“All right, I’m just going to ask.” Deborah stuck her fork into her salad and set her hands in her lap. She looked right into Joey’s eyes. “Joelle, has your uncle ever made you uncomfortable?”
Joey looked down at her burger, trying to think of what she could say to make Deborah believe everything was okay, even though it wasn’t. Go ahead, tell her. You think you’d be better off in foster care? Nobody takes in other people’s kids unless they’re perverts.
“I mean, it’s a little weird living with a man,” Joey said. “My mom’s boyfriends never lived with us.”
“I understand.” Deborah nodded, seeming relieved by her answer. “Give it time.”
Joey took a deep breath. What she was about to ask, she had rehearsed the night before, shifting the words around in her head until they sounded just right. “Deborah, can a kid choose who they want to live with?”
“Well, that depends. If you had other family—”
“I don’t have any other family,” Joey said. “I just … I wondered if you’d ever taken a kid like me in. I mean, because you’d get paid to do it, right? I wouldn’t be annoying or in the way, I promise.”
“Oh, honey.” Deborah reached forward and grasped Joey’s fingers. “I wish it were that simple. I’m a social worker, not a foster parent, and those are two very different things. But I’m always here to help you, okay? If at any time you think you would be safer in a different place, I want you to tell me.”
“It’s fine.” Joey forced a smile. “It was a dumb idea anyway.”
“It was not a dumb idea. I’m flattered. Anyone would be lucky to have a kid like you around.” Deborah resumed eating her salad. “By the way, you look wonderful. Healthy. You’ve grown since I saw you last.”
What Deborah didn’t say was that Joey was getting boobs. There was no way the social worker didn’t notice. It felt like everyone was noticing. Especially Tito Micky.
Joey always thought it would be great when she finally got boobs; her mother certainly seemed to be in love with hers, treating them like an asset meant to be showcased and displayed at all times. But Joey’s were growing, so they hurt. And she was self-conscious. She’d tried to ask Tita Flora to buy her a bra, but her aunt just laughed.
“For those mosquito bites?” Tita Flora had said. “Enjoy them while they’re small. When you’re older, you’re going to hate wearing a bra.”
“Um, Deborah?” Joey said in a small voice. “Do you think maybe next time, when I come back for the trial, we could go shopping for a … a bra?” She knew her face was red; she could feel it.
The social worker didn’t laugh. Instead, she checked her watch. “If you can finish that burger in five minutes, we can go now. And I know just the right bra, because I bought one for my daughter last week. But for you, we’ll buy two. One to wear, one to wash.”
It was the first time she’d ever mentioned having children, and it felt like a gut punch. Deborah had a daughter.
As Joey finished her burger, she could only think of one other time she’d felt this kind of jealousy. She was in grade 2, and Nicole Bowie had brought her Garfield to school. The stuffed cat had perfect orange and black fur, and large plastic eyes that looked bored and unimpressed, just like Garfield did in the comics. Nicole let Joey play with it for five minutes at recess, and by the time she asked for it back, Joey was in love.
She had never wanted anything as badly as she wanted that Garfield. She finally asked her mother for one for Christmas, but Ruby said there might not be any Christmas presents that year.
“Toys cost money,” her mother said. “Wrapping paper costs money. Tape costs money. Christmas is expensive, Joey.”
So she did the only other thing she could do. She wrote a letter to Santa Claus.
Three weeks later, Joey woke up on Christmas morning to find a cat-size box under the tree. There were a few other presents, too, but the tag on this one said TO JOEY, LOVE SANTA. Squealing with excitement, she tore the paper off while Ruby smiled the entire time. Under the paper was a box with a clear plastic window, and the name across the top said CHESTERFIELD.
Chesterfield?
Joey pulled it out of the box. It was definitely a stuffed cat, but its fur wasn’t orange and black, it was gray and brown. The plastic eyes weren’t white with huge black pupils, they were green. And in the middle of its tummy, there was a button that said PRESS ME. When she pressed, a cheerful voice said, “Hi, I’m Chesterfield. What’s your name?”