Chapter Text
Face pressed against the car window, Emma takes in the houses they drive by as Foster Mother Number Twelve tells her about the new school she’ll be starting at with twice as much enthusiasm as what Emma believes to be necessary. She only hears every other sentence, the bare minimum all she can really force herself to absorb after the month she’s had. This is house number three in just as many weeks, the third time she’s starting as a new kid in the middle of the fifth grade. She used to think being stuck in the group home with no parents at all, nobody wanting to even give her a shot, was as bad as it could get. But three new houses in one month is worse. She preferred when nobody pretended they wanted her. At least there was honesty in being overlooked or immediately being considered "not the right fit" for a particular family. Now, families took her in and treated her like an ill-fitted pair of jeans they could just return after she showed the first sign of trouble.
Huffing and squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she promises herself she won’t get attached to this family. They’re not hers. They won’t keep her. She won’t be enough, and she knows it. It’ll hurt less in the end if she doesn’t fool herself into believing they’ll grow to love her. Detached. The key to survival, Emma has decided, is never opening her heart. It never ends well when she does, and a heart can only chip so many times before it shatters and breaks.
Suddenly, the car bounces over a speed bump and her forehead bangs the glass. The loud thump startles her more than the impact hurts, but she pulls in a sharp breath through her teeth all the same, eyes popping open wide and big. Before she truly processes any of this, though, a hand presses to her chest and holds her back, a bigger shock to her system that makes her whip her head around to face the woman in the driver’s seat who hasn’t even stopped talking but is still holding Emma in place. It shouldn’t make her feel like crying, but it does, and she wishes she didn’t understand why. But when was the last time a hand hurriedly reaching for her was meant to protect her and not hurt her? She can’t remember.
Still. Detached, she reminds herself, shifting subtly until the solid weight of the unfamiliar hand is no longer on her chest. She pulls her jean jacket and layered sweaters tighter around herself and turns away, not sure if she imagines the chill that zips down her spine and spreads across her skin but wanting it to disappear either way. She leans her head against the window once more. Her eyes slowly fall shut so maybe the stranger in the driver seat will stop talking to her in the chipper tone Emma is sure is all for show. (False security. They’re always nice at first; the yelling comes after they’ve tricked you into believing they’re sweet and loving. Emma is no stranger to the false advertisement; she knows what's written in the fine print.)
She doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the next time she opens her eyes, the car is no longer in motion and they’re parked in a curved driveway that winds up to a house much bigger than any Emma’s ever lived in. It has wide windows and a shiny red door that still proudly showcases a Christmas wreath even though it’s closer to Valentine’s Day than it is Christmas. It reminds her of one of the movies they used to show in her old group home at the end of the month. The name of the movie escapes her, but it’s the type of house that you can tell a family lives in without ever seeing behind the closed doors. It's beautiful; the big yard is dusted with snow, and they probably build snowmen and make snow angels when the ground is properly covered with a thick, white blanket. She bets there’s at least two full bathrooms inside it, a rarity where Emma comes from. She has to blink several times to convince herself she’s not imagining it. She even pinches herself, just in case she’s dreaming. But nope!
“Why don’t you grab your bag and I’ll show you in,” Foster Mother Number Twelve says. She rubs Emma’s arm and smiles with teeth that are almost too white, which only makes the lipstick smudged on one of them stand out a bit more. Like her smile, her squinty brown eyes are kind, but Emma doesn’t trust them. She’s been fooled too many times by foster parents that smile like that. “Come on. Everybody’s inside. They’re excited to welcome you home.”
So, no, she’s not dreaming. But she’s also not home, she wants to say, because even if this is all real, it’ll never be her home.
When you’ve been “welcomed” into new houses eleven times already and you’re only ten, there’s not much excitement to it. Yeah, it’s nicer than anywhere she’s ever been. It’s cleaner, the distinct scent of cleaning products in the air—the nauseating mixture of lemon and bleach makes Emma a little dizzy at one point, but she doesn’t mention it aloud, doesn’t give them a reason to think she’s a complainer before she’s even had the chance to be properly introduced. And it’s certainly bigger, two floors with more bedrooms than there are people. But it’s all the same to her. It’s a house she won’t have time to get used to: switches she’ll get wrong when she goes to the bathroom and tries to turn on the light, drawers she’ll have to open at least twice before finding the right one, and proper places where things belong that she’ll forget about when she’s cleaning up. New houses mean learning all the things most people just know inside their home, and she’s been through this process enough times for it to feel more like an introduction to a challenge than a happy invitation.
This new house comes with three temporary siblings.
Julie is the oldest at thirteen. Foster Mother Number Twelve is full of praises when she puts her hands on the girl’s shoulders and pushes her reluctant daughter toward Emma. “Julie’s our little star, aren’t you, darling? She’s head of her class, captain of her volleyball team, and just about all her teacher’s favorite. Isn’t that right?”
Julie rolls her eyes heavenward and groans miserably, complaining, whining in a mousy tone, “Jesus, Mom. Don’t be so embarrassing.” She has that I’m too cool for this vibe that a bunch of the older kids Emma's had to live with in the past have had, but something about the way she carries herself makes Emma think about Piper, one of the girls she was friendly with who mostly kept to herself and read books about things not even the adults understood.
Emma hates her immediately, not because Foster Mother Number Twelve thinks she hangs the moon—well, maybe a little bit; she can't pretend she's not envious—but really it’s because Julie acts like the worst thing in the world is having a mother who’s proud enough of her accomplishments to show her off. Emma’s never even had an actual mother. Period. If she had one who was proud of her like that, she wouldn’t roll her eyes and shake them off and walk away because she has “more important things to do” that obviously don’t include her well-meaning mother.
So Emma hates Julie, and maybe she likes Foster Mother Number Twelve just a tiny bit more when she tries to hide the way her smile falls from her face, attempting to vanquish the pang of hurt Emma can see despite the mother’s quick blinking and toothy smile. For that brief moment, she’s more human, less sunshine and rainbows and smiles that look like they take up half of her face because they’re so big.
“Your bag's so small. Where’s the rest of your stuff?” the next child asks, squinty eyes just like his mother’s but with the pale coloring of his father staring at Emma’s one and only bag. He’s younger. Emma guesses he’s around six or seven, one of his teeth off to the side only halfway grown out. Emma stares at his mouth while he stares at her bag—or the space where more bags should be around her at the bottom of the staircase they’re in front of.
Emma doesn’t say anything. She’s sure they all think she doesn’t speak by this point. She hasn’t said a word since she walked in. She hasn’t said a word since Foster Mother Number Twelve was introduced to her by the social worker and she shook her hand with a tight, firm grip. She refused the hug attempt and wasn’t paying close enough attention to catch the woman’s name. But Foster Mother Number Twelve is just as good as anything else to Emma. It’s what she’ll write down in the back of her journal. (House #12: mother, father, two daughters, one son, and however long she ends up staying with them.)
