Presley stared at the new house from the back of the social workers car. It looked... awful. There was no dressing it up. It was run down, there were old cars and appliances in the yard. How had this place even qualified for the foster program? There were usually requirements.
She sighed. Two weeks. She only needed to make it two weeks.
She felt a twinge of anger rise up for Blaine Ericson. She had been so happy at the last home. She and Leila had gotten along so well, had so much fun. She was hardly older than Presley, but she had been the best foster mother Presley had ever had. Then Blaine got home from his tour overseas. At first things were great. Leila was happy, they were both happy and excited, spending a lot of time alone. Then Leila went back to work.
Presley had noticed his lingering looks first. She stayed later at school, throwing herself into afterschool clubs and volunteering and tutoring. It hadn't worked long. Leila was an LPN, so her hours were sporadic and long. When she finally began noticing the way Blaine was looking at their foster daughter, she had immediately called Presleys social worker and told them it wasn't working out. Worse, she treated Presley like it was her fault. Now here she was, less than two weeks before her birthday and stuck in this horrible looking place.
She took a deep breath. No. Don't judge based on its appearance. One of her kindest foster mothers, or grandmother as she liked to be called, was dirt poor and she had been wonderful until she was no longer able to care for her foster children.
"Are you ready?" Miranda asked brightly, but Presley could see and hear the false cheer in her voice.
"Sure," she answered, shouldering her bag.
Miranda walked to the door militantly, it was the only way she moved, and knocked smartly. Rap rap rap. Presley caught up to her but stopped behind her. Miranda was short, but she still looked down at Presley as she turned to give her a tight smile. She turned, then gave a quiet huff and knocked again. Rap rap rap.
The door jerked open and a bleary eyed woman looked out. "Oh. S'you. You're early, you weren't supposed to be here till ten."
"It's ten after ten," Miranda said primly, looking up at the tall, skinny woman in her nightgown that hit her above mid thigh. The woman had bleach blonde hair that was tangled and scraggly and lank with more than two inches of gray roots showing. Her face was gaunt and she had a perpetually dissatisfied expression on her face.
"This her then? Come in." The woman shoved the door open and walked away.
Miranda looked back at Presley in worry, then they both followed the woman into the house. For a wonder, the living room was tidy. The furniture was old, like it had been passed down from her grandparents, but it was all clean.
"Sit down," the woman commanded tersely. "Want coffee?"
"No thank you," Miranda answered, perching on the edge of a chair, clutching her bag on her lap and looking around distastefully.
"No thanks," Presley said quietly, sitting on the and of the couch, dropping her bag at her feet.
The woman scowled and sat down. She had obviously wanted coffee herself, but knew it would be rude to leave them sitting while she made herself some. Making them some too would have been a good excuse.
"This is Presley," Miranda said by way of introduction. "Presley, this is Dorris Hanson."
"Mrs. Hanson. Don't let my kids call me Dorris, it just sounds disrespectful."
"Of course. Mrs Hanson then."
"This is only for two weeks, right? I usually only take younger kids, but you said this was just two weeks."
"Yes, twelve days actually."
"That's fine. Your room is right through there, girl," Dorris said, waving at the door to the hall.
Presley glanced at Miranda who nodded minutely. "Go ahead, there are a few things Mrs Hanson and I need to talk about."
Presley got up and grabbed her bag, going down the hall. As it turned out, it was easy to find. There were two doors. One was a bathroom and one was a small bedroom. It held a single twin sized bed and an old chest of drawers. That was it. No closet, just a small room with just enough room for the two pieces of furniture. Presley was fine with that, at least she had her own room. She set her bag on the bed and looked out the small window to the backyard. There was a clothesline full of mens clothes and beyond that, a field of old cars.
She sat down and wondered if she would be going to a different school now or the same school. She glanced at her bag but didn't want to open it. She didn't want to unpack. She wanted to stay ready to leave.
An hour later, Dorris came in without knocking. "Well, you ain't much, are ya? Little slip of a thing. S'pose you're useless for hard work. It's fine. You'll still have chores, of course. You'll pull your own weight here."
"Of course," Presley said softly, standing. She was used to this part. Two weeks. Not even that. Twelve days. Twelve days. She could do this. She forced a smile.
Dorris led her through to the kitchen. "Dishes will be your responsibility after every meal. Keep the kitchen clean. Mopping, trash, dishes, everything."
"Ok, I can do that," she answered with a smile.
The woman led her on through the house and into a mudroom with a washing machine and an open door to the basement. "This is where you will wash the laundry. You know how to do laundry?"
"Yes ma'am."
"You'll wash it here and hang it up outside. You'll gather it up from each room every day. Come on," she said, turning and heading down the stairs.
Presleys stomach sank as she got to the bottom of the stairs. She knew as soon as she saw it that this was where Dorris lived. Upstairs was a facade, a way to pass the foster system test. The main room was a large living room, full of old, dirty furniture. A tall, skinny man looked over his shoulder and looked Presley up and down, then sneered at her. There were three boys, ranging from eighteen to about twenty five. She knew the youngest, she had seen him at school. They all stared at her as well.
"That's Mr Hanson and three of my boys. Bobby, Lewis and Dale JR. Boys, this is... what was your name girl?"
"Presley Miller," Dale answered for her. "She's in my class. She thinks she's real smart."
Presley swallowed hard. Dale was one of the boys who ran with the bullies though she had never seen him do anything himself. He was a hanger on, too afraid to bully on his own, but happy to hang out with those who did.
