
“Good. We got a new instructor.”
Mr. Beckett winced. “Already? Who’d Chief Duffy pick?”
“John Logan.”
“Hey, did you see my project, Mr. Beckett? It’s done.”
Mr. Beckett turned to squint at Larry’s poster board and examined the research. “Nicely done, Larry. I see you took my advice and used the milk of magnesia solution too. Good man.”
Ugh. I hoped we didn’t eat those slices.
“Hey, Amanda.” Mrs. Beckett popped her head into the room, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. “Dinner in five, everybody. Get cleaned up.”
Larry dropped to the floor and began picking up scraps of paper.
“I’ll give you a hand.” I crouched, collected the marker pens, and replaced them in their case. “It looks really great, Larry. Hope you win.”
Larry shot me a hopeful grin and flipped hair out of his eyes. “You think it’s good enough?”
“Yeah. I really do.”
He put the board carefully on a side table, scooped the trash into the bin, and headed to the kitchen.
We sat around the round oak table tucked into the corner, pretending we were a real family. The Becketts had no kids of their own. Couldn’t. So they rented . That’s how I thought of it. Except instead of paying rent, they got paid—some for me, some for Larry. We never called them Mom and Dad or even by their first names. It was all very polite, like
Mrs. Beckett had planted flowers all along the front yard. Spring colors, lots of blue, white, purple, and pink, sweet smells filling up my nose. I didn’t know much about flowers. There was only one I recognized.
“Mandy, sweetie, hand me that trowel,” Mom had said, and I skipped over to her tools, grabbed the thing with the long curved blade.
“Good girl. Now it’s time to dig. See, flowers like to play in the dirt.”
“Me too!”
Mom touched a finger to my nose and laughed. “I know, and so does the bathtub. Let’s make a nice deep hole…that’s it…perfect. Now I’ll put the flower in, and you scoop some dirt all around it so it stands up.” I’d scooped and patted dirt all around the white flower with its yellow face. Mom grabbed a watering can and gave it a nice shower. We worked together, planting a long row of daisies, and then Mom said it was time to go in.
“But what about this one?”
Mom smiled and handed the last daisy to me. “That’s for you. You can put it in a little vase next to your bed.”
I did. Two days later, it was dead.
I turned and walked into the Becketts’ house. I’d been with the Becketts for a couple of years now—a record. Mrs. Beckett stayed home, and Mr. Beckett was a science teacher at my high school. I liked them both very much, and I liked Larry, another child they fostered. He was a year behind me in school. I hoped I’d get to stay here until I aged out of the system, but there were never any guarantees.
“Amanda. What’s up?” Larry greeted me from the den, surrounded by scraps of paper and poster board.
“Hey,” I replied. “How’s it going?”
“I finished my project. Want to see?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” We’d eaten a whole bushel of apples over the last month because Larry was trying to determine what makes apples turn brown, which had something to do with acids and bases, according to Mr. Beckett. Larry had treated apple slices with a bunch of different things like lemon juice to see if the rate of browning slowed down. “Very cool, Larry.”
“Yeah. Mr. Beckett helped.” He smoothed out a glue bubble under one of his photos. “So how did training go today?”
“Okay. We got a new cadet.”
“Sweet!”
“Amanda? That you?”
“Hi, Mr. Beckett.”
My foster father stood in the doorway, reading glasses perched on top of his head, which meant he was either planning next week’s lessons or grading lab reports.“How was your class today?”
“Good. We got a new instructor.”
Mr. Beckett winced. “Already? Who’d Chief Duffy pick?”
“John Logan.”
“Hey, did you see my project, Mr. Beckett? It’s done.”
Mr. Beckett turned to squint at Larry’s poster board and examined the research. “Nicely done, Larry. I see you took my advice and used the milk of magnesia solution too. Good man.”
Ugh. I hoped we didn’t eat those slices.
“Hey, Amanda.” Mrs. Beckett popped her head into the room, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. “Dinner in five, everybody. Get cleaned up.”
Larry dropped to the floor and began picking up scraps of paper.
“I’ll give you a hand.” I crouched, collected the marker pens, and replaced them in their case. “It looks really great, Larry. Hope you win.”
Larry shot me a hopeful grin and flipped hair out of his eyes. “You think it’s good enough?”
“Yeah. I really do.”
He put the board carefully on a side table, scooped the trash into the bin, and headed to the kitchen.
We sat around the round oak table tucked into the corner, pretending we were a real family. The Becketts had no kids of their own. Couldn’t. So they rented . That’s how I thought of it. Except instead of paying rent, they got paid—some for me, some for Larry. We never called them Mom and Dad or even by their first names. It was all very polite, like
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