“Tommy!”
Emma’s surprised to see embarrassment flit across the mother’s angular face, the freckled skin peeking free between the two sides of her collar attempting to turn the same shade of rosy red blush dusted across her high cheekbones. She sighs and shakes her head, looking from little Tommy to Emma, something like an apology in her eyes. Or maybe it’s pity, because Emma really doesn’t have much at all, just a tiny backpack with barely enough clothes to last her a week. Whatever the look is, it makes Emma’s own skin dare to burn just as hotly as the woman in front of her. She picks her bag up from the floor and holds it tightly to herself, staring down at her dirty boots that are too tight and suddenly look just as out of place as she feels in the pristine house.
“She’s poor, silly. She doesn’t have anything of value,” the third child says. And she says it like it shouldn’t make Emma sting all over like someone’s poking her with sewing needles. She’s all sweet and soft when she speaks, and she even smiles at Emma when Emma’s head shoots up to glare at her. “Don’t worry,” she continues, this time directly at Emma, “Mommy always helps out the poor. We know it’s not your fault you can’t have nice things. You can have some of my old clothes if you want. It’s time to do a donation anyway. Now I don’t have to pack them up.”
Emma hates her, too, more than Julie, more than anybody else, because she smiles and makes Emma feel small and reminds her she’s just another project, a charity case, a way to make this family feel like they’re doing something good and selfless. Her stomach churns and twists like there are mini tornadoes inside of her. The air is thick, too thick to swallow past the bile trying to rise in her throat. It’s too hot and stuffy; her scarf is trying to strangle her. She can't breathe.
Emma wants to scream at the girl, call her every dirty and mean word she can think of. Instead, not even listening to what Foster Mother Number Twelve is saying, she turns away from them all and runs right for the door that’s on the other side of the living room, heavy boots pounding against the shiny wood floor, blood rushing in her ears, vision blurry and distorted.
She fumbles with the unfamiliar locks and can feel the tears trying to rush out, burning at the corners of her eyes and along her lashlines. Her mouth trembles with the effort it takes to force herself to continue breathing without sobbing, without showing how embarrassingly sensitive she truly is. She wraps her hand around the knob and twists and twists and twists until the stupid thing finally gives and she stumbles backward, nearly falling flat on her butt but saving herself just in time.
The cold winter air violently smacks her in the face, but it doesn’t stop her from rushing down the brick stairs. Running running running. She has no idea where she’s going, no clue what is beyond the fancy white gate, but once she starts, she knows she can’t stop. She has to get away, away from all of it, especially the stupid rich kids with parents and pretty painted rooms and toys and books and expensive things like the shiny piano Emma was too afraid to even look at because she didn’t want to somehow break it.
She runs with her book bag and her jacket that’s too short at the arms and her colorful knitted scarf that’s almost as old as she is, all she owns but all she really needs, and she swears she’ll run so far away nobody will ever, ever find her again.
But really, she barely makes it to the end of the block before someone is grabbing her by her arm, and then around her waist, their grip so tight it feels like they’re trying to hook their fingers right through her clothes and skin. She screams and kicks as she’s picked up, the uninvited tears leaking down her face the only thing hotter than the burn in her throat.
“Let me go! Let me go!” Emma screams, wiggling in the strong arms, trying to elbow her way out of the hold the taller person has on her. She’s trapped, and trapped is never good, but it’s especially bad when there are arms and body weight and a person bigger than her that are doing the trapping. All the times she’s been trapped before flash through her mind like an eerie horror film—but worse, because it’s like she’s right back where she was before bad things happened and she couldn’t escape and everywhere hurt. “Get. Off. Of. Me.”
They don’t listen. The arm around her becomes two, looser but still tight enough to prevent Emma from wriggling her way free. “Shh. Shh. It’s okay.” It’s Foster Mother Number Twelve, surprisingly much stronger than Emma would have thought due to her willowy frame. She doesn’t move, doesn’t hit Emma, doesn’t yell at her, doesn’t do any of the things Emma is used to coming next. She just holds Emma tight and shushes her softly, “I’m sorry,” a hot whisper against Emma’s skin that Emma doesn’t know what to do with because she’s usually the one that has to apologize.
Emma tires herself out much sooner than expected. When she accepts Foster Mother Number Twelve won’t let her go—and that she won’t hurt her—she stops screaming, stops trying to escape. Her calmness is rewarded, her feet being allowed to properly touch the ground once more even though she’s still being held in a weird hug that comes from the side of her that she doesn’t return but also doesn’t pull away from. Instead of hugging, Emma squeezes her eyes shut and tries moving her arm from underneath the one wrapped around her so she can wipe her cold, wet face.
She’s sniffing back the snot that’s making it hard for her to breathe in the sharp winter air and the oddly satisfying scent of detergent and something earthy on the wool coat her face is nearly buried in when a hand starts stroking her hair. It makes her freeze. Her entire body tenses, shoulders locked and chapped lips pressed into a thin line.
“You can’t run out of the house like that, Emma.” She doesn’t sound mad—which is surprising. After all, running out of the house and away from her last foster mother had been the very reason Foster Mother Number Eleven had decided she was more trouble than she was worth. “Even when you’re upset, okay? What Abigail said...”
At the sound of a sigh, Emma forces herself to speak, unsure why she decides Foster Mother Number Twelve isn’t as bad as Foster Mothers Number One through Eleven were, but feeling like maybe she should be kinder to her. “I apologize,” she whispers, small voice cracking. “I— I—”
Gentle fingers comb through her blonde hair and rub her back. Emma forgets to quiet her sigh. “I understand it must be difficult moving into a strange home with people you don’t know, but I don’t want you to feel like it’s any less your home than it is everybody else’s. Understand? In the future, if you feel like you need to be alone, all you have do is ask if you can be excused so you can go to your room. Nobody will bother you in there if you need some time alone. It’s yours.”
Emma has always hated crying around other people, ever since she was little. She’d been teased, called a crybaby, a little girl, and so many mean things by other children—and even some adults—so many times that she did everything she could to never let anybody see her cry. But for the second time in the short amount of time she’s known the woman who is still comfortingly rubbing her back, she feels tears rolling down her cheeks and cannot do anything to stop them.
Her new foster mother doesn’t say anything about the tears, but she fishes a tissue from her pocket and squats down toward the ground in front of Emma and cleans her face. Emma avoids eye contact at first, worried about what she’ll see when she looks at her. But when gentle fingers turn Emma’s head by her chin, Emma looks into the same kind eyes that had looked at her with what Emma now believes was genuine warmth both in the car before they went to meet the family and back in the social worker's office when they were introduced to each other. It’s surprising. But it’s nice. It’s very nice.
