Sisters in the Wind(36)

Still, guys and girls flocked around him.

In January, I learned Steven Sterling was the town pharmacist. A girl in my junior class held out a research paper with Steven’s name on it. I hadn’t seen him do much, if any, schoolwork that entire semester. He didn’t strike me as particularly intelligent. Definitely not book smart.

“Chalk ain’t cheap,” she muttered, shaking the paper for me to take.

I had no clue what she meant but knew not to ask any dumb questions.

“You’re his foster sister, right? He needs this by seventh period.” She seemed anxious.

When I found myself in certain situations, I played a game: What Would Devery Say?

“Can’t. Leaving early to meet my public defender,” I said dismissively.

Mrs. Sterling was taking me to pick up my repaired watch from the jeweler and then to a social-worker appointment. I substituted the attorney for effect. Devery loved to exaggerate stories and then burst out laughing.

Oh, Clancy, if you could see your face!

Mrs. Clark always tried to get me to open up at our meetings. Her efforts were funny in an unintentional way. I was a socially awkward geek, and her use of teen jargon made even me cringe. But on that day, I mentioned how slang was different in my new school than back home in Harbor Springs and Petoskey. She took the bait, eager to prove her street credibility.

Chalk meant “meth.”



* * *



In February, Steven took advantage of a day when Stacy was home with the flu to drive the scenic route home from school. The heater was on full blast, filling the car with his peculiar body odor. He stopped at an old lighthouse outside town. I had a bad feeling, like when my stomach would hurt after eating a dinner that Bridget had microwaved.

“Why are you the only girl who ignores me?” he demanded to know.

Proving his point, I continued staring out the window.

Steven grabbed my neck to force me to look at him. His eyes narrowed as he reduced me to nothing but a pair of tits—his words. His other hand reached into my unzipped coat.

Devery said the only way to deal with a horndog was to kick or punch him in the groin (she’d said nuts) or push your thumbs into his eyes.

I went for Steven’s eyes, jabbing the strangely soft, wet orbs. Since he couldn’t drive while crying in pain, I made him crawl into the back seat. I learned how to drive that afternoon. If the ride home was especially jerky as I figured out the correct pressure to work the brakes … well, that was Steven’s issue. Not mine.

I parked along the road in front of the house. Once inside, I informed Mrs. Sterling that her son had put his hands on me. She stared wordlessly as I lifted my hair to reveal finger marks on my neck.

“He’s in the car. I poked his eyes. One thumb went in more than the other.”

She blinked, finally, and looked at the car.

“I’m so sorry, Lucy. Let me handle this.” She rushed toward the front door but paused to look back at me. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

It wasn’t until she reached the car that I realized Mrs. Sterling hadn’t seemed surprised.



* * *



I learned many lessons from the Sterlings.

After Mrs. Sterling returned from the walk-in clinic with Steven, she made him apologize to me. Standing shoulder to shoulder with his mother, he looked up from his feet, and, for once, his gaze did not land on my chest.

“I’m sorry for my actions. It won’t happen again.” His voice was contrite.

One eye was bandaged. The other was red and livid.

Remaining in the Sterling family’s home was my first lesson in assessing risk and reward. Steven was a risk to my safety. I needed to both avoid and neutralize him. My reward would be staying out of the placements described by Devery, which seemed worse than my current one. I could continue attending high school. I was still a year ahead, meaning in another year I would graduate and turn seventeen a month later. If I was still a ward of the state, my college expenses would remain a cost to Michigan’s Department of Human Services. If I could manage a heavy course load, I’d be close to an associate’s degree before I turned eighteen and aged out of the foster-care system. If Bridget hadn’t found a way to access my college money, I could pursue a bachelor’s degree.

I had to play the long game.

There was also Stacy to consider.

We finished my eleven remaining birthday books. Stacy even enjoyed the picture books. She checked out more library books each week than I did. As much as she loved being read to, once Stacy got hooked on a story, she felt compelled to read ahead.

After our evening read-aloud session and discussion, I would talk about my dad. At first, it was to answer Stacy’s questions about how I ended up in foster care. Her guileless expression and upturned hazel eyes made me eager to share stories about him. We both loved our fathers and wanted to please them. I found myself repeating his instructions about how college was a necessity for young women. How carrying a credit card balance was the same as overpaying for everything you purchased. How swimming wasn’t about speed or distance but finding the rhythm in the perfect form. And how every book held secret messages if you could decode what the author intended the reader to find.

To avoid Steven, I asked Mr. and Mrs. Sterling for permission to join the track team. I did the 3,200-meter run and was good enough to place in the top three at a few meets. Thanks to all the wood hauling at Miss Lonnie’s, my upper-body strength made me a natural at the shotput and discus. A teammate lived nearby and was happy to give me a ride home from practice and after track meets.