Page 95 of Coast

If there was one thing hustlers were good at, it was finding other hustlers to hang out with.

Back then, they had a whole network of other losers who were always looking for the easy way out, some get-rich-quick scheme, or even assholes who just fucked over people who didn’t know any better.

Enter Todd.

The sleazy mechanic who’d inherited a gas station slash repair shop from a family member.

He let the place fall down around him while gouging on gas and repairs, since he was the only game in town.

“What they did was get my old man’s friend to fake employment records, saying he worked there as a mechanic and my ma worked as a receptionist.”

The law stated that the money from foster kids had to go to clothes and shit like that. It couldn’t go toward lodging or bills.

So it seemed, on paper, that they were covering their bills with their “income.”

The house was big. They were close to a school. There was a good backyard. My parents, despite not having any sort of moral compass, had no criminal records.

They cleaned up nice.

Coached me to say all the right things when the lady from the government came to do a home study.

“The fucked-up part was I was actually excited to have siblings. Even if they were temporary ones. I’d always been alone. And hadn’t been great at making friends, since my parents were always moving me around from district to district.”

“I’m sorry,” Zoe said, leaning her head into my shoulder. “I don’t understand, though. I didn’t think the government paid much for foster kids.”

“It depended on the kid. Special needs and teens got more money. But it was a couple hundred per kid. But the more they took in, the more they made.”

The house was owned outright. Bills were pretty minimal. They weren’t rolling in it, but they were free to sit around and do whatever they wanted with their days. Which usually involved working on their next scheme.

“The first couple of kids were quick stays. I really don’t even remember much about them. They were teens who basically took care of themselves. They were only around for a few weeks before they went to some distant family members.

“It was the next group that had some staying power. Three siblings. Seven, four, and two.”

I still remembered the night they showed up at our door. They’d all been sporting red-rimmed, puffy eyes and dragging their belongings around in garbage bags.

They’d been ripped out of their home, away from their parents, with very little explanation. They were mourning and terrified.

The oldest, a little boy, had been trying to be brave, holding his sister’s hand and keeping a keen eye on the toddler.

My parents had played the doting parents until the child services woman headed out for the night.

Then they declared that they were heading out to poker night and that I was in charge.

“Of a toddler?” Zoe asked.

“Yep,” I said, popping thep. “I was used to being on my own. I think the first time they left me alone in the house for the night, I was six or seven. But I’d never been in charge of anyone younger than me before. I’d never even touched a baby at that point.”

But when you’re in charge and you’re the oldest and a baby starts to cry, you have to get over your fears and try to do something.

That night, I made my first bottle. I changed my first diaper. And I rocked a baby to sleep.

Then I put the other two to bed, trying to quell their fears and promise them that things would be okay.

“Because your mom and dad will take care of us?” the oldest had asked.

I didn’t have it in me to lie to them. Their life was hard enough. It felt kinder to give them the truth.

“BecauseI’mgoing to take care of you.”

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