“Nothing you’d care about.”

Her eyes jump to the small, fading cut below my left eye. “Try me.”

“Pass.” I hop to my feet, stepping close to her. “I’ll be waiting out front.”

“You’ll wait right here if you want to avoid that girl’s parents who are standing a few feet outside this door.”

“You’re mistaking me for someone who gives a shit.” With that, I shove past the woman and walk toward the front of the student office, toward the loving mother and father of the little bitch who ran her mouth. I look from the girl to her parents, finding all their glares on me, their body language showing exactly what they think of me.

Dirty.

Used.

Worthless.

And they’re not wrong.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble to myself as I scan the yard.

Ms. Vega shifts toward me. “You’ll get used to it.”

“What the fuck is this place?”

“This is the Bray house.”

“Looks like Michael Myer’s house.”

She laughs lightly, then looks again, a frown taking over her face. “Well shit, it does. I never noticed before.”

The porch is dipping at the center, likely from wood rot, the white paint chipping like large splinters. It’s a perfect square, two small windows on each side of the door mirroring the two on the upper story, a creepy, awning beneath them.

“It seems small, but it widens toward the back.”

Small is a trailer with only enough space for a personal size fridge, one-sided sink, and two outlets for hot plates or a toaster oven.

“Anyway, this is a home for kids getting ready to age out, and a few younger ones who had issues with standard style parenting. It’s for the kids who are more ... challenging.”

“So there’s a bunch of punks living here?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “There’s a bunch of punks at the high school. This place is cake compared.”

“Sounds fantastic,” I deadpan.

With a resigned sigh, Ms. Vega says, “Let’s go.”

She drags the duffle bag she loaned me behind her as she walks up, and I force my feet to follow.

When we showed up at my trailer the day before yesterday, my mother laughed and welcomed us inside. She sat there smoking a joint – of my weed – in front of the social worker and offered to help me pack. I thought for sure she’d flip, try to beat my ass or let her flavor of the week do it, as she always has when I’d get suspended or kicked out of places. She knew if social services stepped in it meant no more welfare for her, and no more welfare meant no more “free” cocaine – she’d have to put in extra time on her back without it. And that was a problem because the prime prostitute from Gateway Trailer park has expensive taste in powder.

I knew it wasn’t because the worker was there, she didn’t give a shit about that. Shit, she talked with the lady like she’d known her all her life – shitty and hateful with a nasty smile on her face. The worst that would happen if she was reported would be a few days in jail, and that meant nothing to her, they already knew her well. According to my mom, it’s almost easier to score a sack in county than it is out here – and there, her trades are welcomed. She doesn’t discriminate against gender. A women’s money is worth just the same, she’d say.

No, I knew by her nonchalant attitude she’d gotten herself a new supplier, be it a new dealer willing to take a trick for a trade or client who stuck, who knows.

Who fucking cares.

“You must be Ms. Vega?” I follow the voice to find an older woman with deep wrinkles and dark frizzy hair. Her tone isn’t exactly welcoming toward Ms. Vega, more quizzical if anything.

“Yes, ma’am.” Ms. Vega hesitates for a second before stepping forward to shake the woman’s hand. “Ms. Maybell, this is Raven Carver, seventeen, out of Stockton California.”

When the woman turns my way, the roughness framing her eyes smooths.

“You had a small journey, huh, Raven?” the woman asks.

“It’s Rae.”

The woman smiles and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked genuine. And hell, maybe it is, another bastard’s kid means more green in her pocket.

I’m aware I could be judging unfairly, but ... are there still people who choose to house fucked up rejects for fun?

“Rae.” She smiles a little. “You’ll be in room seven. There are two bunks per room, but the last two who were in there were sisters, so both left together last week. You’ll have it to yourself for a bit, but that don’t mean funny business will be any easier for you. Not sure if you were told, but this is a girls only home, the boys are there.” She points across the lot to another white house about two court spaces away. “There’s no drugs, no sex, no stealing, and absolutely no fighting amongst the other girls. Other than those few things, it’s a nice deal here. Hurry on, put your things away and we’ll get you to the high school. They’re expecting you.”

With a sigh, I make my way to the door, pausing when she calls out again.

“Oh, and Rae?”

I glance over my shoulder with an eyebrow raised.

“Behind the house is off-limits. You can go as far as the swing set there but beyond that, the dirt road? It’s not for walking down. This whole front part, though, is yours to roam.”

“Sure,” I respond and face forward, taking in the mental institution style housing. Plain white walls with random couches against them make up the room, a single TV hanging high in one corner and bolted into the wall – preventing it from being easily stolen, I’m guessing. A card game left mid-play lays on the coffee table and an ashtray sits beside it.

“What the hell is this place?” I mumble to myself, jumping slightly when an unexpected voice answers.

“It’s four walls to stuff the runaways and problem children ‘til nobody is forced to pretend to care anymore.” When I lock eyes with the girl, she decides that means I want the full breakdown and keeps talking. “All the kids here are shipped to the local high school as part of some poor kid program. It’s quite a place. Nothing but a bunch of ritzy privileged assholes with the exception of us few fuck-ups, and a handful of others from the low-income housing track down the road. But it’s not divided like you’d think, more one big system. You either tuck your tail and go about your day without being seen or heard, they allow that, or you’re in the middle of it all and your every move is measured. Step outside the unit and you’re treated like the trash they already see.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

She pops a shoulder. “It can be. Ran by some real gems.”

“Ran by?”

“You think they’d let us all walk on their marble floors without having a leg up on us?” She shakes her head. “They’re smarter than that. They offer us something we don’t have back home, we stay in line. Tit for tat all the way.”

“And people buy into that shit?”

This time her eyes skim my unhealthily thin frame from head to toe. “You’ll understand soon enough.” And then she’s gone.