Orphan Lost, page 2
"Do I have to kiss all of you?" I said miserably.
He just laughed. "You only have to kiss me, but the others will still have to kiss you."
I groaned and closed my eyes, but I couldn't raise my hands to cover my face, his hands, warm and solid, keeping hold of mine. I flushed and looked away as each of the others leaned in to press a kiss to my dimple, the place stinging more and more with each one.
When the last finished, I flinched away, hissing.
"I know it hurts," Rhodes said. "But it's almost done. A quick kiss?"
I glanced up at him, tugging reflexively at his hold. "Do I have to?"
"It was your idea," he pointed out.
I groaned and pressed awkwardly into him—going up onto tiptoes, our hands caught up between us—as I hastily dropped a kiss high on his cheekbone, the scent of bonfires and fallen leaves rising around us as I did.
Fire flashed across my lips, leaping into my chest and throwing us apart. For a moment I felt nothing except the soft sand beneath me, where I'd been flung by the force of the shock wave.
"Stella?" someone gasped, the sound distant and distorted, but the wave of concern that hit me, flooding my heart and senses with warmth, was overwhelming.
I couldn't see.
Someone shook me, concern spiking sharp and overwhelming through every pore of my being. "Stella, open your eyes!"
His fingers dug into the bare skin of one shoulder, bringing first a sense of warmth and reassurance, but then flashing images behind my eyes of an angry woman—elegant and dangerous—with long dark braids, someone who was sure to be furious they'd screwed this up. Someone's mother.
Rhodes' mother.
I reached up and grabbed at his biceps, blinking hard, trying to bring the faces swimming above me into focus. "Don't tell her," I gasped, flashes of past punishments and future fears hitting me hard.
"What?!" Rhodes jerked his hands back from where he'd been holding my shoulders, letting me collapse back into the sand hard enough that I thumped the back of my head, his shock ringing in my ears.
"How?" he rasped, his gaze wild as he looked from me to the others then back again. "You're not fae."
I stared up at him, my chest full of so many feelings: fear and concern and flashes of annoyance that I could tell were coming from Oakley, now that my eyes were open. I was drowning in it, losing myself to the surges of their emotions, and I gasped reflexively, arching up and clawing at my chest.
"Shut her down!" hissed Wilder.
"How?" multiple voices demanded.
I pressed my palms to my face, pressing into my eyes as shock and fear hit me in wave after wave. My legs kicked almost of their own volition, and I shook. Hands pressed me down, down, down.
And then, silence. Stillness in my own head.
I opened my eyes, and I was alone, lying on my back in the sand with books in disarray around me.
I blinked, looking around, but I really was alone; no sign of any of the guys. I turned my head slowly, my hands still lifted as though to fend off a threat, but there weren't even any footsteps leading to where I lay in the sand.
Where had they gone? My heartbeat picked up as I sat up and looked around, questioning myself now. Had they even been real?
Was I just suffering from heat stroke? Mom was always worried about me getting heatstroke when I spent hours out here in the heat. I lifted my hands to my cheeks, and something wet smeared on my right palm. I looked down at it to see blood, bright against my skin. Blood from where they had kissed me. The ring I'd had on my other hand was missing, though my fingers were smeared with ash.
I tugged at my braid, pulling it forward, and a section was missing, just where I remembered cutting it off.
Was I going crazy?
I stood slowly and, with shaking hands, began gathering up my things, blood smearing on some of the covers before I hastily wiped my palm off on my jeans.
"Stella!" a voice called, and I spun around to see my mother, in her Air Force work uniform, waiting at the edge of the playground. I gathered my books more hastily in my arms and ran towards her.
"Mom, mom, you won't believe—"
"What happened to your face?" she gasped in alarm, and she dug for a tissue in her purse, carefully dabbing at my dimple. I opened my mouth to answer, the words on the tip of my tongue, then blinked. Who had bloodied my face? I reached up to touch it, and she pulled my hand down, a gesture that seemed oddly familiar.
"Oh, honey, who did this?"