///
There’s a knock on her bedroom door later in the day while she’s unpacking her bag, a task she was sent upstairs to do over an hour ago but hadn’t actually started until a few minutes before the knock. Her threadbare and stained hand-me-downs that are several sizes too small for her growing body are scattered around her on the bed. Self-consciously, she hurries to stuff everything back inside her bag, and then she shoves the bag underneath her pillow. Then, for good measure, she sits in front of the pillow, legs folded under her balled hands.
“Yes?” she asks. She sounds nervous, and guilty.
“It’s Pam, honey. May I come in?”
Emma’s brow furrows for two reasons. First, it takes her a moment longer than it probably should to realize that Pam is Foster Mother Number Twelve. Then, she isn’t sure why she’s being asked if her new foster mother can come into the room. Normally, if someone wants to come in, they just open the door—and that’s if she had even been allowed to close the door in the first place. A lot of the foster homes she had lived in had a rule about not closing the doors for some reason unknown to Emma.
Straightening up and tucking her hair behind her ears, Emma answers, “Sure,” and waits for the door to open.
Pam leads with a smile, Emma notices, always smiling before she does anything else. It’s weird—but not in a bad way, just in a way that is different from what Emma is used to. It’s a pretty smile, like she should be in a toothpaste commercial. Emma kinda likes it.
“I just wanted to check on you and see how you were doing up here,” she says from the opened door, hands in the soft-looking brown cardigan she wears over her buttoned shirt, looking very much like a Real Mom. She looks around the room that Emma hasn’t moved anything in, not even the ominous box on the foot of her bed, and then walks in farther. “Martin took the others out so you and I could talk some more if you want, get to know more about each other, or just—” she shrugs a little with another smile, almost shy, and sits down on the edge of Emma’s bed, pushing the unopened box toward Emma, “—maybe watch something together. I thought it might help you feel more comfortable on your first day if you weren’t bombarded with so many clashing personalities at once.” She laughs. “I know it can be a lot.”
Emma doesn’t say anything at first. She still isn’t used to this—talking, something so simple for most but annoyingly difficult for her when everything’s new and she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. She's practiced being silent so much that sometimes she forgets how to be anything else. She catches her lower lip between her teeth and chews on it thoughtfully. She decides she doesn’t hate the idea of company. But she feels bad that she has already upset the natural order of things inside the house.
“You could have gone with them, too. You shouldn’t have to miss out because of me.”
Pam sends a tiny laugh her way and shakes her head, her light brown hair swinging in its high ponytail. “To tell you the truth, I’d much rather be home right now. It’s been a long day, and I could use some quiet time.”
“Oh. Well—”
Before Emma can get anything out, Pam continues. “I wasn’t sure what you would like.” The box is pushed toward Emma again, this time all the way to her legs so Emma can’t ignore it or pretend she hasn’t noticed it. “We can go shopping before the weekend is over and you can pick out what you like on your own, but I couldn’t bear the thought of giving you an empty room with no toys or fun things to play with. I know you’re not terribly young, but...”
Emma stops hearing what is being said to her, the sound of her heart in her ears louder than the cheery-voiced woman. She wants to politely say no thank you and push the box back across the bed, the same way she stopped accepting Christmas gifts that matched all the other girls in her age group at the group home she once lived in. But she doesn’t think there’s truly a polite way to refuse a gift that’s been picked out for her, not some generic doll that is an exact replica of the seven or eight other dolls that get unwrapped when she receives her gift. Even if she doesn’t like it, it’s meant just for her. She picked out whatever resides inside the box especially for Emma.
Her finger traces the lettering on the white box, her name written with glitter glue in pretty swirly letters. She’d seen it when she came in. Of course she had. But even while she was alone, she hadn’t allowed herself to get excited about discovering what had been left for her.
With Foster Mother Number Twelve— No! Pam. With Pam watching her, the uncomfortable fluttering in her belly is only stronger, a weight of expectation heavy as she forces herself to smile. Nobody’s ever done this before—any of it, honestly, not the little present, nor the single room just for her, and not even the smiles that feel too warm to be fake. She wants to make sure she expresses her appreciation. Because it means something. Maybe it doesn’t mean as much to Pam, Pam who has three kids and probably does this kind of stuff all the time. But it means so much to Emma, Emma who has never had a parental figure who truly cared about her for more than five minutes at a time. And Emma thinks, maybe, just maybe, she might have gotten lucky this once and found a mother who might grow to love her.
It’s scary because this isn’t the first time she’s thought this exact thought, and she’s never been right before. But she can feel herself forgetting that she’s meant to be detached and passive more and more each second.
Emma lifts her eyes from the box and glances at Pam quickly. The corners of her mouth slowly lift lift lift until she’s smiling big and full, and the way Pam smiles back at her with sunshine bright eyes makes Emma feel like she’s snuggled in the warmest blankets she’s ever felt.
After another moment passes, Emma lifts the lid from the white box and puts it off to the side. Inside, there’s pale yellow and pink tissue paper that gets pushed aside to reveal an assortment of books, puzzles, art supplies, and little toys like a squishy ball and, surprisingly, the type of toy cars the boys at the group home would get to play with. She lifts the packaged miniature cars up first, most excited about them, and receives an encouraging smile from Pam when she notices her interest.
“Are they all right? Tommy helped picked them out,” she admits with an easy laugh wrapping around her words. "He wouldn't let me get my first choices because they weren't cool enough, and he wanted you to have the best cars the store sold. When we went to pick them out, I thought he wanted them for himself, but he was so excited to get them for you. But, of course, if you don't like them, don't feel obligated to pretend that you do. You're still going to have the chance to make your own selections."
“It’s—it’s all right that I play with boy toys instead of the girly stuff? Foster Mother Number Seven—” she starts, then pauses, remembering that maybe she shouldn’t call her old foster mothers by their numbers instead of their names outside of her head, “—Miss Josephine, one of the mothers I used to live with for a little while, would have never allowed it. Dollies and house sets are for proper young ladies.” Emma laughs now as she says this with a high-pitched voice that mimics that of her old caretaker, but back when she hated dolls and just wanted to play with the rest of the kids in the house, all which had been boys, she had felt isolated and hated Miss Josephine with every fiber of her being because of it.
Pam frowns slightly and shuffles on the bed, pulling one of her legs up and tucking her right foot underneath the bend of her left knee. “Martin and I encourage our children to explore different things and find what makes them most happy. There are no boy toys or girl toys in this house, only toys.”
