N O N F I C T I O N
Foster
DANIELLE GRAY
T
HE FIRST HALLOWEEN I remember , I was living with my mother again after a few years in foster care . I was four years old , three months into Headstart , and she bought me a witch ’ s costume from the corner store that we walked to for her cigarettes . I wanted the lime green leggings that came in a separate package , but she said they were too expensive . Instead she bought me my favorite candy — watermelon Laffy Taffy — and her Quinto cards . I balanced on the curb as we walked back , nibbling all the black seeds off the candy while she scratched off losses .
Our block of government housing was a neat U across the street from the bus stop , all yellow houses with brick bottoms , matching doors and tiny windows . Inside , I knew , each one had an identical layout : living room and kitchen with a narrow utility hallway between , a staircase with a small landing at the bottom , and two bedrooms upstairs . The brown shag rugs in the living rooms were all the same , though caked with different things — ours had Amanda ’ s melted crayons and the glass from that time Gary threw her into the TV , and Miss Caroline ’ s next door had globs of cat fur . The secret of the houses , the real difference , was that each bathroom was a different hideous pastel . Ours was a ghastly green the color of Colgate toothpaste ; Ricky two houses down had Pepto-Bismol pink . As we stopped at each house in the arch , making our way from the safe side of the street to where all the big kids lived , I imagined all the colors that might lie in those bathrooms upstairs : frosty blues and gentle lavenders , an orange the color of milky vomit .
My legs were cold when the sun went down , but I didn ’ t want to tell her . The plastic pumpkin in my hand was light , only half full with candy , and Amanda was quiet in her arms . The foster mother had been a worrier , always calling
3