But then Callie and Kayden walk in the room with boxes in their hands, ready to pack up the last of her stuff, and I force myself to shove my bed-binding emotions down and move again.

After packing for a while, Callie and Kayden start making out with each other. They actually think they’re in love and the concept is ridiculously absurd to me. I sort of feel sorry for them, because one day down the road they’re going to break up and it’s going to hurt. They’ll cry. They’ll become depressed. They’ll eat lots of ice cream or whatever people do when they mourn the loss of a relationship.

I remember one foster home I lived at when I was about fourteen. The Peircesons, a husband and wife that lived in a townhouse in this decent subdivision where each house was a duplicate of the other. I remember, when I pulled up to it, thinking it was pretty and that worried me because I was anything but pretty. I wore dark clothes, chains for a belt, and I had more studs in my ear than I could count on my fingers. I was going through a misunderstood phase and wanted everyone to know it. The Peircesons were decent, but the husband seemed a little uninterested in having a teenager around. At first, it seemed like my stay there was going to be boring, until I was out back one day on the porch and the next-door neighbor came out, talking on her phone. There was a tall fence, so she couldn’t see me at first, but I could hear her talking dirty to someone on the phone, telling them she would spank them. The conversation got me interested the longer it went on and by the time it was over I was laughing, something I hadn’t done in a while.

The lady must have heard me, too, because when she hung up she peeked her head over the fence. She seemed a little annoyed at first that I was eavesdropping, but her annoyance turned to intrigue when I showed no remorse for listening.

After that, I started hanging out with her during the three hours I had between when school ended and the Peircesons came home from work. She taught me how to light her cigarettes for her and told me the ins and outs of men, even though I told her I’d never fall in love. Her name was Starla, although I never really believed it was her real name, but it seemed fitting. She ran a phone chat operation from her house, which meant she told guys she was doing dirty things to herself, playing into their fetishes while they jerked off. She actually had a part-time job as a saleswoman at a car dealership, living a double life. She reminded me of a starlet from the 1940s when she was at home, her blond hair always curled, she wore a lot of silk, and sometimes even a feather boa. She told me she dressed like that because it made her feel like the sexy seductress she played on the phone. When I asked her why she enjoyed talking to men like she did, she told me it was because it made her feel like she had control over them. That she’d had too many heartbreaks and spent too many nights crying over ice cream and this helped her stay away from that. What was amusing about the whole thing is usually she was cooking dinner or reading a magazine, even watching television when she was talking dirty to the guys. She never actually did any of the stuff she said.

“You like that, Biggie,” she’d said once into the phone as she walked around the living room cleaning up the garbage laying around, while wearing her silk robe and slippers. I was hanging out on her couch, waiting until it was time to return home to the boring Peircesons, watching reruns of My So-Called Life, this nineties television show that got canceled after one season, but I found highly entertaining.

I giggled when she called him Biggie and she’d glanced over at me, smiling as she rolled her eyes. “Creeper,” she mouthed.

I laughed again. “Aren’t they all.” Then I grabbed a handful of chips out of the bag on my lap. A lot of the guys liked her to call them their special nicknames and I was guessing this one asked for her to call him Biggie, probably because he wasn’t.

“Oh yeah, I like that,” she said, picking up a few empty glasses off the coffee table. Then she whisked out of the room and I’d returned to my show.

A few minutes later, after the guy had probably finished himself off, she’d come back into the living room, smoking a cigarette. “Men are exhausting,” she said, plopping down on the sofa beside me. The whole house was crammed with gold-trimmed antique furniture, none of which matched, and the teal walls were hung with pictures of bands and actresses she’d met. I loved her place because it was different. Every place I’d lived looked pretty much the same as the others and most of those turned out to be crappy.

“Then why do you work for them?” I’d wondered curiously, kicking my feet up on the coffee table.

She glanced at me as she reached for an ashtray on the coffee table. “Oh my dear, sweet, innocent Violet. They work for me, honey.”

She always used endearing terms and it annoyed me, yet I let it slide with her.

I stuffed a few more chips in my mouth. “You know, I seriously wish you would be my foster mother.”

She smiled sadly, leaning forward to put the cigarette out. “I can’t be a foster mother, Violet. I can barely take care of myself.”

I chewed on the chips as I stared at the television screen. I didn’t get it because it seemed like she took great care of herself, no attachments, doing whatever she wanted. It sounded like such a great life, but maybe she was just saying that because she really didn’t want to be my foster mother.

“So what’s up with the girl with the red hair?” she asked, changing the subject as she reached for the chips. “She seems obsessed with gorgeous eyes right there.”

“I don’t think she’s obsessed.” I silently shouted at the emotions stirring inside me to shut up, that it doesn’t matter if I have a mother or not because it wouldn’t fix anything—fix me. “Just addicted to him.”

“That might be even worse than being obsessed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Addiction is dangerous,” she said and then patted my head as she rose to her feet. “Especially with men.” She’d gone back into the kitchen and moments later the phone rang. I sat on the couch listening to her talk about spanking some guy wondering if she was addicted to guys or whether they were addicted to her. What was the difference?

Even though my time with Starla was fleeting, since the Peircesons quickly got tired of having a foster kid, I learned a lot from her. Not just about manipulation, but about gaining power. Plus she never gave a shit about what she did, even though a lot of people would have looked down on her if they found out about it. She would say stuff that most wouldn’t and I idolized her for it.

“Would you guys knock it off?” I ask Callie and Kayden as I stuff the last of my shirts into the boxes. Callie and Kayden are rolling around on the bed together and I swear I’m about two seconds away from getting a live p**n show.

