First Touch of Kindness

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It wasn’t the first time I’d been kicked out. My latest “family” wasn’t really different than the last couple that I’d been sent to. Same old story, I lived in peace for about a week then about a month of fighting and then I’d do something stupid, the police bring me home and thrown out, but they still tell all their rich country club friends about housing a poor troubled foster child, and how I “changed their lives”. Oh the idiocy of deranged suburban social statuses. It was never really about me, it was all about outdoing their fellow “good doer” and foster kids tend to hit the top of the philanthropy charts. I never knew my mom, and because she was a teenage crack whore, I’ve lived my entire seventeen years like the ugly puppy in the pound, that no one has the heart to put out of it’s misery.  Lush green hills rolled by outside my window. My face was in a blank stare, I stopped crying over foster families, I stop caring where I was, I would be an outsider wherever I went. The social worker’s car smelled like old granny perfume, the fake leather seats were awkward and squeaked when I moved my left leg. The grouchy man looked at me and sighed, keeping a steady course on the straight road ahead of me, stroking what was left of his greying hair, muttering something about a miscreant.  My new foster “parents” were a couple by the name of Roy and Mary. They had a daughter about fourteen years old. Her name was Kara. They lived smack in the middle of suburbia, my hell away from home. Whatever. I wouldn’t be here long. I didn’t try to put on a happy face for them. I wasn’t going to pretend to be a good kid, I was going to be straight up, show ’em what they were getting themselves into.  I headed to school with a cigarette in hand, puffing out the last few breaths before I walked on campus. I didn’t plan on making any friends. I didn’t have any. I lost touch with the few I made in grade school, and never stayed any place long enough to invest in new ones. It didn’t bother me though. Everyone either feared me, or felt sorry for me. Both were fine.  I kept the same blank expression on by face, all day, trying to ignore all the hype about the “new chick” and the little whispers of “foster child” or “bad egg” or whatever the hell else the local neighborhood sluts liked to gossip about. The social workers Küçükyalı escort convinced me that I needed to take charge! Have responsibility! So I got a job at a coffee place down the street from school. I hated every minute of it. I have no idea why they hired a juvenile delinquent like me. But it made everyone shut up, and gave me less time to plot people’s painful deaths.  “Hi again,” I heard a voice directed at me. I looked up from the coffee I was making, to find a good looking man, in his mid-twenties maybe, smiling at me. I didn’t recognize him. I looked at him weird, hoping he’d find his error that he had addressed the wrong girl. He didn’t, he smiled wide instead. “Don’t be like that, Jordan,” he laughed, flashing me a glimpse of his beautiful white teeth. I looked down, there was no name tag anywhere on my shirt. “I know your name, darling,” he said softly.  “Do I know you?” I was puzzled. But then it hit me. “Double mocha latté guy, I remember you,” I replied to my own comment. He smiled really wide, offering a hand. I’d seen him every day for the last four months. He’d smiled and said “thank you milady” every time I handed him his coffee. Oddball.  “Nice to finally speak to you, I’m Brycen. Call me Bryce.”  “Nice to meet you,” I shook his hand, not at all interested. He had jet black hair that stuck out every which way, and big huge blue eyes, the color of the sky, just before a sunset starts, a kind of deep-light blue. Very odd. He was tall, and lean, wearing skinny jeans, from the woman’s department judging by the style of the back pockets.  It was a slow day in March I believe it was, he decided to make it slower by forcing unwanted socialization on me. He asked a lot of weird questions. I ignored majority of them, shooting him dark looks whenever I could.  “Ah, an empty hand,” he motioned to my ringless left hand.  “Uhm…yeah,” I started to groan. I knew what was coming next.  “Means no one has legal claim on you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Have dinner with me.”  It wasn’t really a question. I looked up from the counter I was staring at and saw how the humor had left his eyes. They were deep and serious. Last thing in the world I wanted. “No thanks,” I replied and looked back down at the coffee I was making.  “Oh come Kartal escort bayan on, don’t be shy,” he leaned over the counter, his obnoxious rainbow pony bead bracelets clattered on the hardwood.  “To be honest I thought you were gay all this time,” I retorted. He smiled and laughed a hearty laugh.  “Not at all,” he said with meaning behind it. I stared at him, hoping maybe if I glared at him enough he’d be scared and run away. He didn’t. I rejected him six more times before my shift was over.  I dragged myself to work the next day, feet dragging, grumbling to myself, upset with the god damn world, when I spotted Mr. Desperate sitting contently at a table closest to the counter. I moaned when he waved at me and tried to ignore him. He sat in the coffee shop every day for a whole week, three hours a day, that’s twenty-one hours! It was pretty creepy but what could I do? He never did anything wrong enough to bust him. He never asked for my number, stared at my boobs or ever tried to touch me. He just smiled at me and kept talking, even though I never listened and never answered.  A week and a half after his first little debut he got the courage up to ask me out again.  “At least take a walk with me, if you won’t talk to me, just a friendly one,” he finally pleaded.  I rolled my eyes and sucked in a breath. “Will you shut up and go away if I go?”  “Most likely yes.”  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”  He smiled hugely and sat back down. I guess he wanted me to go on the “walk” as soon as I was done.  “Alright bug-eyes let’s go for a walk,” I retorted to him as soon as my shift was over. I was tired, greasy and sweaty but I didn’t give a shit. I was actually hoping that’d repulse him enough to want to leave me alone. I didn’t have much hope. He grabbed the door in front of me, holding it open as I trudged through it, my worn out old converse making a slapping sound at the end of the obnoxious linoleum floor as we walked out. “The park is only a block from here,” he pointed out, cheerily. “Whatever,” I dismissed it, and walked, a step ahead of him, annoyed and wanting to go ‘home’. He quickened his pace so he was even with me, making me groan, cause my legs were obviously a lot shorter than his.  “You’re new around here,” he stated. “Are you stalking me or Escort Suadiye something?” I glared at him, no humor intended. “No, I just asked your manager.”  “Hmph.” “Where are you from?” “Chicago.” “How did you end up here?” he asked, blue eyes questioning me. “Look, why does it matter so much?” “Why are you so defensive? I was only asking, Jordan.”  I glared at him, and kept walking, ignoring him as much as I could.  “Can I buy you an ice cream?” he nodded towards the ice cream stand.  “No,” I replied, annoyed again.  “Watching the weight? You don’t need to, you’re beautiful, honey.” I stopped and stared at him, mouth scrunched in an effort not to scream profanity while kids were around.  “What the hell is your problem? Don’t you have other seventeen year old girls to stalk?” I asked. This only made him smile. I wanted to smack the stupid smile from his stupid face, make him bleed all over the ground.  “Two chocolate ice creams,” he told the cart guy. He scooped two out and handed them to Bryce. He set some bills on the cart and turned to me, as if telling me to lead the way. I walked down the dirt path, through the middle of the park, arms crossed over my tight black jacket. I found a bench and plopped down. I was sure stalker man had a bazillion creepy questions for me.  I decided to humor him before he went home and cried to his cat in a lonely, empty apartment that I imagined he lived in. He handed me a cone, I didn’t dare eat it. I half suspected he drugged it. “Why do you always dress like that?” he motioned to my jeans with rips and chains and black paint splattered on them, ratty old converse, and a shirt from a band I’d never heard of, and dark, dark eye liner.  “Because I like it,” I retorted. The truth. “Is it real?” he pointed to his nose. I felt my own. Oh yeah, I forgot about my nose ring. “Yes,” I lied. “Didn’t that hurt like hell?” “Why do you care?” I avoided his eyes, staring straight on ahead.  “Because it looks like it would really hurt.” “Why do you care?” I asked once again.  “No, I uh, I’m just curious. Stop being so defensive. I only want to chat with you.”  I looked at him for a long moment and replied, using as much ice in my voice as I could. “What if I don’t want to ‘chat’?” “Then you’d get up and leave,” he said quietly.  That’s exactly what I did. Days went by, with no sign of stalker man. I was relieved to have my shift in peace, making coffee for all the yuppies and rich snobs that wandered in, most of which couldn’t control their own lives, so they ordered coffee with a longer named than my Spanish teacher’s, to feel like they can accomplish something.

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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32