Chapter Text
Cover art by @riloyoy
This world is full of truly worthless things, and the most worthless of them all are goats.
There’s a lot of goats in this area. Theoretically. There’s evidence that they exist, that they existed, and that they’ll continue to exist. They sneak onto the rocky outcroppings and bleat outside my room at night, and sometimes they even dare to take a snack from our vegetable garden. All the other kids say they’ve seen them standing on the rugged mountainside, watching and evaluating the world through their stupid goaty eyes.
Despite that, I’ve never seen a goat. That’s what makes me hate them the most. Every time I leave the building, or even try to sneak a peek out of the windows, they disappear. It’s like they know I’m coming. All I’m left with are places where goats once were. It’s infuriating. It’s not like I’d do anything to them. Probably. I just want to actually see one for once in my life, but no. They don’t do it to the other kids, or even the adults. I’m being discriminated against. By goats.
I suppose it makes sense. Because even though goats are the most worthless things in the entire world, the next most worthless is me.
My house burned down when I was very young. I’ve been told that my parents survived, but they were left absolutely destitute. If they had family that could help them, none of them stepped in. They had no home, and no food; even one adult would have struggled in that situation, I’ve been told, never mind two with a baby. Something had to go, and it was me. They gave me up for adoption before I even knew their faces.
After that, I was passed around for a while between different adoption centres, group homes, and agencies – like a football that had to be fed, watered, clothed and cared for, contributing nothing. I don’t remember ever being particularly ill-treated – not actively, anyway. But looking back, I feel like the adults – just like the goats nowadays – kept a certain distance from me. If I took a step forward, they took a step back. Always at arm’s length. Not once would they ever look me in the eye. Ever.
The kids were the same. No matter how boisterous they were, or how much bigger or older they were, they always seemed afraid of me the first time we met. Even though I hadn’t done anything. It didn’t matter how much I smiled, how friendly or cheerful I tried to be; in the end, it went just the same as if I stared at them silently. I started doing that more and more the older I got. It was less effort for the same result.
Eventually they’d get used to me though, and we could talk or sometimes even play together. But it felt like every time that happened, either I would be moved to a different place or my new ‘friend’ would get adopted.
I started to dread being moved. I started to dread strangers coming into wherever my home was at the time, knowing that they’d be there to take me somewhere new where I’d have to go through the entire process of watching wary kids open up to me all over again. And if they didn’t do that, they were potential adopters, and I’d have to see people I already knew plucked away, one by one, until only I was left.
The one kid that never seemed to get adopted was me. Sometimes they’d consider it. Some of them would feel sorry for me, or comment about how much they loved the colours of my eyes. Most didn’t. Instead they wore stiff smiles, just as uncomfortable as the kids and the goats and everyone else. Wary of me for no reason I could understand. In the end, it didn’t matter. No matter how badly they wanted a child, or how philanthropic they were, not once did I ever get brought to a real home.
There must be something wrong with me. There must be. But I don’t know what it is. Nobody will tell me. If they told me, I could fix it. Or at least I could try. But they won’t.
I hate them. I hate them all.
I’m thirteen now. Almost thirteen and a half. When I turn sixteen, I’ll legally be an adult as far as the foster system is concerned, and I’ll have to leave this orphanage. I don’t know where I’m going to go, or what I’m going to do. I don’t even really know how to talk to people. How am I going to get a job, or a house? What am I meant to do?
All I know is that I don’t have much time. The world is closing in on me, but I’m not ready for it. And every day, it gets just a little bit closer.
We’re having a visitor today.
Every time we have a visitor, the whole orphanage gets noisy and giddy. The other kids almost trip over themselves to make sure they look clean, friendly, presentable. They pull out the nice set of clothes the orphanage gives us for visiting days, scrub down their rooms, and make a whole production about it.
I don’t bother. I used to, back when I actually got excited about the idea of new parents or a new home. But it’s never worked out before, so I don’t see why I should make an effort now. Instead, I usually find a quiet spot – the airing cupboard is good – and settle there until the visitors leave. Our matron says I shouldn’t, but she lets me get away with it because she knows as well as I do that I’m not going anywhere.
Today I’m just going to stay in the dorms and patch up some of the holes in my clothes. I got my last dress caught on a nail that was sticking out of the door frame, and ended up making a huge tear the day after I got it. That’s always how it is. If there’s a nail sticking up, I’ll find it. If there’s a rock in the way, I’ll trip on it. I don’t know if I’m clumsy or just unlucky, but I eventually got good at doing little repairs like that. I still don’t know how to actually make clothes, though, so I can’t fall back on that once I leave.
We’ve got an old rocking chair that one of the former matrons left behind, and since everyone is headed to the lobby to meet their new potential parents, it’s free for me to sit in while I work. There’s something about the creak of a rocking chair that I find relaxing. It’s rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock, but you’re in control of how fast or slow it goes. A clock ticks as fast as it ticks, whether you like it or not.