"I don't know," I told her after a moment, more confused than ever. I'd spent the whole day here, reading alone. "Maybe I caught it on the playground equipment?"
She frowned, rubbing at it and looking again. "It looks like a cut, but I could have sworn—"
"I think… I hit my face?" I offered. "I got too hot. And there was a scorpion," I suddenly recalled. "I jumped up because there was a scorpion on my leg, and maybe I bashed it then?"
"Were you stung?" she asked, concerned, as she dabbed one last time at my cheek.
"No," I said, sure of that at least. "Is it going to scar?"
"Hmm. Maybe. I don't think it's too bad," she said. "At least it isn't bleeding anymore. Come on." She pushed the soiled tissue into her purse and turned to head back to the parking lot.
"What does it look like?" I asked as I stretched my legs to catch up with her.
"A star. That's an odd-shaped bolt you must have hit," she said, smiling down at me warmly and wrapping her hand around mine.
I had the thought that it was odd that I didn't remember the pain of hitting myself on the play equipment, but, as I trotted to keep up with her, my brain cleared, and I calmed. We left the empty playground behind, and I never looked back.
Chapter 1
The orphan bus slowed, dust from the gravel road kicking up so I couldn't see out the window I was pressed against. My backpack sat in my lap; my arms looped through the straps holding it protectively against me. Brakes hissed and squealed as we made a turn, slinging me hard against the glass and making the guy next to me slam into my shoulder.
He mumbled what I assumed was an apology in a language I didn't recognize. I just shrugged without looking over at him as he straightened back up. Instead, I pressed close to the glass, my breath fogging the cold window. I wiped at it, trying to catch a glimpse of where we were, the dust not rising as high now that we were travelling slower. But there was little to see outside beyond corn. Long rows of corn, thunderous storm clouds, and hills in the distance. Then, briefly, a bright glint that could have been a river.
As stormy as the sky was, it looked less like it was warning of the danger of extreme weather and more like there would be a brilliant sunset over the farm country. Probably the imagery would be completed with a few picturesque barns and some fat, happy cattle. This deep in the Midwest, it was all corn, cattle, and windmills, for hours of driving on end.
We passed a side road, and then we swung around hard, pulling into a farmyard.
As I breathed in, I couldn't smell anything beyond body odor, old sweat, and someone's fart. The yard was framed by long, low buildings, easily 100 feet or more long, and the setup said some kind of factory farm.
Not a fart then. Methane. A pig farm.
Great.
The bus creaked to a halt in an array of hisses and grinding brakes, clouds of dust hiding the view.
Our chaperone stood up at the front of the bus and began calling names from her list, most of them Hispanic and male. Typical. Just 'randomly' assign all the tough Hispanic guys to a farm in rural wherever-we-were so they could slave away as cheap labor.
That's not racist.
"Aster Sylvie," she continued.
I perked up at my name, changing my mind. Rural wherever-we-were was definitely better than spending more weeks on this bus, stuck with feeling that we were riding endlessly. And at least, getting off here, I was still in the Midwest, far enough from the major cities to be safe from foreign weapon strikes, but close enough to food production not to starve.
"Lucky," muttered the girl who was sitting on the other end of the bus seat with me and the guy as I shuffled my bag into a better hold and stood up.
"Now you get more space to sleep," I told her, and she and my seat mate shifted to let me slide by. "Good luck."
"Yeah," she said, desolately, before elbowing the guy. "You window or me?"
At his blank look, she pointed at my now-empty seat and then at herself before dramatically arching her eyebrows in query. He just shrugged and leaned back, crossing his arms so she could slide past with her own bag.
I turned my back on them and made my way to the back of the group of guys waiting to get off. They weren't all Hispanic, but enough of them were that it couldn't be coincidence. All of them were more built than I was, so if this was farming country, I wasn't entirely sure why I had been picked. I also didn't care.
At least I was getting off the bus.