Emma’s eyebrows bunch together as she tilts her head to the side, regarding her new foster parent with interest. “That’s pretty cool. You’re not like any of the other families I’ve stayed with.”
“No?”
“Definitely not—which isn’t a bad thing,” Emma is quick to say when she can tell Pam isn’t sure how to take what Emma’s said. “Foster Mother Number Ten, I mean, um, Carol, Carol didn’t even let me play with any of the toys in the house because they weren’t for me. They were for her real kids. And I wasn’t hers, so I wasn’t allowed to touch them. She would always yell at me if I tried.” Quieter, she adds, “She really wasn’t a nice woman, but nobody believed me whenever I would tell them how mean she was. I’m glad she didn’t want me. I didn’t like it there.”
“That’s awful.”
Emma shrugs her shoulders, not looking up from where her fingernail is tracing the plastic glued to the cardboard enclosing her new toy car. “It’s just how things are. You learn that after a while. Temporary homes, temporary parents, temporary kids...” Her voice cracks, so she trails off and shrugs again, her shoulders heavy with a weight that’s too much for her to carry every day. “It’s all temporary, so it’s best if you learn that early on in life. It’s awful, yeah, but you never know if the next will be worse. So sometimes awful isn’t that bad.”
“Oh, honey,” whispers Pam whilst reaching across the bed to cover one of Emma’s hands with her own. Emma jumps slightly, surprised by the contact, but she doesn’t pull away. Pam squeezes gently and then moves closer on the bed until she can sit beside Emma and wrap an arm around her, tucking a slightly reluctant Emma into her side. “Essentially, you are right. It is all temporary. Life is made of ever-changing moments that will take you down new and unknown paths. That is true. But awful is still awful, Emma, and you were treated unfairly. Do you understand that? Nobody should ever treat you like you are less than—especially as she did, and especially not someone who is supposed to be providing love and care.”
It’s weird, how fierce and protective Pam seems when she doesn’t even really know Emma. But Emma guesses for every eleven crappy foster mothers out there, there’s one decent one, and she doesn’t challenge what Pam says because she can sense how much she means it.
Flipping the toy car around in her hand, she smiles a little and allows herself to properly relax in the little pocket of body heat that Pam has made for her. “Even if this is temporary, I think I might like it here,” she says quietly, shocking herself with her openness.
“I hope you do. I certainly plan on trying my very best to make sure you feel as welcomed and happy here as everybody else.”
Emma turns her head so she can look up into Pam’s face. Lies are sometimes hard to detect, covered up in careful words to trick and pretend. But Pam has the most honest look Emma’s ever seen. “I believe you,” she tells her before resting her head back down and accepting the motherly comfort Pam offers easily.
///
Martin isn’t as open and warm as Pam is, but he’s also not mean. Emma decides right away that is enough for her. She’s had very few foster fathers, and none of them liked her. This one is kind enough. He doesn’t talk much, but Emma doesn’t talk much while everybody is around either. So far, Emma’s really only talked to Pam.
Abigail apologized to her because she was forced to, and then pushed Emma against the wall once they were alone and called her stupid. So Emma has also decided that she and Abby, despite being the same age and the likely pair to match up well, will never be friends. She doesn’t like her, and she’s not going to pretend she does. They share a bathroom and a house, but that is all.
Emma thinks Tommy might be her favorite child in the house. Once they were back from their day trip with their dad, Tommy had found her in the playroom where she had been reading one of her new books and gave her a bag of animal crackers he had saved for her. They ended up sharing them and putting together jigsaw puzzles, Tommy doing most of the talking, Emma happy she didn’t have to put in much effort to find something to talk about because he was full of exciting tales he wanted to share.
By the time dinner comes around, Emma has also decided that Julie isn’t as terrible as she originally believed. She’s a bit sarcastic and annoying like most teenagers are to Emma, but she has her mother’s sweetness and is actually nice to Emma. She doesn’t stick around long, but she’s inviting and doesn’t push Emma against walls like her sister does.
///
“He works a lot.”
The voice that suddenly pierces through the silence that Emma has been sitting in causes her to jump right out of the window seat she had curled herself up in once she had believed it was okay to venture into the living room. She turns to see that it's only Tommy, that she isn't in trouble for being in part of the house that could possibly be off-limits. His round face is pulled downward with a deep frown as he looks out the same window Emma had been staring out of. Emma turns back around and looks in the opposite direction she had been before, looking down, noticing for the first time the dark figure in the shadows that’s moving toward one of the two cars parked in the driveway. Martin, she presumes, getting ready to leave even though it’s about to be time for bed.
Tommy climbs up into the cushioned nook and looks at Emma expectantly until she joins him. She curls up with her back against one wall while he does the same on the opposite, his small body clad in green pajamas with surfing turtles on them. Emma hasn’t changed out of her outside clothes yet, but her worn jeans are comfortable, the denim no longer stiff.
The headlights flood the driveway with light. The spirited boy who had been full of so much energy that it had threatened to overwhelm Emma while they were playing together watches with a sadness that makes Emma’s heart ache. She wonders if their father leaves to go to work a lot at night, but she doesn’t ask. She doesn’t want to say anything that might make him sadder than he already is. Instead, she searches her brain for something else to talk about so that maybe he doesn’t have to be so sad anymore.
She decides to go with the toy cars.
“You think we can play together again tomorrow?” she asks him, pulling her knees to her chest so she can press her face to the tops of them. She doesn't like trying to get other kids to play with her; she's learned it is best to always be able to keep herself entertained without relying on others, even if she yearns for a playmate most days. But Emma is willing to put herself in a position to be rejected if there is a possibility she can pull Tommy out of his funk. No kid deserves to look as sad as he does, and especially not this one. “I liked the cars you picked out.”
It’s amazing how quickly he brightens up. Emma feels proud of herself when he grins at her. “Really? You wanna play with me? Me?" He jabs himself in the chest with his pointer finger. His eyes are as wide as saucers. "Not Abby but me!”
Emma pulls a face at his sister’s name, but she laughs at his excitement and nods with enthusiasm that she’s surprised she genuinely feels. “Yeah, you.” She unburies her face from the safety of her knees. “You can show me your cars if you like, and we can race them around the playroom.”
He wiggles about, and Emma doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone get so happy over such a tiny gesture before. “Oh, boy! Did you know I also have a racetrack for them? Mommy can help us set it up and we can play all day.”
Emma laughs again. “Sounds fun. We’ll ask her after breakfast to make sure it’s okay.”
“Or right now,” he says, and before she can say anything in response, he’s grabbing her hand and pulling her from the window seat and onto her feet, running toward the stairs.
