October 2004

The blinds on the office windows had been closed halfway, letting in enough indirect light to give the room a dusty glow. The late afternoon sun bloomed off of the piles of paperwork haphazardly crowding the desk. Stacks had been layered diagonally on top of other stacks to make room for the manilla folder which laid open like a gutted fish; its confidential organs on display.

Jack slouched on the lumpy brown sofa. He leaned forward to avoid touching the musty cushions at his back. His shoulders hunched as he rested his elbows on his knees. 

The current, unengaging, reprimand he was receiving paled in comparison to those from his previous foster home. He was able to pretend that his scruffy sneakers were the most interesting thing in the room.

“How do you explain yourself,” Mr. Green asked. He stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed. Behind him was the desk, flooded with an array of papers and forms. He was angry, actually, disappointed would be more accurate. Jack heaved both shoulders in a shrug, not bothering to look up from the floor. Smoke was coming out of Green’s ears. “You’re lucky you didn’t get expelled! You do understand that the stunt you pulled is the reason you’ve been kicked out of another house?”

How could he forget? The thought burned in the back of Jack’s throat. He swallowed the impulse to explain what happened, how getting sent here was the only way out, but it’d be easier to cut this reunion short. Hunger pains pinged at his gut and exhaustion vignetted his vision.

“Am I being detained, or am I free to go,” he joked in poor taste. He knew the bite in his tone risked an encore, but he was scraping the bottom of the self-restraint barrel. Green clenched his crossed arms.

“Why am I wasting my time,” he mumbled loudly. He wanted Jack to hear it. Reverse psychology worked the last time he had to reason with Jack a few years ago. Time had changed things. Green adjusted his reading glasses and scratched at the edges of his graying hairline. He didn’t recognize the kid in front of him.

A weight hung around Jack’s shoulders. His dark hair hid a face twisted by heavy eyebrows. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, he thought as he braced himself for the impending encore. 

The room sank in silence. The wall clock ticked out the passage of time, like bubbles to the surface. The weight of it leaked into Jack’s lungs, making him uncomfortably aware of his own breathing. He glanced up from his extended shoe inspection.

Green had leaned back against the desk. His eyes were skimming the guts of the manilla folder; of Jack’s folder. Jack’s measured breath stuck in his throat. He wanted to take it, take it and burn it. Green’s eyes came to a halt near the bottom of the page. Jack’s hands curled into fists as he tensed. Green sighed. 

“Go on.” He waved out the seventeen-year-old. “You know what room you’re in. I’ll decide your punishment later.” 

Jack pushed himself to his feet and turned to leave before Green could change his mind. He swung open the heavy office door, narrowly missing the kid standing on the other side. The kid leaned back to dodge. His dark brown curls bounced with the motion, though his expression didn’t change.