I shuffled slowly behind them, carrying my backpack in my arms. Putting it on my back was an invitation for pick pocketing, so I ignored our chaperone's scowl when she saw it. Instead I took my paperwork from her and stepped down onto the packed dirt of the barnyard. It was dusk, flashes of movement in the darkening sky hinting at bats hunting bugs amongst the security lights that were dotted along the buildings.
The construction looked new. I was pretty sure the smell meant it was a pig farm, from the sweet edge to the odor. Less grassy-smelling than cows. I wasn't rude enough to wrinkle my nose, but I made sure to breathe shallowly as I walked behind the group towards the families standing and waiting. I wasn't going to insult their livelihood if there was a chance they'd pick me.
I wasn't really sure where we were today. In Wisconsin, Iowa, or Minnesota, maybe. I was pretty sure we were north of Illinois, but they hadn't exactly made announcements on our way here.
There were a good fifty people waiting and maybe fifteen of us in the group who'd got off the orphan bus. Most of them looked like farmers, dirty, wearing a similar outfit of muddy boots, jeans, and T-shirt with holes creeping out around the neck. It wasn't a bad number of possible hosts, but I wasn't farm girl material, and at this point I was seriously suspecting I'd get passed over again and tossed back on the bus. I was thin and weak—and looked it—and my greasy hair and face tattoo would probably scare them off if my obvious uselessness didn't.
We all came to a stop under the glow of the closest security light, and I swallowed hard. A few Hispanic men immediately came forward out of the crowd, and I blinked, re-evaluating the situation. Maybe they'd been trying to match races rather than being racist?
They walked over to the guys standing sullenly in front of me, voices pitched low, speaking rapidly in Spanish and, after only a few minutes, I was left alone, standing awkwardly in front of the group who'd come to meet the bus, while the lucky guys trailed after their new "families." There were some murmurs from amongst the locals, but no one stepped forward, and my heart sank. Back on the bus for me, one of many times I'd been rejected over the last month. Back to hours on the road, endless sitting beside strangers only to stand in front of other strangers, to be rejected again. I turned away, walking back towards the chaperone, as I had a good dozen times before, when a woman's voice called out strongly, "Wait, honey."
I froze, then turned back around to see a middle-aged woman with her dirty blond hair half up in a sloppy bun, wearing a brown sweatshirt that said simply "Farmer Girl." Her boots were just as muddy as everyone else's, but her jeans had rhinestones that glittered as she approached.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice softer now that she was closer.
I licked my lips before answering. "Stella."
"Where you from?"
I shrugged. "Military family."
Her face softened. Everyone knew what had happened to the kids who'd been left behind when both parents had been called to the front.
"Your parents coming back for you?" she asked, softer still, as if making sure her voice didn't carry.
I firmed my chin and shook my head. My parents lay in graves in lands I'd never go to, the fighting too intense to send their bodies home. No. My parents were never coming home. She looked at me a little more sharply, running her eyes over my face, then sighed and pinched her brow. "You a gang banger?"
"No," I said, truthfully. "The tattoo hides a scar. Now I get picked on less."
"Your only tattoo?"
"Yeah," I said, a bit desperately. "I've never gotten in trouble." What more could I do to prove it to her? "I haven't been on a farm but I'm a hard worker, and I…"
There was a lot I'd be willing to do for a chance at a home.
"You willing to learn?" she asked, cutting me off, and I just nodded, meeting her gaze while trying not to look as desperate as I felt.
She stared at me.
"I'm underweight," I finally admitted. "Not too strong. But I'm willing to try if you are."
She nodded slowly, thinking, and then gestured for me to follow her towards the crowd.
My heart leapt and I took a step back. This was it. "One second, um, I need to say goodbye."
She shrugged and crossed her arms.
I ran back to the bus and up the front steps. In the first seat, there were 3 kids sitting and watching the proceedings. The kid in the middle was a slender Asian kid with a kink to his hair. I dug in my backpack and pulled my lunch bag out, passing it to him. "Good luck."
His eyes lit up and he unzipped the top and dug for a sandwich, the two teens on either side of him leaning in hopefully. "Thanks."