They almost bump right into Pam, who reaches for them both to steady them before they tumble down to the floor. “Why are we running? Where’s the fire?” They both apologize for running, and to Emma’s surprise, Pam doesn’t send them to their rooms or anything like that. “Don’t worry. Just be careful,” she says instead.
“Yes, Mommy,” Tommy agrees politely before rushing into a barrage of questions that spill out of him like water overflowing from a glass sitting under a faucet. “Can we play with the racetrack tomorrow? Emma wants to see my cars and play with me. Can we? And you, too. Will you help us? We can have a competition to see who can go the fastest. Won’t that be fun? Can we? Can we? Puh-lease say we can, Mommy. Puh-puh-puh-puh-please.”
Laughing, Pam looks between the two of them. Tommy’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and Emma’s trying not to laugh at his excitement. But with Pam laughing, and Tommy giving his mother the best puppy dog eyes Emma’s ever seen that weren’t on her own face, she can’t help but giggle a little beside him. Tommy gives Emma’s hand a sharp tug and gives her a meaningful look that Emma easily figures out means she needs to join him in the begging. So she matches his puppy dog eyes with her own and watches him light up when he sees that she’s following his lead.
“Please,” Emma asks, quieter than Tommy but not without a cute little pout that she hopes hasn’t lost its charm.
Pamela pinches both of their noses between her fingers, Tommy’s and then Emma’s, making the younger one laugh and Emma wiggle her nose and touch her face like she’s two and can still be convinced her nose has just been stolen. “How could I possibly say no to such cute faces? Of course we can.”
“Yes!” Tommy jumps up in the air with a victory dance.
“But—”
Tommy pauses mid-dance, pouting. “No buts, Mommy.”
“We have to run errands before we can play. You know the drill. Responsibilities before playtime, right?”
Tommy nods, and even though Pam isn’t looking at her, Emma nods as well and makes a mental note just in case that’s a phrase she needs to remember for the future.
“Groceries, animal shelter, and then we need to take Emma shopping—” Pam directly looks at Emma for the last bit, “—and then we’ll have the rest of the afternoon to play with the cars. Sound fair?”
“Sounds fair,” Emma and Tommy agree.
Pam steps aside and waves toward the stairs, laundry basket under her arm and resting on her hip. “Good! Now how about you both make sure your rooms are tidy and you’re ready for bed so I can go upstairs and say goodnight. Lights out in fifteen minutes.”
///
Emma’s room is the last one Pamela stops at, which gives Emma time to shower and wash away the stale scent from the social worker's office that she had been able to smell on her skin all day. Perhaps it’s something she imagines, but she feels lighter after the hot water has mercilessly pounded away against her and she’s breathed in the artificial fragrance of strawberries so deeply that she can’t smell anything but it. She doubts she will be able to fall asleep easily—as she has never been able to sleep peacefully in a new house at first—but she at least feels clean and comfortable.
Like Emma had heard her do with every other room, Pam steps in and shuts the door behind her enough to block out the bright light that attempts to pour into her dark bedroom from the hallway. “Did you find everything all right?”
Emma’s head, popping out of the top of her blanket burrito, nods gently. She’s so warm and toasty that she doesn’t dare to move any more than that. She doesn’t even turn to figure out what Pam is doing when she walks around to the other side of the bedroom, toward the window that is behind Emma’s back. But she hears the curtains being adjusted and follows the sounds of her light footfalls instead, creating images in her mind for what she cannot see with her eyes.
“Breakfast is at 7:30 during the weekends. If you want to shower in the morning, you can, but the kids usually come right down from bed in their pajamas. It’s up to you.” A loose floorboard creaks under Pam’s weight. “Just make your bed before you leave the room.”
“All right,” Emma says around a large yawn. “Anything else I need to know? Any other rules?”
Pam hums and comes around so Emma can see her. She places her hand on the crown of Emma’s head and strokes her hair softly. “Nothing more I can think of. Just try to sleep well and have sweet dreams, honey.”
Emma’s eyelids flutter and almost shut, but she forces herself to keep them open until she’s alone. She wishes Pam a good night and hums her acknowledgment when her foster mother tells her that if Emma needs her, she’s only two doors down. Then, once she’s alone, she closes her eyes and replays the long day in her head until she falls asleep.
///
Darkness. Plunged into the darkness, Emma is being tossed around in the middle of a circle of people, spinning and twisting as they shove her and make her stumble. She can hear them laughing and the sharp bite of taunts, but she can’t see anything with her face covered. She can’t get her footing correct, too many hands pushing her, turning her, making her feel dizzy and sick.
“Get away from me,” she wants to bark at them, but an embarrassing sob catches in her throat instead. Her words are broken and scratchy, cried out with desperation as she tries to break through the circle of people and escape.
Their cruel and maniacal laughter only grows in volume. “Crybaby, crybaby,” they tease, making wailing sounds like toddlers who’ve been ignored.
“Stop it,” Emma screams at them, angry and lashing out, throwing her fists at whatever she can reach. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” She punches punches punches until someone grabs her arms and throws her down to the unforgiving asphalt, holding her in place.
She’s being shaken again, but it’s quieter now. The laughing dies down, but she can still hear her name being called out. She can still feel the weight of someone holding her arms down at her sides.
“Emma. Emma. Emma, wake up!”
With a sharp breath, Emma jerks awake and makes the mistake of opening her eyes. The bright light from overhead causes her to hiss as it burns. Quickly, she rolls away from the hands on her face so she can hide her sensitive eyes from the brightness. She’s embarrassed to discover her pillow is wet from the same tears she had been crying in her sleep. She wonders if she’d been screaming inside the bedroom just like she had in her dream, and her face burns hot at the possibility.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers into the pillow, reaching for her blankets to pull them over her head. “I—I had a bad dream. I didn’t mean to be so loud.”
“Shh. Don’t worry about it.”
Emma tenses when she realizes that it’s not Pam who’s crouched down beside her bed. It’s Julie, the thirteen-year-old who doesn’t sound annoyed like Emma would expect her to be. She’s rubbing Emma’s back just like Pam had done outside when Emma had run out of the house, the same soft touch that is unbelievably calming when Emma thinks it should make her uncomfortable to have someone touching her for so long.
“I was going to the bathroom and heard you when I was walking by. You weren’t really that loud.”
Emma doesn’t say anything because she’s too embarrassed. Julie doesn’t seem to mind. She continues rubbing Emma’s back for a little while longer in the silence, not stopping until Emma’s breathing has evened out and there are no more of the tiny whimpers escaping without Emma’s permission.
“I used to get nightmares a lot when I was younger, too. Mom used to encourage me to talk about them—or draw them.” Chuckling, she adds, “You’ll learn that’s a big thing here, the drawing. I guess that’s sorta a thing when your mom illustrates books for a living, you know? But we all suck at it. None of us picked up that talent. But it helps if you don’t like talking all the time.”