They barely hear me as Kayden lies down on top of Callie and starts sucking on her neck. I give up on making them stop, scooping up the last of my packed boxes. I still have a few more things to box up but I need a break from all the PDA so I head out of the dorm room and carry the last box down to Preston’s car. He let me borrow it this morning so I could get my stuff to the house a little easier and thankfully my ankle’s healed enough that I’m not walking like I need a cane.

It’s mid-May and the temperature is pushing ninety-something. As I toss the last box into the trunk, I pull my hair up into messy ponytail and then tie the bottom of my T-shirt so that it sits above my waist. I have cut-offs on and my combat boots, the one’s with the broken buckle. It’s hot and I seriously wish that someone would create a law that we could be allowed to walk around na**d when it’s this hot.

Unfortunately if I stripped down and paraded around the campus na**d, I’d probably get arrested. Given the right time and my mood, though, and I’d probably be glad to be handcuffed and thrown into a police car. Plus, it might get me out of going down to the police department on Monday.

* * *

When I pull up to Preston’s trailer house, there’s a party going on. I’m a little irked because he knew I was moving back today and it’s going to be a pain in the ass trying to get my stuff in the house with a bunch of annoying drunk dumb-asses hanging out in the living room.

I park the car as close to the front door as possible, but there’s a line of cars blocking the driveway. People are standing all over the front yard, on the driveway, and on the steps leading to the front door. Most of them are older, but some are about my age. Plastic cups and cigarettes in their hands. I haven’t lived here for nine months and apparently I’ve forgotten what it was like and why I decided to live in the dorms. Living here is like having to deal at parties all the time.

Sighing, I get out of the car and adjust my hair into a more secure ponytail as I bump the door shut with my hip. Some guy wearing an oversize hoodie whistles at me and I shake my head and disregard him as I weave around the people toward the front door.

“What’s up, baby? You come here to give me another show,” a douche named Trey calls out as I walk by him and through the front door. He’s in his midtwenties and when I was staying here he used to walk into my room all the time pretending to be lost when really he was trying to catch me changing, which he did once. I’d have locked the doors but there aren’t any locks on any of them, except for the bathroom.

“I’ll give you another show,” I say, shutting the screen door. “Just as long as I can give you that painful knee-to-the-nuts reminder of what happens after you steal a show?”

His eyelids lower as he puckers a kiss at me and then laughs like he’s the most hilarious person on earth. “It’s a deal.”

I let the screen door slam shut in his face. Cigarette smoke and the pungent scent of weed engulfs me as I squeeze through the crowded room. “Kryptonite” by 3 Doors Down blares from the stereo and some weirdo tripping in the corner is pretending to play air guitar. When I first moved in with Preston things weren’t like this, but that was because of Kelley. Yeah, they were dealers and sometimes I think that was part of the reason they adopted me, so I could go to all the high school parties and sell stuff for them. I wasn’t a fan of it, but I didn’t care, either, so I did what they asked because they gave me a home. But they never brought their dealing or their clients home like this, Kelley would never have allowed it.

I head down the hall toward Preston’s room, knowing he’s probably in there doing something highly illegal. I pause at the door and knock, but the music playing in his bedroom is even louder than the music in the living room. After the third knock I turn the knob and open the door, hoping he’s not ha**g s*x or anything. He’s not but there are four guys on the bed with him and they’re circled around a blue bong shaped like a vase and there’s a guy and a girl on the television screen, the guy ramming her from behind as she moans and whimpers. I’ve seen p**n videos here and there, but not under circumstances where I paid attention to it. But right now, I can’t seem to take my eyes off it. The guy looks so content in this really intense way and so does the girl, but there’s no emotion toward each other. They’re just there in the moment. I wonder if that’s what I look like all the time. Just there in my life.

Finally I blink my eyes away from the screen and fix my attention on the bed. One of the guys has his mouth to the mouthpiece of the tall, slender glass bong and a lighter in his hand, about ready to light up. He says something to Preston and then Preston looks over at the television with this euphoric look on his face.

I’m deciding if I really want to stick around just so I get high off secondhand smoke tonight and sit around watching p**n with a bunch of guys, when Preston notices me lingering in the doorway. His bloodshot blue eyes light up as they scale my body and then he says something as a languid smile spreads on his face, but the music’s too loud for me to make out his words.

“What?” I shout, cupping my hand around my ear.

He turns the music down that’s playing from an old stereo, the smile still on his face as he waves me over to him. The other four guys suddenly notice me, and their undivided attention is unwelcomed on my part. I know there’s something wrong about the situation, but it’s hard to determine what exactly the wrong part is because I’ve seen so much wrong that sometimes it starts to seem right.

I let out a breath, knowing I’m going to have my hands full with five stoned, horny guys in the room. I walk over to the bed and when I reach the edge Preston’s fingers spread around my waist. Pressing his fingertips into me, he guides me to his lap and sits me down on it. I still have my shirt tied up so his hands are on my bare skin and I’m pretty sure I feel his hard-on pressing against my ass. I’m not enthusiastic about the situation so I casually start to slide off his lap, but he only constricts his grip and secures me in place. It stings and I wouldn’t be surprised if he leaves red marks on my skin. It doesn’t feel like he’s being friendly at all, but territorial. Pins and needles prick at my skin as I feel the confusing, indecipherable emotions tied to the moment, to Preston. He means something to me—this means something. I tap my fingers on my leg, trying to figure out what to do.

He leans closer and puts his scruffy chin on my shoulder. “Why are you so tense? Is it the weed or the video?”

I force one of my infamous plastic smiles as I rotate my head toward him. “I’m just tired. I spent all day packing and I still have to go back and finish up.” I don’t mention the thing about the detective because I don’t want to talk about it at the moment.

“Well, I’ll help you unpack the car,” he says, his hands wandering from my waist to the top of my thighs as he glances at the television screen. “That should help, right?”