She turned her attention to the large cardboard box which contained my books, some old, cherished stuffed animals, and a few other odds and ends.
“Hmm—what’s this?”
My heart clenched in my chest as I watched her pull out the antique music box which my mother had given me on my tenth birthday—the last birthday I had ever gotten to spend with her. It had a painting of a beautiful French lady on the front of it with a tall white wig and a soft, powder blue gown spreading around her.
“My Mamma gave this to me when I was just about your age,” my mother had told me when I unwrapped it. “And I think you’re old enough to have it now. Just mind you take care of it, Kira. It’s a family heirloom.”
I had promised I would take care of it and I had—it was one of the few things I’d packed to take away with me before I was moved to Auntie Amelia’s house. It was always on my beside table—I liked to open the lid and listen to the old-fashioned tinkly music before I went to sleep each night. It almost made me feel like Mamma was watching over me.
Alexis Spaulding handled the antique carelessly, lifting the metal lid to hear the tune and slapping it closed again before staring curiously at the painting of the French lady.
“Well, this might do,” she said at last. “At least it’s not cheap junk like everything else in the box.”
“That’s mine—my mother gave it to me!” I protested, before I could stop myself.
Nancy Spaulding turned on me again, her face red with fury. Her nostrils were flaring and two white dents were standing out on either side of her nose as she glared at me.
“How dare you say anything when I just told you to shut your mouth?” she demanded.
Part of me quailed, but I just couldn’t be quiet—couldn’t let her take the thing that mattered most to me without a fight!
“It’s mine,” I repeated. “It’s the only thing I have left of my mother,” I added, hoping to get her to soften up some. “She died in a car wreck.”
“Like we care what happened to your stupid mom,” Alexis sniffed. She opened the music box again and then snapped the lid shut decisively. “It’s mine now. It might be worth something—it looks old.”
I felt a deep well of despair open inside me. The music box really was all I had left of my mother and I had nothing at all of my father, except the few worn stuffed animals in the box. It was like she was stealing the last little bit of family I had and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Can I at least have my books and other things?” I asked despairingly. Auntie Amelia had encouraged my love of reading, just like my parents had. I hadn’t been allowed to bring all of them so I’d had to narrow it down to the dozen or so that were my absolute favorites. Even if I had no one else, I knew I wouldn’t feel completely alone and friendless as long as I had my books.
But Nancy Spaulding sniffed disapprovingly.
“I don’t think so. With an attitude like that, you need to be taught a lesson. Besides, I’m sure those old stuffed animals are just crawling with germs! Alexis, my sweet, have Theo throw the box and all the junk inside it out on the trash pile.”
“But…but…” I began, but Alexis Spaulding was already clapping her hands sharply and shouting,
“Theo? Theo!”
A tall, gangly boy who looked a few years older than me came into the living room. He had lank brown hair and a truly terrible case of teenage acne. He looked at Alexis mutely, as though waiting for instructions.
“Throw that box of garbage out on the trash pile,” Alexis ordered him imperiously. “And then go wash my car—the tires are dusty.”
Theo nodded silently and gathered my cardboard box of books and other precious belongings into his arms. He exited as noiselessly as he had come in and I watched him leave with tears in my eyes.
I was soon to learn that this was how the foster children were treated in the Spaulding house. We were no more than domestic servants to Nancy and Gary and Alexis. The three of them acted like the mini-mansion they lived in was their own private kingdom and they were the absolute rulers and owners of everything—and everyone—inside it.
“Now that that’s settled, we can move on,” Nancy Spaulding said, turning to me. “Do you know how to do laundry? Don’t lie and say you do if you don’t,” she added, her eyes narrowing in warning. “You’ll find out soon enough that liars don’t go unpunished around here.”
I wanted to scream and shout at her, but there was a steely glint in her eyes. And what could I do—demand to call my case worker? Even if I did, I knew the woman didn’t really care about me—I was just a problem she thought she had already solved. She was obviously convinced that the Spauldings were the perfect foster family and even if she could be convinced otherwise—which I doubted—she had clearly stated that she had nowhere else to put me.