Emma slowly turns around so she’s facing Julie, squinting and only peeking out of one eye to look at her. The older girl gives her a small smile and tucks her frizzy hair behind her ear. Emma doesn’t have it in her to return the smile, but she tentatively reaches her hand out from beneath the blanket and goes to squeeze the one that had been rubbing her back. She’s quickly learning how the family communicates with touch, and she wants to be able to do that as well, wants to show Julie she appreciates the kindness she’s shown her when she didn’t have to—when Emma knows so many others wouldn’t have.
When her hand lays atop of Julie’s warmer one, the teen turns it around so she can squeeze back.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Emma shakes her head in the negative.
“Midnight drawing session, then?” She smirks and waggles her eyebrows, making Emma laugh just a tiny bit before she shakes her head again. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”
Emma lets out a long breath and looks around the room before clearing her throat. “Won’t you get in trouble for being out of bed this late?”
“Of course not. I’m doing the big sister thing. Mom wouldn’t be mad about that.”
Emma accepts her answer and shifts in bed so she can turn her pillow over to the dry side. Julie brushes her hair away from her face once Emma’s settled again, so much like her mother that Emma has a hard time figuring out how Abigail can be so mean to her for no reason. It’s obviously not how Pam raised her to be.
“You think you can sleep some more? I’ll hang out with you for a bit until you’re sleeping. I don’t mind.”
She opens her mouth to decline the offer because she shouldn’t need someone to sit with her until she can sleep. She’s ten, not five. But even though she likes having her own room with all the space and the door and the clean sheets that smell like flower fields, it’s more than a little scary being in a new place. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to fall asleep easily after the bad dream she woke up from.
“Maybe for a little while,” Emma whispers, “but only if you really don’t mind.”
Julie grins at her. “Not even a little bit. Let me just go grab a few things from my room and then we can shut this light off. ‘Kay?”
“‘Kay,” Emma repeats.
Once she’s alone, Emma turns onto her stomach and presses her face into the pillow to release a quiet scream that she wants to let roar out of her. She feels conflicted, bouncing between wanting to let herself be cared about and feeling like it’ll be smarter to keep everybody at a distance. She hasn’t even made it a day and she already doesn’t know how she’s supposed to let this family go when it comes time to say goodbye to them. They’re too good to be true, Emma thinks, because if she overlooks the fact that Abigail is a brat and doesn’t like Emma, the family is pretty close to being perfect. She’s gotten lucky here and there with new families—a cute dog that liked her best at House Number Eight, a foster brother who taught her how to play chess at House Number Six, and even a foster mother who doted on her in the beginning before she suddenly seemed to lose interest in Emma. But she’s never been this lucky before. She’s only heard stories about kids who got this lucky.
Maybe she should tell Julie she’s changed her mind. Maybe she should figure out how to push her so far away that she’ll never even think about spending time with Emma again, never try to comfort her, never show Emma what it’s like having a caring big sister ever again. Maybe she should—
“You fall asleep while I was gone?” Julie whispers.
Emma hadn’t heard her come back into the room, so her heart jumps inside her chest and her head raises from her pillow and whips around too quickly. Julie stifles a laugh and walks into the room with a blanket full of things tossed over her shoulder, her messy curls in a braid and no longer falling down her shoulders. She looks younger somehow.
“What’s all that?” Emma questions curiously, all thoughts of pushing Julie away being forgotten. She doesn’t even know why she’s bothering trying to pretend she doesn’t want to be smothered by every bit of affection anybody will give her, honestly.
“I brought friends,” Julie says with a girlish laugh as she lets her blanket unravel on the floor. Inside, there’s a pillow and about six different stuffed animals. Emma’s eyes go wide. Julie pulls something out of the pocket of her hoodie—a nightlight—and then walks over to the closest outlet so she can plug it in. Emma doesn’t tell Julie she’s not afraid of the dark; she actually thinks the purple glow of the light against the wall is pretty once the main light is off and the bedroom door is closed. “Don’t be shy. Introduce yourself to them. They don’t bite.”
Emma laughs from the bed. She almost asks if Julie is serious. Almost. The way Julie smiles encouragingly while plopping down on the floor is enough for Emma to know that not only is she serious, she probably doesn’t think she herself is too old to play with stuffed animals. It’s a surprise when even at Emma’s age, most of the girls she has known have been rather adamant about stuffed animals being for babies and tinies, not big kids. Emma doesn’t really care what any of them think, though.
Throat cleared, Emma awkwardly addresses the closest stuffie. It’s a grey bunny that might have been white at one point, obviously quite old, probably the oldest of the bunch. “Uh... Hi there. I’m Emma, Emma Swan.”
Julie helps the bunny shake Emma’s hand—well, one of her small fingers because it isn’t the biggest of bunnies and one of Emma’s fingers is enough. “What a lovely name,” the bunny says in an accent that Emma can’t place but finds hilarious. “Oh, you must be complimented all the time with a name like that.”
“Thank you,” Emma mumbles against her pillow, and then, “what’s yours?”
“Well, I’m Miss Tulip. You see here, these flowers on my dress? Pretty, right? We share a name.”
Emma leans closer to make out the floral print on the dress and smiles when Julie moves the bunny closer so she can see. “Ooh, yes, those are pretty.”
“Mm-hmm. And they also match my earrings.”
They do!
“Would you like to meet everybody else? I bet Mister Bear would love to meet you.”
Emma looks around the blanket for the bear, but she doesn’t see one. She knits her eyebrows, looking over to Julie, who must notice her confusion because she’s biting back a laugh, barely holding it in.
“Bears are kinda scary,” Emma says, which makes Julie’s laughter escape her throat. It’s a soft chime of laughter, quiet but full of glee.
“Don’t be silly, darling. Mister Bear isn’t a bear. Oh, no. Mister Bear is a mouse.” Julie picks up the smallest of all the stuffed animals and Emma laughs this time whilst Julie makes the mouse kiss Emma’s nose. “And he’s a friendly one, too. Just don’t try to steal his peanut butter.”
Emma laughs some more, and before she knows it, she’s been introduced to all the animals and she’s so sleepy that she doesn’t even remember to warn Julie that she’s about to fall asleep. One moment she’s listening to the animals tell her about themselves, and then the next, she’s asleep. When she wakes in the morning, Julie is gone, but Mister Bear is on the pillow beside her.
