The Glass Wall (Return of the Ancients Book 1) (2 page)

I peered into the large mirror hanging above the dresser.

I looked tired. My black hair hung limply over my shoulders and there were dark smudges under my green eyes. I looked just like Maya. It was hard seeing a younger version of her face staring back at me, so I turned away and set my backpack gingerly on the bed.

“Where is your mother?” Grace asked bluntly from her position at the door.

“In rehab,” I said shortly.

“Father?” she asked, leaning on her lacrosse stick like a crutch.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Never met him.”

Grace grunted in reply. It was a bored sound. “Dinner is in an hour,” she said, and then left.

A few seconds later, I heard the back door bang again, and I looked out the window to see her playing wall ball against the side of what looked like a small shed.

She’d only caught three balls before sounds of squawking erupted and Betty yelled from the living room, “Not the chicken coop, Grace!”

I blinked.

Chickens?

Who had chickens in the middle of a city?

Granted, Mercer Island didn’t look like a city. I was surrounded by trees, but I knew that the island was in the middle of a small lake, with skyscrapers from Seattle on one side and skyscrapers from the city of Bellevue on the other.

I watched as the weirdest chickens I’d ever seen ran around the corner of the shed. They had big mops of feathers on their heads that covered their eyes. They obviously couldn’t see where they were going. And as if to demonstrate this, one of them ran straight into Grace’s leg.

Grumbling, Grace began playing wall ball against the chimney instead of the chicken coop, and I turned my attention back to my backpack.

I unzipped it with care and carefully removed an empty paper towel roll. A series of air holes peppered the cardboard and duct tape securely covered both ends. I peeled the tape away from one end and found myself greeted by a tiny, sniffing nose.

“Hi, Jerry,” I said, my lips splitting into the silly grin that only he could summon.

Jerry was nothing extraordinary. He was just a plain, gray mouse. I’d rescued him from a cat the year before and had smuggled him with me wherever I went. He was quite adaptable, living in boxes, drawers, and even my backpack whenever necessary.

I fed him a few sunflower seeds and let him crawl on the bed, spooning myself around him so he couldn’t escape.

I yawned. It had been a long day, so I spent my time on the bed playing with Jerry until Betty called me for dinner. After looking around a bit, I found an empty box under the bed and made Jerry a makeshift home. I bunched an old sweater of mine into one corner of it for a bed. He loved chewing holes in that sweater. I’d have to give him a new one to munch on soon. This one was mostly tatters.

We had just finished setting the dinner table when my new foster father arrived.

Neelu had said his name was Al and he strode into the kitchen dressed in fatigues. He was very tall and very bald. His eyes were bright blue and his brows seemed stuck in a perpetual frown.

“You must be Sydney!” he barked.

I nodded cautiously.

He unlaced his army boots, shoved them in the closet, and sat at the table.

“It’ll do Grace some good to have another girl around here,” he said. “She’ll be happy to have a friend.”

I rather doubted that. From what I could tell, Grace and I didn’t have much in common.

“Yes!” Betty shouted from the living room. “I got them!”

“Time to stop working, Mom,” Grace mumbled through a mouthful of toast.

We were having eggs, ham, and toast for dinner. With all the chickens in the backyard, I figured we would be eating eggs every day. There was a huge bowl of them on the counter next to a half dozen plastic cartons.

“I’ll take Sydney shopping tomorrow for school supplies,” Betty said as she came into the kitchen and stretched. “Looks like she could use a few things.”

My eyes narrowed, and I felt a twinge of suspicion. Was the woman implying something? Was she trying to be my
friend
? I’d met lots of
those
types over the years, the ones who enjoy bragging about their good deeds to anyone who will listen.

“UPS is here!” Grace announced, crunching on another piece of toast.

They all stood up, scrambling for their shoes.

“Come on, Sydney.” Al ordered. “We all help with the UPS.”

I followed them to the driveway where the UPS man was already unloading a mound of packages.

It took quite some time for Grace and me to lug all of the boxes inside while Betty chattered with the driver and Al signed with the digital pen. I wondered how that qualified as “help” but didn’t say anything, of course. I didn’t know these people.

I’d just picked up my last box when a deep rumble of an engine caught my attention.

A large van with “Bob the Mover” printed on the side, lumbered down the street. It stopped in front of the house with the
Sold
sign, next door to the one with the cement zoo.

“Oh, look, Al,” Betty said. “Our new neighbors are here.”

We watched as two men in coveralls jumped out of the cab and began to unload a mass of modern furniture.

“I love that couch,” Betty murmured, almost drooling.

“Expensive stuff,” Al observed, folding his arms. “It’s all new. We’ll have to keep an eye on them.”

“Don’t be so suspicious!” Betty shook her head with a little laugh and slipped her arm through his. “Heading the neighborhood crime watch has really gone to your head, honey.”

“Just saying it don’t match the house, too expensive,” Al muttered.

“Doesn’t
, dear,” she corrected. “It
doesn’t
match the house.”

“It’s suspicious,” Al insisted.

“I’m going to shoot some hoops…” Grace began, but she fell silent as a shiny black sports car swerved around the corner.

I’m not a car person, but even I could tell it was outrageously expensive.

“That’s a Bentley.” Al gave a low whistle. “That car is worth more than the house!”

It certainly looked it. As the sleek car slowed in front of us, the driver’s dark window rolled down.

I only got a glimpse of him as he passed, waving a long-fingered hand in greeting, but it was enough that both Grace and I found our jaws dropping.

