I went inside, shut the door, and fell across the bed without taking off my boots.
At first, all I felt was anger, then humiliation, then that ugly, familiar feeling of being the idiot in a story everyone else understood before I did.
But under all of that was something worse.
Grief. Because somewhere along the way, I had started to believe I mattered to Mrs. Rhode as much as she mattered to me.
Under all of that was something worse.
I grew up in foster care, so maybe I should have known better.
My mother abandoned me right after I was born, and my father was rotting in prison.
I learned early that adults could say anything and mean nothing. I learned how to pack fast, how to keep my important stuff in one place, and how not to cry in front of strangers if I could help it.
When I aged out, I left with two trash bags full of clothes and no plan.
I ended up in that town because rent was low and nobody asked questions.
Maybe I should have known better.
I worked a couple of bad jobs for worse bosses so I could keep my head above water.
Then I got a job at Joe’s Diner. I liked it right away.
Joe hired me because one of his waitresses quit in the middle of a breakfast rush, and I happened to walk in asking if he needed help.
He looked me up and down and said, “You ever carried three plates at once?”
I said, “No.”
He shrugged. “You got ten minutes to learn.”