///
Monday morning, Emma wakes up sick with nerves and doesn’t want to leave her new bedroom. Finding her place inside the house has been surprisingly easy, only a few bumps here and there. One might even say she fits in with the family like she’s always been a part of it and not like a broken puzzle piece they have to reshape to fit into the empty space they’re putting her in. She helped with grocery shopping and Pam took her to buy some new clothes. As promised, they played racing cars and, for a few minutes, Abigail even joined in before she got mad they wouldn’t put the cars away and play her game instead. And as a Sunday tradition during the winter months, they had cocoa in the middle of the day and watched a movie together, all of them finding a cozy spot in the family room, even Martin. But Monday means going to a new school, and Emma’s not ready for that. She hates hates hates new schools.
Staring blankly at her own reflection, Emma wishes there was a way she could relive the weekend over and over instead of having to go to school.
She moves on auto-pilot as she unbraids her blonde hair and the loose curls fall over her shoulders. She’s dressed in the school uniform, a white top beneath a soft blue vest, shirt tucked into the plaid skirt. She doesn’t look like herself. She misses her boots, even if they’re too small and hurt her feet. And she wishes she could wear her denim jacket instead of the sweater with the school’s name on it. None of it feels right. Emma Swan is missing, replaced by an impersonator.
“Five minutes,” Pam calls up the stairs from the first floor, reminding Emma that whether she likes it or not, she has to leave and go to school and be introduced to a new set of students for the third time this month.
She sighs tiredly. It’s exhausting moving around all the time, and even more so because they don’t even try to put her in another house in the same school district as the previous one so she can at least continue out the year at the same place she started it. As if being the new girl isn’t hard enough once or twice, she’s already been to five different schools for this one grade. Being new in school is just as bad as being new to a house, or probably even worse. No. Definitely worse. There are way more people, and rooms, and stairwells, and sometimes she’s too far ahead, but then other times she’s behind everyone, and never, never ever, does she mesh well with any of the other kids because they all have friends they’ve known most of their life at this point. The longest Emma has even had a friend was less than a year, and she barely counts that as a proper friendship because they only saw each other once a month when the group home the girl lived in would go out on the same monthly trips as Emma’s group home.
“Come on, Emma,” Tommy says from the opened door, head topped with frizzy curls poking into her room. "It's time to go."
Emma looks over at him, dressed in the same uniform as her. She wishes they were in the same grade instead of three years apart. She likes Tommy. He’s funny and makes her laugh and is always the most excited about everything—even more excited than Pam, which says a lot. He would make school better for her, even if they weren’t in the same class. But chances are, the only time they’ll see each other is during drop-offs and when they get picked up at the end of the day.
“Is everybody downstairs already?” she asks him, brushing her hair. They had all eaten a quick breakfast before coming back upstairs to finish getting ready, and that had been about fifteen minutes ago.
“Julie’s being a slowpoke,” he says loud enough for his big sister to hear him. Something comes flying down the hall and almost hits him, but he only laughs, picks it up, and throws it back. “She’s always the last one to make it downstairs.”
“Am not,” Julie denies, passing Emma’s door and sending a wave her way but not stopping. “Bet I’ll beat you both downstairs.”
“Cheater. You got a head start,” Tommy calls after her, running away from Emma’s door without another word to Emma, backpack bouncing on his back as he rushes off to the stairs.
Emma doesn’t follow them. She feels too sick to even think about running. She takes her time getting her bag, not the new one Pamela bought but her same faded black bag with the lanyards tied to the zippers she's been using the last two years. She needs something that’s hers, something that belongs to Emma Swan and not Emma the imposter who lives with the Robertsons. She looks at herself in the mirror, frowning at her reflection. She still doesn't look like herself, but, she decides as she fixes her slanted glasses on her small nose, there's nothing else she can do to change that.
When she does get downstairs, everybody is waiting for her and she feels all of their eyes on her at once. She swears she’s going to puke her breakfast up right there at the bottom of the stairs, but somehow she manages to keep it together and they make it to the car without incident.
They all pile inside the minivan, Julie up front with Pam, Tommy and Abigail in the middle seats, and Emma in the back by herself, and everything is calm and easy at first. The only voice is the one on the radio, some boring radio show that Emma tunes out. Everybody appears to be equally as tired as Emma feels. But then, just when Emma starts thinking that maybe her nerves can settle and she can stop worrying about every little thing for once, they pull over in front of what is definitely not the school and Pam blows her horn.
It makes Emma jump.
“Move your bag,” Abigail hisses at her, reaching for it herself like she might knock it to the floor from the seat.
Emma moves faster than the other girl and grabs it. She holds it to her chest and glares at Abby. She wants to ask her what her deal is, why she doesn’t like Emma, but she doesn’t. Emma doesn’t like her either, so she shouldn’t care if Abigail likes her. But she would still like it if maybe she was a little more mature and didn’t think it was amusing to be a jerk just for the sake of it.
Besides, Emma’s attention is immediately stolen when the door slides open and a girl about her age climbs inside.
“Sorry we’re running a little late,” Pam is saying to the girl, but the girl is frozen in place, mouth hanging open as she looks at Emma.
Emma knows it’s rude to stare, but she just can’t help herself. The other girl looks like a pretty doll with shiny dark brown hair that falls down in waves and beautiful skin that is darker and clearer than her own, baring none of the tiny freckles that Emma has. Emma can’t not look at her, even if it’s embarrassing how difficult it is for her to look away or think or breathe.
“You’re in her seat,” Abigail says with an audible eye roll, like she’s reached her daily limit of how much patience she has for all the things Emma just doesn’t know.
“Oh!” Emma flushes hot in her face and reaches to unbuckle herself so she can slide over at the same time the dark-haired girl snaps her mouth shut and finally takes the empty seat behind Tommy. “I didn’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter. This one is just fine,” the girl says as she makes herself comfortable and adjusts her bag on her lap, hands neatly folded on top of it. She faces forward, but Emma can see her curiously looking out the corner of her eye at her.
“Goodness me! I’m sorry, Emma, I forgot to mention that we pick up one of Abby’s friends on the way to the school in the morning.” She pulls away from the curb as she introduces them to each other. “Regina, this is Emma. She just moved in this weekend. Today we’re going to finish up her enrollment process and she will be, if I remember correctly, joining your class. So, you two will probably be seeing a lot of each other.”
Great, Emma thinks with a sigh. She had been glad when she found out she wouldn’t be in the same class as Abigail, but now she’s going to be in the same class as one of her friends who will probably report back with every little embarrassing thing Emma does. Fantastic!
Regina doesn’t spare her another look or say anything to her for the entire car ride, so Emma decides the silent game is how she’ll make it through school for the entire day.
Only, the universe decides that the silent game is stupid and not allowed and sticks its nose where it doesn’t belong and makes sure she and Regina not only have to sit beside each other in class but also have to work with each other on a class assignment where everybody is paired up with the person next to them.