Once I’ve more or less patched the holes in my own clothes, I start working on my favourite doll. It’s not mine, I suppose, since the toys here are for all the children, but it’s my favourite and it irritates me when the other kids play with it. Sometimes the matron tells me I should try to give it up since I’ll be an adult soon, but I don’t care what she thinks. The doll is better company than most people, and it’s definitely better company than goats.
There’s not too much work to do, so it isn’t long before I’m bored. Hiding out on visitor days is always a drag. They take way too long. Hurry up and pick someone, or don’t. Just make it quick. I hate being strung along with false hope, and I hate being stuck in the dorms all day.
“Children, this is our visitor today!” I hear the matron say from somewhere outside the door. She’s got a fake, cheery voice she uses for visitors, like the host of one of those kid’s shows on TV. When she speaks to me, she just sounds tired. “Don’t be shy. Introduce yourselves.”
Even though I can’t see what’s going on, I already know what’s happening. A little parade to impress the visitors, with curtsies and handshakes and god knows what else. They really do treat us like pets. Bark. Wag your tail. Roll over. Maybe you’ll be the one taken home from the kennel this time. What a joke.
I listen closely as the visitor speaks up. The exact words are muffled by the door and the distance, but I can make out the tone: gentle, kind, almost apologetic. A ‘breaking bad news’ kind of tone. Seems like no-one’s getting lucky today.
I feel a sense of satisfaction from that. I know I shouldn’t. In my head, I know that I should be hoping every kid here gets a good home, with good people in it, as soon as possible. But in my heart, I’m sick of this whole routine. I don’t want these familiar faces to get replaced with new, wary ones. I don’t want to see them succeed where I always fail. I’m jealous, and it hurts more because I know it’s wrong. But I can’t control it.
Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Maybe I’m a bad person, deep down, and everyone can see it just by looking. I don’t know.
“It’s a shame, but it’s understandable,” I hear the matron say. “If you don’t feel that emotional connection it can be hard to give a child all the love and attention they need, and adoption isn’t for everyone. But if you’d like to help us in any other ways, any donations are welcome, however little – old clothes, toys, nothing ever goes to waste…”
I roll my eyes as she goes through her spiel. Every single word sounds rehearsed. I know she only does it for our benefit, but it’s tough to hear it five hundred times and not get sick of it.
“Sorry, but… Are you sure there aren’t any more children here?” the visitor asks sharply.
There’s a moment of quiet. In the reception, the kids are all probably looking at each other, and the matron. Wondering what to do. What’s going to happen. They know I’m not interested in this stuff.
But that bleeding heart matron… there’s no way she won’t drag me into this. I throw down the doll on the bed, determined not to be caught looking vulnerable with a kid’s toy, and stand up. I can feel my face tightening as a glower settles on my features.
“Well… there is one more girl, but she’s fallen through the cracks so many times that she’s become a bit of a problem child… As much as I hate to say it, I think it’d be difficult to rehome her at this age.”
‘Problem child’. Well thanks. I’m a child, and I’m a problem. Nice to hear it confirmed.
“Still… If I can, I wanna meet all the kids before I make any decisions. Would that be okay?”
“Well, I suppose that’s fine…”
Ugh.
Fine.
Fine! Even a tiny chance is better than no chance. It’s for my own good. I know that.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. As I hear the matron’s heels clacking on the wood floor, I grit my teeth and ball my fists.
I won’t smile. I’m done with fake smiles. I’m done with introductions and party tricks. If they don’t like me as I am, they can get lost, just like all the others. At least I’ll know why this time. At least it’s something I actually did, and not something that just happened to me.
The door creaks open.
When the matron sees my expression, her face falls. She’s an old woman – well, mid-forties, I think – with her hair tied up in a bun and one of those faces where all the fat collects on her cheeks. I can see her shake her head despairingly, her eyes flitting left and right as she tries to come up with an excuse.
The person behind her is different.
Maybe different isn’t the word. Weird is more like it. For one, she’s wearing a bright yellow duffel coat in the height of summer. It’s making me sweat just to look at her. She’s a deep blonde, too, with some weird sprout of hair sticking out from the top of her head. She’s got it tied in a ponytail, so chances are she does actually know what a comb is, but she left that one bit for some reason?
But most of all, it’s that she looks straight into my eyes without a moment of hesitation. Instead of stepping back, she steps forward.
This hasn’t happened before. It just doesn’t happen. Even the matron goes out of her way to avoid looking me in the eye, and that’s when I’m not glaring. But if this duffel coat weirdo is uncomfortable at all, I’m not seeing it. Something about that takes the wind right out of my sails. I was thinking of kicking up a fit just to get her to go away, but I don’t think that would even work.
“Good morning! What are you doing all holed up back here? I almost missed you!” she says.
Usually, when people talk to kids – especially to orphans like us – they use this particular voice. It’s always... simpering, I guess. Really quiet, really concerned, like you’re a cat hiding under a sofa and they’re trying to tempt you out with a treat. They talk down to you, but they don’t realise they’re doing it.
This lady… well, yeah, she’s speaking to me like she’s a kid’s TV presenter, but she doesn’t have that soft tone all the others use. Instead, it’s all cheer, no subtlety. And what’s with the mix between being polite and then casual at the same time? I don’t get it. My eyes narrow, but this time it’s more confusion than anything else.
