Maybe one day I’ll be a great songwriter or something.Ī muffled thud near my window startles me from a sound sleep. The song I’m listening to now is particularly soothing, a hymn or possibly an opera. My dye runs out long before I’m satisfied with my raven so I give up and climb into bed. It’s sad that I can only hear my songs some of the time, when I’m tired and relaxed, and sadder still that no one else can listen with me. I can’t understand the words and don’t know the tune, but the music is sweet and peaceful. Tonight, the singing is boldly wafting through my window. I stand on the bed and fill in the gentle face of my birdie while humming along with the chorus of voices outside. Queens is especially chatty tonight with the noise of cars, people fighting, dogs barking, and the laughter that only I can hear. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and open the window. Being angry with her is like being mad at one of the cats-pointless. Auntie’s not a mean person, she’s just a bit off.

Part of the reason I chose what the box calls boysenberry for my hair is because the extra dye is the perfect hue for the raven I’m painting on my ceiling.ĭipping the number-three flat brush into my dye calms me and all is forgiven. I love my tiny room, mostly because I’ve been sketching and painting jumbled and disjointed art on these walls since I was old enough to grip a pencil. It’s not like I was expecting a cake, but something to eat would’ve been nice.Īfter I dye my hair, I take a shirt from the pile of laundry I’m standing on, wrap it around my head, and carry the remaining hair dye back to my bedroom. She just wants me to tell her that I’m okay with her not picking up dinner.

Uncle hasn’t been home for three days, and I doubt she believes he’ll be here tonight.

My foster parents, I call them Auntie and Uncle, are not what I would describe as parents, or even aunt and uncle, they’re more like babysitters. ”I told you, Uncle will pick something up when he’s done with work.” “Agatha, are you still pouting?” Auntie yells from her recliner. The shower hasn’t worked since it was turned into a storage closet, so I clear the sink of the old cat food cans Auntie has stockpiled, turn on the cold water, and dream about the day when I’ll have my own apartment with a shower, hot water, and food. I grab the box of midnight-purple hair dye from my book bag and squeeze my way down the narrow, overstuffed hall into the only bathroom in our apartment.

The Lost Knight by Candy Atkins