“I’m not going to do all the work by myself,” Regina tells her as soon as the papers are handed out.
Emma scoffs and snatches the paper they’re sharing from Regina’s desk so she can read the instructions. “Who says I even trust you to do any of it? I plan on actually getting a good grade.”
Regina snatches the paper back and moves her seat as far away from Emma as she possibly can without making it noticeable to the teacher that she’s moving the desk. “I’m the smartest student in our class—our entire grade—so please tell me why you wouldn’t trust me of all people. I should be worried about you bringing down my class participation points. That’s more likely.”
Emma rolls her eyes. “You don’t even know me.”
“That didn’t stop you from insinuating I was stupid, did it?”
“I didn’t!”
“I plan on actually getting a good grade,” Regina mocks in a voice that sounds absolutely nothing like Emma’s.
“I only said that because you made it seem like I planned on just sitting here while you worked. You started it.”
“What are you? Five? I didn’t start anything. I simply didn’t want you to think that I would let you get away with not pulling your fair share.”
Emma reaches over and slides the paper to the edge of Regina’s desk so she can see it—so they can both see it. “Maybe you’re used to people trying to get away with not helping out on group work, but I’m not like that. Next time give me a chance to prove myself before you make assumptions.”
Regina deflates a little, turning her head to look directly at Emma. Emma doesn’t look away from the paper, though, even though she’s not really reading it. She’s afraid if she looks at Regina, all her bravado will fade and she’ll be the sensitive little girl who pouts and whines when things don’t go her way. She wants to be able to stand up for herself and not hold back, but she can only do that if she can get away with not actually having to look at Regina while doing so.
“You can start reading aloud,” Regina says, and it’s softer, kind of like an apology that isn’t an apology, and Emma smiles and feels like maybe she did a good job with her first proper interaction with one of her classmates.
///
When lunchtime comes around, they’re seated at tables that match their class numbers. Abigail’s table is two behind Emma’s, and even though Emma knows Abigail sees her walk by, Abby doesn’t even acknowledge her presence. It shouldn’t matter. It’s not like she expects her to suddenly be nice to her or want to introduce Emma to her friends. It’s just, Emma knows exactly two people in her entire grade, and Abby is one of them. It would be nice if half of the people she knows didn’t ignore her.
The other half, the half that possibly thinks Emma is lazy and only tolerated her presence because she had to, sits down at the very end of the lunch table. She's as far as she can possibly get from all the other students who have already found seats next to their friends. Emma watches as she pulls out her lunch bag and a book, placing them both down in front of her. Emma thinks she’s...odd. She’s super smart and the prettiest girl in their class, but for some reason, nobody seems to like her, and Regina seems to like it that way. And Emma finds that weird.
Regina looks up while in the process of unzipping her lunch bag and stares directly at Emma, eyes narrowed.
Emma gets hot all over and looks away, not really sure where to sit and wishing she could disappear. There aren’t many open spots at the table. There are exactly three spots left—one big one between Regina and the boy next to her, a smaller one between two girls who are talking to each other and making it clear they don’t want Emma sitting between them, and one directly in front of Regina.
“Why do I see students out of their seats? This class must not want to get up to get their lunch.”
Half the table turns to look at Emma, and Emma just knows she’s about as red as a tomato. She scrambles across the floor and quickly plops down in front of Regina, facing the wall with her back to everybody. The only person she can still see looking at her is Regina, and she thinks that might be the worst of them all—or, maybe if she didn’t notice the slight signs of humor that peek behind Regina’s curtain of indifference, she would think Regina’s stare is the worst. As it is, she can tell Regina’s not completely annoyed with her. And that’s got to be a good thing.
When most of the students get up from the table to get their lunch trays, Emma lets out a loud breath and turns in her seat properly. Pamela packed them all lunches before they left, so Emma starts unpacking hers while the rest of the students are away from the table. There’s a sandwich—turkey and cheese with too many vegetables that Emma will eat despite the fact that she does not like them—an orange, a little container with pretzels, and both a bottle of water and a juice. It’s a huge step up from the PB&Js Foster Mother Number Eight used to allow her to make on the rare occasion she was allowed to bring her own lunch.
“There should be a note.”
Emma looks up at Regina, but the other girl isn’t looking at her. “Huh?”
Regina feigns disinterest with a shrug of her shoulders, but she had clearly been paying more attention to Emma than the book that’s opened in front of her. “Mrs Robertson always puts a note somewhere in her packed lunches. Abby has been getting them since we started school here, and she even put them in my lunch the few times I stayed over at the house when I was younger.”
Emma has more questions than she knows what to do with. She wonders how long Regina and Abigail have been friends. She wonders why Pam takes Regina to school. She wonders what the notes say. She wonders if Regina kept them or threw them away.
She wonders if Pam even gave Emma a note, because it would be embarrassing for her to go looking for one now and not find one when she knows Regina is watching her.
“I’ll read it later,” she says, just so she doesn’t have to look for it while Regina is looking.
Regina doesn’t say anything in response. She doesn’t speak much at all for most of the lunch period, not until it’s almost over and she’s cleaned up her mess and put her book away. Emma’s still slowly eating her pretzels, not completely comfortable in their silence but not uncomfortable either. It has been decent.
“You should bring a book with you to lunch tomorrow if you plan on sitting with me again.”
Emma’s startled by her voice after not hearing it for so long. She jumps a bit in her seat, but Regina doesn’t laugh at the way she almost spills her bowl of pretzels. She does, however, tilt her head with a bit of what might be amusement, but that quickly fades.
“I wasn’t sitting with you.” Emma regrets what she’s said as soon as she closes her mouth and notices the way Regina straightens up in her seat. Sighing, Emma tries again. “I mean, I only sat here because there was nowhere else to sit. It was either beside you or in front of you, and you already made it clear you don’t like sitting next to me.”
And Emma knows she didn’t make it sound any better, but she remembers that Regina hadn’t been all that nice to her in the first place, so why did she need to worry about preserving her feelings?
“Next time, get here earlier and pick another seat, then. If you don’t walk so slowly across the cafeteria, you can sit as far away from me as possible,” Regina tells her, snippy and harsh.
“Maybe I will,” Emma snaps back. She loses her appetite and closes her pretzels so she can return them to the bag.
It’s when she’s putting the last container away that she spots the green note card tucked into the side of the bag and she pulls it free.
Take a smile, give a smile! Here’s one for you.
There’s a smiley face drawn underneath the swirly words and a heart next to where Pam signed her name.
The note makes her smile.
She looks across the table and sighs. “I’ll bring a book.”
Regina doesn’t look at Emma, but the corner of her mouth twitches ever so slightly.
Emma smiles shyly, looking down at her note from Pam.