His shoulder-length blond hair was styled in a fashion straight out of a Japanese anime book. Designer sunglasses covered his eyes. His nose was long and straight, and his jaw firm. He wore a black muscle T-shirt that did a superb job of highlighting his athletic physique to the fullest.

Even Betty watched as he exited the car with the grace of a cat.

I found myself agreeing with Al. There was something very suspicious about this new neighbor. He didn’t look like the type who lived in rundown houses. He stood out in this neighborhood like a sore thumb.

“Time to work, girls,” Betty ordered cheerfully.

I followed her inside.

Al stayed outside to wax his truck, but even I knew it was really to keep an eye on the new neighbor. Grace wanted to ‘help’ him, but he sent her into the house to unpack Betty’s boxes.

“We should introduce ourselves to the new neighbor,” Grace said, tossing me a utility knife.

I caught it and opened my box. It was filled with “Hook, Line, and Stinker” fishing games that you were supposed to play while sitting on the toilet.

“Or we could give him some eggs,” Grace continued with a goofy smile on her face.

“He probably doesn’t cook,” I said. No, he reminded me of the kind that blended every meal in a Vitamix while lifting weights.

My next box contained boot and glove dryers.

Grace had a case of little machines that spread butter on toast.

“What do you think he eats?” Grace wondered, gazing into the distance.

At the moment, I was more fascinated with the odd selection of items we were unpacking than strange blond neighbors. “What do you do with all this stuff?” I asked. I giggled a little as I held up a piggy bank shaped like a butt. It was called a “Fanny Bank”.

“These are for gift baskets,” Betty explained. She surveyed her purchases with a pleased expression and then shook her head. “I missed the Snuggie craze. I could have bought cases of them before they turned viral!”

“Mom, videos go viral, not Snuggies,” Grace growled, obviously a little embarrassed by her mom. Resuming her dreamy expression, she murmured, “We could make him some cookies.”

“He’s awfully cute.” Betty teased with an overly exaggerated sigh and placed her hand theatrically over her heart. “If I was younger…”

“Mom!” Grace looked horrified.

Betty laughed. “Good job, girls,” she said as she made her way into the kitchen to put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. “Sydney, run outside and tell Al it’s time to watch
Glee
.”

I found Al still waxing his truck. In fact, he was still waxing the same spot. He’d donned a battalion cap and had it pulled low over his face. It made it even more obvious that he was watching the neighbors across the street.

“Betty says it’s time for
Glee
,” I said, wondering what power she had over this burly army man to make him sit and watch an hour of warbling teenagers on TV.

Al jumped a little.

I’d apparently startled him.

“Glee
?” he repeated. He glanced across the street, appearing genuinely torn.

“I can finish here,” I offered. I hated
Glee
and didn’t want to be roped into watching it. I’d much rather wax the truck.

Al brightened visibly. Leaning closer, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Just pretend to wax while you gather intel,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “Take note of who comes in and out and let me know if anyone new shows up. We might be dealing with drugs here.”

Drugs? I stared at him. Intel? I’d just meant I’d wax the truck.

He nodded. “You’ll be safe. They won’t dare do anything in this neighborhood, not with the crime watch program that I run. And besides, you have Tigger here as protection.”

I looked around, confused.

He pointed.

Tigger, it turned out, was a red
-
brindled bloodhound snoozing with his head under the rear truck wheel. It wasn’t an encouraging sign of his intelligence.

“Yeah,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as sarcastic as I felt.

“Wear this,” he said, dropping his hat on my head. “They won’t be able to see your eyes that way. They’ll never know you’re watching.” And with that he scurried into the house, a spring in his step.

I shook my head, wondering a little about these people, but decided it didn’t matter. It was my last year of school and my last year of foster care.

It was also my last yo-yo year with Maya.

There are tons of horror stories of the foster care system, but I’d never experienced one. The families that had hosted me over the years were guilty of only one crime: they were boring. Even those who had discovered my shoplifting habit had just reacted with speeches, made me go to counseling, or signed me up for community service. Nope, I’d never been abused or even yelled at.

I sighed.

It was all ending and soon I’d no longer be an actor in Maya’s Drama of Life.

She had played the same tragedy for years.

Act One: My mother and her boyfriend
du jour
would fight, he’d leave, she’d turn to alcohol to numb the pain, enter rehab, and I’d be escorted to a new foster care family.

Act Two: After rehab, Maya would fight to get me back, succeed, and then we would have a few good months after moving to a different state for a fresh start.

Act Three: She’d look in the mirror, convince herself she was getting old and find another man, any man.
Voila!
It was time for Act One all over again.

I tried hard to convince Maya that she didn’t need a man to make herself ‘complete’ (I’ve watched more than my share of Oprah), but she didn’t believe me.

She insisted I couldn’t understand because I’d never been in love.

I don’t believe she ever had either, because I don’t think love is sitting your kid in front of the TV while you try to change yourself into whatever the man sitting at the kitchen table wants you to be.

Over the years, I’d witnessed Maya transform herself into many things: a blonde motorcycle chick, a headbanging black-haired Goth, an eco-friendly-no-makeup-allowed hippie, and even a UFO cult fanatic.

I liked the motorcycle chick phase the most. I loved riding the bikes, hanging on for dear life, with the wind whipping through my hair. I never wore a helmet and she didn’t care as long as the cops didn’t see.

A loud snarl jolted me from my thoughts, and I found myself face to face with a Doberman. It was as if he’d jumped straight out of a scary movie with his long pointed ears, a bobbed tail, and lips drawn back in a sneer that revealed rows of perfectly white—and very sharp—teeth.