I gave a sharp nod and ran back off the bus, zipping up my backpack. When I reached the woman who was waiting, I flashed her a nervous smile then fell in step with her as she began talking. "We're a small family and we have a family farm."
"Pigs?" I guessed, just based on where we were and trotted to catch up.
"Cattle."
That was a relief. I brightened despite trying not to show any preferences, which she must have noticed because her shoulders relaxed. "You ever work with livestock?"
"No," I admitted quickly. "Nothing bigger than pet rabbits, and they weren't for meat. But
I can learn."
"Crops?"
"I've canned jams and jellies," I offered. "And I can cook some."
Mom had learned to can with me, a bonding experience built on donations of grapes from the neighbor's garden in South Dakota. My heart clenched at the memory, and I blinked hard, lifting my chin as we reached the back of the crowd. The last few folks parted to let us through as the bus started up with a rumble and a belch of exhaust gas.
If I was lucky, they'd noted down what township they'd left me at so my extended family could find me later, but I wasn't crossing my fingers.
"What's your full name?" she asked, leading me to a battered truck that was dusted generously with gravel and muck of various sorts.
"Aster Sylvie," I got out. "But my momma called me Stella."
Her mouth softened as she worked the ancient lock. "I'm Donna McCullick. We don't have much, but I couldn't leave you standing there."
"Thank you," I whispered and climbed in after she'd swung the door open for me. I set my backpack on the floor in front of my knees, then quickly buckled up so she didn't have to prompt me. She swung up on the other side, setting the truck rocking, didn't bother to buckle, and we set off with a roar of exhaust.
The road was rough, and the truck had terrible shocks. I grabbed the handle above my head and held on. Donna steered with one hand while punching various buttons on the dash with the other, and the windows on both sides slid down to let warm night air in.
The truck wasn't a crew cab, just an old working vehicle, luckily not turned in during the steel shortage.
Leaving the farm, the air was already lighter, smelling of fresh-cut hay and night-blooming flowers. I cleared my throat and pitched my voice up over the air rushing through the cab. "What are the rules?"
She heaved a sigh. "Let me talk to my husband. He didn't know I was coming to see you kids."
I cringed at that. That meant I was a surprise. Probably an unwelcome one. She noticed my reaction and leaned over to thump me on the knee. "It'll be fine."
"Do you… do you have enough food to share?" I forced out. Lots of places had shortages, but I had hoped that farm country would mean food.
She cast an appraising look at me. "We'll fatten you up."
I sighed and leaned back in the seat, my stomach rumbling. I'd had a processed cheese sandwich at lunch, but that had been a good six or seven hours earlier. I'd been saving my food, stretching it out for the times when there wouldn't be enough for everyone.
We fishtailed around a corner, the headlights lighting up a long rutted drive ahead of us, and I shot my other hand out to clutch onto the dash as we bounced around at speed. The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart, but we managed to reach a group of farm buildings crouched around a blue-tinted security light. The truck slowed as we approached an old farmhouse with peeling white paint, the windows glowing with light, and we pulled up alongside several other parked vehicles.
Donna hit the button for the windows before turning the engine off. As she got out, I snagged my bag and jumped down, slamming the door as carefully as I could. A chunk of rust fell to the ground, and I winced. The air was heavy with the scent of silage, and I could see a large garden alongside the barn.
"Let me do the talking, Stella," she said. I followed her up a concrete walk that was half-buried in the lawn and a little hard to see because the security light was focused on lighting up the barnyard instead. The house was warmly lit inside, casting a welcoming glow towards us.
She stomped across the porch, making each step hard enough to knock mud off her boots, and swung the screen door open. I caught it from her hand and followed her lead in taking my shoes off in a mud room smelling of cows and the barnyard.
Then it was fake it until I made it. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped into a dining room thick with the scent of roast meat and potatoes. A man and two teens, a girl and a boy, both nearly adults, sat eating at a table long enough to sit eight. One place setting sat waiting for Donna.
