“A foster parent?”
“Yes. After you’ve been cleared, children that have been removed from homes could be placed with you temporarily while the courts work through what’s going on with their parents.”
“So they would be taken and given back to their parents eventually?”
“In some cases. In others, they’ve been placed for adoption.”
“And then I still would be on the outside looking in?”
“Ms. Graham…”
“I think I need to go home and think things over. Thank you for your help today. It’s sadly been very enlightening,” I tell her, leaving and not bothering to look back.
It’s ridiculous, the regulations and the hoops you have to jump through just to give a child a home. It’s not like I’m even asking for a baby; I knew those children would be the ones who would get adopted the easiest. I was hoping to take a child in who was like me when Ida Sue rescued me.
I walk outside and the heat hits me immediately. It has to be a hundred degrees today. Someone forgot to tell Mother Nature it’s fall. The stifling heat wraps around me, which isn’t good. After the day I’ve had, breathing is a chore. The heat just makes it worse. It seems to suffocate me. The smart thing to do would be to go home, but that’s not going to happen. The very last thing I want to do is go home and be alone. Being alone is not an option.
Screw it. I’ll go to Barney’s. Even if I don’t get up my nerve to go home with a potential sperm producer, I’ll be so drunk I won’t feel like the failure I am. With my mind made up, I head toward my favorite bar. I don’t even care that it’s early. What’s that saying? It’s five o’clock somewhere? Yeah, that sounds about right.
CHAPTER 10
WHITE
“You’re late.”
“For what? You do know you’re in my apartment and not yours, right?” Kayla asks, walking through the door. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, a matching blazer over it, and small heels on her feet. She looks good, but strange. This is not her usual work gear. She goes for comfort when working with the kids. In fact, this whole outfit doesn’t look like Kayla; it’s too off-putting and severe. There’s nothing warm about it, especially the way she has her hair tightly pinned to the back of her head.
“Why are you dressed like you’ve been to a funeral?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“It’s called a business suit. Why did you break into my apartment again? This is getting to be a habit with you.”
“I’m cooking you dinner.”
“You’re forgiven,” she says with a heartfelt sigh as she walks into the kitchen where I’m at. “What are we eating?”
“Chicken stir-fry.”
“Yummy.”
“You know it. Now tell me why you’re dressed like the scary female lawyer who just left Attica?”
She groans as she takes a seat at the bar, unbuttoning the blazer she’s wearing. That might have been good, except underneath is just more black, and it’s a fucking turtleneck sweater. Is she trying to give herself heat stroke? I don’t care if it is fall; that outfit seems to make it entirely feasible.
“I had a meeting after school. I thought it would be to my best advantage to look all businesslike and dignified.”
"Well, you look something, alright. Did you scare the kids in your class?"
"No. God, you're such an ass. There's nothing wrong with this outfit."
"Not if you're a mortician," I quip, only not really kidding. I should do my civic duty and burn this getup when she takes it off.
"Asshole, I'm in no mood to listen to you go on about my clothes as if you're Tim Gunn."
"Tim who?"
"Never mind. It's best for your manhood that you don't know that answer."
"Whatever. You smell like alcohol. Are you drinking? It's barely five thirty!"
"Gee, Mom, I didn't realize there was a no-drinking-during-daylight-hours rule."
"There's not, normally. But you're Kayla."
“What's that mean?" she huffs, and I should sense danger here, but I can't seem to stop myself.
"Buttercup, you never drink."
"That's not true. We've shared beers together plenty of times."
"True, but watching the big game on television, or sharing a beer over a movie, is a lot different than you getting off work and drinking."
"Whatever," she says, throwing my favorite word back at me.
"Talk to me, honey," I urge her because she's not looking me in the eye. There's more going on here than I know and I don't like it.
She leans back against her chair with a sigh. For a minute, I think she might dodge me again. I'm starting to think I should ease up and stop pushing her. She stares at the wall across from me for a minute and I see something in her eyes that worries me.