Page 33 of Run
Axel fixed up the old Accord for me to drive. I knew enough to be suspicious when he did so, and with good reason—he enjoys the extra income I bring in. After every shift, Axel makes me give him my tip money. He says I can keep the paycheck with the measly hourly wage I get for waiting tables, but the tip money he takes “to contribute to all the food, electric, water and other resources I consume.”Asshole.
Whatever. I learned to pull a portion out and stick it in my sock before I get home and he goes digging through my purse. My portion goes into a slit in the mattress. It’s not like it stockpiles. I use it for clothes and makeup, and gas and a phone plan. But, still, it’s more than what I get in my weekly paycheck.
I put Joe’s order in with the line cook, then turn to Lena. “He’s your problem, now.” I nod in the direction of the counter where Joe’s sitting as I untie my apron.
“You’re leaving?”
“I told you this morning I’m having dinner with Sophie.”
“Oh, right! I forgot. OK, then. I’ll see you at home later?”
“Yep.” I slide my arm through the straps of my purse and nestle it under my elbow, then head outside. Crossing the street, I keep my head down and trek the two blocks to the hole-in-the-wall restaurant where I’m meeting my former foster sister. Most parents wouldn’t let their teen walk around this part of the city alone, especially when it’s approaching dark.
As soon as I walk in, the smell of grease, fried food, and filth hits my nostrils, making my mouth water. “God, I love that smell,” I say, sliding into a booth across from Sophie.
“You and me both, sister. You and me both.” She raises her hand up and greets me with a high-five.
Sophie is everything I wish I could be: confident, funny, and manages to navigate social situations with zero awkwardness. She’s also extremely overweight. Her big boobs are squished against the table we’re sitting at, and the buttons on her shirt are pulled taut, creating little openings between them. Her glossy raven hair is styled in two side buns, and black framed glasses are perched on her nose. Silver hoops dangle from each earlobe with a trail of silver studs bolting up each side of the cartilage.
“So, what’s new?” She rests her thick forearms on the sticky table.
I let out a puff of air through my cheeks. “Not much. This week I haven’t had as many shifts at the pub, which blows. But at least I’m in school all day and therefore out of the house.”
“So, I take it Axel hasn’t dropped dead yet?”
“I wouldn’t be so lucky.”
Sophie knows everything about me. We met when I began living with the Millers, in foster care, where I stayed for about five months. She’s still living with them. She was also there when I arrived.
Sophie was given up for adoption as a toddler and—since most people who want to adopt are looking for babies—bounced around from one foster family to another. Before arriving at the Millers’ home, she lived with a family from about six to ten years old but was removed after a social worker found out she was experiencing horrific abuse at the hands of her foster father.
It was the one type of abuse I never experienced.
I’ve told her everything about Axel and Lena. And Ethan. We were in group therapy together, so a lot of it came out then. But also, we instantly connected, so we talked privately as well.
And, in turn, Sophie confided in me some of her experiences, which left me sobbing and retching, and thankful I’ve only ever been pummeled by Axel and not molested or raped. She told me the therapists said she uses food as a healing mechanism, which makes perfect sense. I mean, has a milkshake ever let you down?
Speaking of which …
“What can I get you?” an elderly waitress with too much pep in her step asks as she approaches our table and takes a pencil out from behind her ear.
“I’ll take a garbage plate with home fries, mac salad and burgers, please.” I hand her my menu, which I didn’t even have to open since we come here all the time. “Oh, and the hot sauce on the side.”
“Got it.” The woman turns to Sophie. “And for you, dear?”
“Same, but with hot dogs, and you just pour my hot sauce all over everything.”
The waitress chuckles, taking Sophie’s menu. “You got it. Be up in a few.”
She walks away and my friend turns back to me as I start chatting. “What’s up with you? How are Meg and Larry?”
“Meg and Lars are great,” she says, referring to the Millers, then takes a sip of soda that’s sitting in front of her in a paper cup. “We got a new recruit this week. A male.”
I frown. A new “recruit” is another person needing foster care. It’s bittersweet because usually—like us—that person is in a bad situation, but the silver lining is they are going into a great home, even if it’s only temporary. But they could end up like Sophie, who is a pretty much a permanent fixture in the Miller household.
“What’s his ’sitch?” I grab Sophie’s drink and steal a sip.
She teeters her head this way and that. “Better than my history, worse than yours.”
