Free Throwaway Girl by Kristine Scarrow Page B

it’s her turn to leave.
    â€œI move into the apartment on June fifteenth,” I tell her. She squeals with delight and claps her hands.
    â€œIt’s going to be so great getting out of here,” she says. “Just wait until I get out and we’re living together … then it’ll really be awesome!” She’s chattering non-stop, detailing all the things we’re going to do. I’m only half listening though. I’m trying to think of what my goals should be and whether I should even apply for school. What would I take? What have I wanted to be?
    I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. There’s only one thing I ever thought of doing with my life. It was something I loved, but gave up years ago: Writing. It was my escape. It allowed to me to dream up things I couldn’t see otherwise. It gave me hope. It filled me with such satisfaction that I could think of doing nothing else.
    Grief washes over me as I recall the last time I wrote anything. How I had convinced Mrs. Assaly to start drawing again because I couldn’t imagine how she could have stopped in the first place. Then came the long, fateful night when my whole world was shattered. Luke and Shelley never came home. And then I understood exactly why Mrs. Assaly had put down her pen once her husband died. Loss has a way of robbing us of more than just the people we love. I know this because I’ve never written since.
    â€œAndy, are you listening?” Trina says, turning to me. “Andy, what’s wrong?” she says, clearly stunned by the look on my face. “Why are you crying?” Tears fall uncontrollably down my face. Writing. It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do. But I have no idea if I can ever bring myself to do it again.

Chapter 12
    November 2003
    I feel dead. I am a walking zombie, numb all the way through. In a flash, I have lost everything. Maybe it’s easier to never have loved after all, and then you can’t feel the pain of having lost it.
    Larry and Sandra Puhler are my new foster parents. I am in a tiny house in a dilapidated part of town, not too far from where I remember living with my mother. Including me, there are three foster kids here, and we all share a room. There are two sets of bunk beds in our tiny bedroom. They take up so much space that our clothes have to be kept in the closet because there is no room for a dresser. Larry and Sandra also have three kids of their own. Two of them are babies and they sleep in the basement with Larry and Sandra while the other one, who is six, has her own room beside ours. The house is packed to the brim with furniture and various knick-knacks. Larry’s penchant for junk, or what he thinks is collecting, has filled this house to capacity. The house has a hot plate, a microwave, and a small refrigerator. The stove is sitting broken in the corner of the kitchen. There are no elaborate dinners being made in this house, simply ready-to-eat meals that can be stirred in a pot or warmed in the microwave. There is no dining table to speak of. We just eat wherever a seat can be found. It’s such a far cry from my life with Luke and Shelley that it makes the pain of losing them that much worse.
    Larry and Sandra are nice enough, I guess. I mean they don’t really talk much to the kids. Larry is out of work a lot of the time, taking odd jobs here and there. Groceries are a big deal here, and food leaves the house just as quickly as it comes in. For once in my life, I don’t care about food. Whenever it’s time to eat, all I can think of is Shelley cooking in her beautiful kitchen and the love that went into those meals. I can’t bring myself to put much into my mouth. When I do, it’s tasteless.
    My new school is a joke. I don’t even pay attention half the time. I don’t understand what the point is. What do I care about science and math? Long division is a waste of my time. Something divided by