Logan
First grade
“Be a good girl, Jane.”
“You look so beautiful in that brand new dress, Sophie. Mommy loves you.”
“You’re gonna have a great time in school, Everest, got it, buster? Don’t let anyone bring you down.”
“Alright, behave now, Damien, okay? Or I’ll tell your dad, and he’ll whup your ass.”
“Not as hard as I’ll whup his.”
I look around the room, eyeing my classmates jealously. I’m the only kid who showed up by himself this morning. I guess my foster parents had better things to do than see me off.
Things like, stay in bed until noon.
But one glance at the dark-haired kid who’s currently flipping off his mom, and I’m intrigued.
“Hi. I’m Logan.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I know.”
“Huh?”
“Your nametag,” he shrugs, gesturing to the sticker on my chest I’d forgotten all about. Then under his breath, he adds, “Idiot.”
I’ve been called an idiot plenty of times in my life. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve been called idiot more often than Logan by all the foster parents I’ve had over the years.
But somehow, I don’t mind it that much coming from this kid’s mouth.
“Are you really going to whup your dad’s ass?” I whisper.
“I’ll whup yours if you don’t shut up,” he smirks.
“Oh, yeah? I dare you to.”
He studies me for a moment. Then at last, he says, “Fine.”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll allow you to be my friend.”
“You’re a real jerk,” I say, my mouth twitching into a smile.
Then I turn my attention back to the teacher, who’s directing us to our seats.
I wrinkle my nose when I find myself sitting next to a boy in a button-down shirt and thick glasses who I have a feeling is going to turn out to be a real nerd.
But then I feel something land on my neck—a small wad of paper—and I turn around and see that the dark-haired kid is sitting behind me. I think his mom called him Damien.
I guess that makes up for the nerd. And then, there’s the desk across the aisle from me. It’s still empty, and I wonder who’ll be assigned to it.
I don’t have to wonder for very long. There’s a timid knock on the door. Then a red curly head pops in and two blue-green eyes look around the room.
“You must be Lia Cabello,” smiles the teacher. “Come on in. Let’s try to be on time tomorrow, okay?”
The new girl enters all the way, then waits as the teacher looks around for a free spot.
She wears a bored look as her eyes flit around, studying each student with a snobby little air. But her face, with its pattern of red splotches, tells me she’s not feeling half as confident as she’d like everyone to believe.
Then her eyes meet mine, and something very strange happens to me.
I suddenly feel like crying.
It’s all I can do to stay seated. I want to jump up and hurry over to her, and crush her in my arms.
I have no idea what’s wrong with me. I’ve never wanted anyone to hug me before. Which is good, because no one ever has.
But this girl… she’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. Not like a friend, or like family—the real, absent kind, or the everchanging fake kind.
No. She’s something altogether different.
More like… a book, or a bicycle. A belonging.
This girl… Lia… is mine.