LACY

Summer 2010

I know death is nothing to be happy about.

Yet, I can't seem to stop the happy feeling in me. If someone were to look at me now, they'd think I've gone mad. They'd send me to the nearest asylum.

My reaction is not something one would expect. They would expect a crying, screaming person. They would be prepared to console the inconsolable.

No one needs to console me. I do not need anyone to say, "There, there, Lacy. Everything will be alright." I know everything will be alright because, beforehand, everything was wrong.

Since I could toddle, I've known right from wrong. Backhanding a child so hard into the floor she bleeds? Wrong. Giving said child ice cream to make up for it? Right. Sort of.

I can't decide if my feelings now are right. On the outside, they seem wrong. A girl's family is dead and she's happy? Very wrong. But what if that family didn't even like her?

A fist pounds against the outside of the bathroom door. I jump. "Dear? Are you alright in there?" My lively social worker, Miss Wilson, asks, concern and sympathy laced in her words.

"Just a few more moments, please," I mumble. I turn on the faucet and splash freezing water onto my face to give the illusion that I'm upset over today's shocking news.

Mum, Dad, Jackson, Stella— they're gone forever. They were transported to the morgue this morning. Their funeral is next Sunday at St. Mary's.

Mum's mother, her only relative left alive, arranged everything. She's a wealthy widow living in London, unwilling to change her lifestyle— which includes taking in her granddaughter.

I should have expected that. Lisa was never a fan of mine, but it still hurt. Instead, Lisa suggested they send me to a state school for troubled teens paid for by Parliament.

Looking at my records, however, social services declined the request. At a glance, I'm a poster child— good grades, sweet Christian friends, a wide variety of school sports and clubs.

Miss Wilson told me I will go to a transit home for the time being, at least until the funeral is over. Who knows where I'll go after?

I take a deep breath, fuzzy warmness still in my chest, and exit the bathroom. Miss Wilson comes up to me as I exit, her seashell necklace clanking with each step she takes.

"Lacy, how are you doing, dearest? Do you need anything? Tissues? This must be the worst birthday ever," She asks, her eyes filled of concern.

I almost forgot. My 14th. I shake my head and frown. My fake act might be the worst performance ever, but at least I'm no longer smiling. "I miss them."

"Oh, you poor girl! Well, don't worry. Your grandmother has organized everything. The transit home you've been put into is with the Johnsons. They seem sweet, don't fret."

I nod slowly. Miss Wilson leads me out of the social service's office and to her small ocean blue buggy. The air smells of diamonds and burgundy, leather and whiskey.

I've been living in this opulent neighborhood of London, filled of expense and luxury, since I was four— maybe older, maybe younger. My life before living with the Clarks has been a blur.

But no matter, I'm leaving today. I will never set foot in this place again.

My suitcase containing all of my belongings is stowed in Miss Wilson's boot. Those items will be my only reminder of this life. I'm about to begin a new chapter.

The drive to my next town isn't too far. It's along the coast. The Johnsons live in a beautiful estate with a large green lawn and a front view of the ocean.

I pull the backpack over my shoulders and follow Miss Wilson up the stairs. She knocks twice with a soft rhythm, and a bright voice calls out, "Coming! Coming!"

My senses are on high alert. My eyes keep flashing around. People? None. Cars? None. But were we followed? Are spies hiding in the bushes?

The door opens before I can freak myself out any further. An utterly pregnant, smiling young woman with bright blonde hair and a long dress stands before us.

"Hello there, you must be Lacy and Miss Wilson. Well, come in. The air is brisk this time of year. Wouldn't want a cold, hm?"

I glance at the youthful woman. She radiates motherly love. I enter the home, greeted by two other young children sitting on the sofa watching a documentary on manatees.

They stare at me expectantly.

"Lacy will only be staying for a few days, you know. I'll come back on Monday and take Lacy to her next placement. She is your first foster child, yes?" Miss Wilson rambles.

"She is, mhm. We were able to become foster parents so easily. Lacy seems wonderful, so we should be all set. Thank you," Mrs. Johnson replies with an easy smile.

"Yes, yes. I'll see you soon, Lacy!" And with that, Mrs. Johnson closes the door and turns to face me. She raises an eyebrow, her expression turning somewhat critical.

I tense. Is she like Dad and Mum? I suppose I can handle that. This placement is only for a few days. I won't be able to last with copies of my parents for the next 4 years.

I just got rid of them.

"You look so familiar, Lacy. Tell me, have you lived in Massachusetts before?" She asks nonchalantly, motioning with her arm to have me follow her.

I frown at the abrupt question. According to my birth records, I have lived in England my entire life. Why would she suspect anything different? And why such a specific state?

My paranoia heightens. I glance around, taking in the house. It looks normal. It's so bright and calming, like nothing wrong happens inside this home. The waves crash onto the rocks.

I shake my head. "No, never. Why do you ask?" I try to stop my voice from trembling, but I feel as if I could collapse at any given moment right now.

She shakes her head and smiles, her mother-like appearance coming back. "Just a curiosity. I love the state, and you look... like someone. Follow me, dear."

As she leads me up the staircase, through the hallway, she says, "My name is Celia. My husband is Jacks. My two children are Dylan and Penny."

She opens the door to my temporary bedroom, revealing a masterpiece. The bedspread is covered in sapphire flowers. The walls are a light blue. I get the perfect view of the sea.

"We had minimal time to prepare your bedroom, but hopefully this is suitable. Now, why don't we go get dinner? I've made spaghetti," Celia says.

I nod hesitantly, feeling clammy and tired and extremely anxious. Will they find me, now that my family is dead? Or do they not care about me now?

For my entire life, I have been told to fear the ones with the upper hands. My family's boss does not stray from this core rule. Yet, I haven't had any indication I'm being monitored.

Celia blabbers on about nonchalant topics— such as the tide— back down through the house to the long dining room with blue hydrangeas set up in the middle.

Her children, Dylan, who must be nearing seven, and Penny, who can't be older than three, look concerned when they see me. I frown. Celia's husband is absent.

Celia sits at the head of the table, gesturing for me to take a seat beside Penny. She frowns, and looks across the table at her brother.

"Children, relax. Lacy is a good stranger. Be polite with her," Their mother scolds. Immediately, the two relax and flash me grins.

Odd.

The family converses about...interesting topics. "Penny, have you checked the cameras lately?" Celia asks.

Penny nods excitedly. "Yes, Mama. All good."

"You, Dylan?"

He nods.

I keep quiet until I can sneak back upstairs. I kick off my shoes, and sit on the floor, staring at the bed. I don't know if I should sleep on it.

So, I don't.

———

Hello, loves!

My brand-new book...I just can't be stopped, can I?

What do you think Lacy means with her family's boss?

Please vote and comment!

Au revoir,

Eva