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Foster Trash

There was a boy across the street, and Beth wanted to play. But when she crossed the street and asked, he pushed her down, and she tore her jeans and scraped her knee in the gravel. It hurt, but she was too surprised and angry to think of crying. She punched him, and his nose bled. He did cry, and he ran inside, yelling "Mommy."

Sammy back home talked about her Mommy, sometimes. She said she'd see her again, someday. Sometimes, too, when Mr. Hollis wasn't drinking beer on the brown couch, Sammy had shown her channels on TV that played stories about mommies. Mommies were people that looked like you, people that belonged to you. Mrs. Hollis wasn't Beth's Mommy. Beth didn't think she had a Mommy. She couldn't remember one, anyway. Before Mrs. Hollis there'd been another lady, but Beth was sure she hadn't been Mommy, either.

Beth was just kneeling down to see the blood and dirt on her knee, curious, when the boy across the street came out again with a woman that looked like him. She yelled at Beth with the ugly words Mrs. Hollis sometimes yelled at Mr. Hollis when the beer made him smelly and he fell asleep on the brown couch and forgot to go to work.

"Can't the Hollises control their foster trash? You just stay away from Ethan, you hear? If I see you in front of our building again, I'll report them. You tell them: I'll report you as violent and neglected, and that will be the last they ever see of their state money. See how long they last after that. And you? It'll be another home for you, you little hellion."

The kid, tucked under his Mommy's arm, was smiling. Beth made a face at him and left the yard. She'd only wanted to play ball with him. His ball was red, Beth's favorite color. He didn't have to be a . . . a stupid horse? Isn't that what Mrs. Hollis called Mr. Hollis?

She'd never been called foster trash before. Beth didn't think she was trash.

RECORDING: MRS. HOLLIS TO THE SOCIAL WORKER, 2158

A. HOLLIS: Beth? That girl has got to learn to control her goddamn temper. She's a shrimpy little smartass, is what she is, and the neighborhood kids won't stand for it. But when the little scrapper kicks their whiny asses, I'm the one that gets burned. Don't get me wrong. I like to see the little sons of bitches get theirs, like to see a kid stand up for herself, but I can't have trouble in the house.

A/N: So I realized The Disaster Zone is actually really unwieldy all together, and I can't possibly describe all of it in a single synopsis. So I'm editing the piece, adding some content that was never there before, and rereleasing the piece as seven separate fics. Updates on Wednesdays and Saturdays for now, until I hit writer's block or life happens. If you've never seen this before, welcome! Tell me what you think. If you used to like this story and have just now found it again, welcome back!

Always,

LMSharp