“Sorry. She can be a little shy,” the matron cuts in.
“Aw, that’s alright.” The woman responds briefly to the matron, and then returns her attention right back to me. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves? I’m Saki, and I run a bakery in the next town over. What’s your name?”
A baker? Now that she mentions it, she does kind of smell like cookie dough. It’s that sugary-sweet, calorific kind of scent.
“Reika, please stop sniffing visitors. We’ve talked about this,” the matron whines.
Saki blinks slowly. “Reika? Is that your name?”
“...Yeah.” I stand up a little straighter, and push my chest out defiantly. “Hoshino Reika. That’s the name my parents left me.”
Her expression changes very slightly. She’s still smiling, but it’s not the high octane cheerful smile she had before. It’s a little softer, and it feels almost… worried, in a way. But much more genuine at the same time.
“I thought so,” she says to herself, so softly that I second-guess whether I heard her say anything at all. She claps her hands, and the broad smile flickers back to her face. “Well, Reika. You want a cookie?”
“You actually have cookies?” I ask, suspicious despite myself.
“Of course!” She winks, and with the motions of a magician pulling a rabbit from their hat, she takes a waxed brown paper package from one of her coat pockets. “What kind of baker shows up at an orphanage and doesn’t even bring cookies?! That’s like absolute the least I could do! The other kids got some already, so don’t be shy. Dig in!”
She tosses the package underarm toward me, and I I fumble with the catch before ripping it open. It’s been a while since I had cookies. I used to try baking them, but they stopped letting me because I’d burn them every time. Even though this whole meeting thing is a pain, getting cookies out of it already puts her in the top one percent of all the visitors I’ve met so far.
...Oh, no. They’re good. They’re really good. Sweet, with a soft, buttery texture and two different kinds of chocolate chip. It’s such an indulgent taste. These are the kind of thing you eat to cheer yourself up after a bad day. Before I know it, I’ve demolished half of the packet. I can feel myself grinning broadly, despite trying not to.
“Hee hee, They’re good, right?” she says, closing her eyes and smiling too brightly for me to even consider saying no out of spite. “And that’s not even a tenth of my power! Brownie bites, sugar snaps, yumyums, cinnamon whirls… I can make them all!”
With no more cookies left to eat, I crumple the paper in my hand. I can’t stop myself from asking the question burning inside me. “Miss Saki. You said you run a bakery, right? In the next town over? Where is it, exactly?”
When I leave this orphanage… When I’ve got a job and somewhere to live and my own money to spend, I’m definitely going to go to that bakery and buy as many cookies as I can. That’s what I want to say, but I don’t have a good way of saying it without making myself look like an idiot. More than I already do, anyway.
But even just thinking it makes me feel a bit better. This morning I had no idea what I’d do when I got away from this place. Now I’ve got one thing to cling to. I’m going to be an adult who can buy cookies without worrying about it. That’s what I want.
“Ahahah! You’re an eager one, huh? But there’s no need to rush into stuff,” she giggles. “Why don’t I come back in a few days and take you over to see it? You can see all the stuff I bake, poke around, and… y’know. Decide if it’s somewhere you want to live. We gotta make sure you’re comfortable with everything if we’re gonna do this whole adoption thing.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s–”
I blink as what she said registers properly, and my mouth falls open in the middle of my sentence.
“Y-you actually want to adopt me?!”
“I do. Right now I feel like you’re unhappy, but underneath that, I think there’s a very sweet girl.” She smiles, as if she’s made a little joke. “As a baker and an adult, I can’t help but want to bring that sweetness out of you and show it to the world. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, right? We can take it slow and figure out if that’s something you want.”
I… I genuinely have no idea how to respond to that. This hasn’t happened before. I didn’t think it would ever happen. I look to the matron for some sort of answer, but she seems just as surprised as I do.
Silence rules the room.
“So, uh, is Thursday okay with you, or…?” Saki asks, her smile weakening.
“Yes!” I burst out awkwardly, before catching myself. “I mean… yes, that would be nice.”
My cheeks are burning with embarrassment after getting so excited, but I have to calm myself down. I remind myself, sternly, that this doesn’t mean I’m actually getting adopted. Anything could change between now and Thursday. Or even after Thursday. Or maybe this lady’s actually some cruel witch and I’ll end up worse than I started.
Little by little, I rein myself in. Before I prepare myself for a trip to the bakery, first I should prepare myself for disappointment. Maybe the most I’m going to get out of this is the cookies I already ate.
But that’s more than I ever got before.
The matron takes over to handle the details, whisking Saki away to the office for some paperwork and questions about income, residence, and all that kind of thing. She looks back over her shoulder and gives me a sheepish grin as she’s carted away. I swallow my pride and wave at her as she disappears.
Please.
Please come back next Thursday. All I did was scowl at you and eat your cookies, so I don’t deserve it, but… Please. Let me just get that far.
The night after that is long and sleepless. But for once, I listen to the goats bleating by my window with a smile on my face.