Page 47 of Broken Pieces
Perhaps I’m wrong and she can see straight through it. But I keep my face steady, let the fake smile sit just soft enough to pass.
That’s all adults ever want. The illusion of effort. The lie that you’re trying.
She sighs, then leans back in her chair.
“All right, Skylar. Go on, get some work done. I’ll write it down as time used productively.”
Bingo.
I fake a grateful smile, throw my bag over my shoulder, and get the hell out before she changes her mind.
The door clicks shut behind me, her stale office air traded for the noise and stink of the hallway.
I don’t head for the library. Screw that.
I take the long corridor, cut down the stairs, slip out the back until I’m behind the building, tucked against the brick wall by the old incinerator.
No one comes here. Not teachers. Not kids.
I sink down against the wall, put my knees up, and lock my arms around them. The bricks dig into my back and I don’t care.
My birthday is coming and I don’t want it.
Eighteen.
Every time the thought surfaces, it stings.
What happens when my birthday hits. It comes off more like a death sentence than freedom. Do they throw me out the second the clock hits midnight? Dump my clothes in a trash bag, hand it to me and call it a fresh start?
No one has said a word.
Not Dolores. Not the ghost of a social worker who only shows up when a form needs signing.
Cassie still has six months before this becomes her problem. She still believes someone will catch her when she falls.
I already know the truth. No one will.
I have an uncle somewhere across the state. Or there was. He might have moved or changed his number. Might not even remember I exist.
The truth is, no one comes for girls like me. No one stays.
You turn eighteen and the world stops pretending to care. There’s no warning, no goodbye, not even a door left open behind you. One day you exist on their clipboard.
The next, you’re gone.
I close my eyes and let my head fall against the brick. It’s rough, but the scrape feels real.
For a breath, I slip somewhere else.
A place where birthdays mean cake instead of dread. Where someone notices if you don’t make it home. But reality’s a cruel bitch.
The bell rings, cutting through my thoughts. The sound snaps me back into my body.
Lunch.
I push off the wall, getting up onto my feet. Dirt clings to the back of my skirt, and I brush it away with my hands. I grab my bag and move back towards the noise.
When I step through the doors, it hits all at once.