He just laughed. "You only have to kiss me, but the others will still have to kiss you."
I groaned and closed my eyes, but I couldn't raise my hands to cover my face, his hands, warm and solid, keeping hold of mine. I flushed and looked away as each of the others leaned in to press a kiss to my dimple, the place stinging more and more with each one.
When the last finished, I flinched away, hissing.
"I know it hurts," Rhodes said. "But it's almost done. A quick kiss?"
I glanced up at him, tugging reflexively at his hold. "Do I have to?"
"It was your idea," he pointed out.
I groaned and pressed awkwardly into him—going up onto tiptoes, our hands caught up between us—as I hastily dropped a kiss high on his cheekbone, the scent of bonfires and fallen leaves rising around us as I did.
Fire flashed across my lips, leaping into my chest and throwing us apart. For a moment I felt nothing except the soft sand beneath me, where I'd been flung by the force of the shock wave.
"Stella?" someone gasped, the sound distant and distorted, but the wave of concern that hit me, flooding my heart and senses with warmth, was overwhelming.
I couldn't see.
Someone shook me, concern spiking sharp and overwhelming through every pore of my being. "Stella, open your eyes!"
His fingers dug into the bare skin of one shoulder, bringing first a sense of warmth and reassurance, but then flashing images behind my eyes of an angry woman—elegant and dangerous—with long dark braids, someone who was sure to be furious they'd screwed this up. Someone's mother.
Rhodes' mother.
I reached up and grabbed at his biceps, blinking hard, trying to bring the faces swimming above me into focus. "Don't tell her," I gasped, flashes of past punishments and future fears hitting me hard.
"What?!" Rhodes jerked his hands back from where he'd been holding my shoulders, letting me collapse back into the sand hard enough that I thumped the back of my head, his shock ringing in my ears.
"How?" he rasped, his gaze wild as he looked from me to the others then back again. "You're not fae."
I stared up at him, my chest full of so many feelings: fear and concern and flashes of annoyance that I could tell were coming from Oakley, now that my eyes were open. I was drowning in it, losing myself to the surges of their emotions, and I gasped reflexively, arching up and clawing at my chest.
"Shut her down!" hissed Wilder.
"How?" multiple voices demanded.
I pressed my palms to my face, pressing into my eyes as shock and fear hit me in wave after wave. My legs kicked almost of their own volition, and I shook. Hands pressed me down, down, down.
And then, silence. Stillness in my own head.
I opened my eyes, and I was alone, lying on my back in the sand with books in disarray around me.
I blinked, looking around, but I really was alone; no sign of any of the guys. I turned my head slowly, my hands still lifted as though to fend off a threat, but there weren't even any footsteps leading to where I lay in the sand.
Where had they gone? My heartbeat picked up as I sat up and looked around, questioning myself now. Had they even been real?
Was I just suffering from heat stroke? Mom was always worried about me getting heatstroke when I spent hours out here in the heat. I lifted my hands to my cheeks, and something wet smeared on my right palm. I looked down at it to see blood, bright against my skin. Blood from where they had kissed me. The ring I'd had on my other hand was missing, though my fingers were smeared with ash.
I tugged at my braid, pulling it forward, and a section was missing, just where I remembered cutting it off.
Was I going crazy?
I stood slowly and, with shaking hands, began gathering up my things, blood smearing on some of the covers before I hastily wiped my palm off on my jeans.
"Stella!" a voice called, and I spun around to see my mother, in her Air Force work uniform, waiting at the edge of the playground. I gathered my books more hastily in my arms and ran towards her.
"Mom, mom, you won't believe—"
"What happened to your face?" she gasped in alarm, and she dug for a tissue in her purse, carefully dabbing at my dimple. I opened my mouth to answer, the words on the tip of my tongue, then blinked. Who had bloodied my face? I reached up to touch it, and she pulled my hand down, a gesture that seemed oddly familiar.
"Oh, honey, who did this?"
"I don't know," I told her after a moment, more confused than ever. I'd spent the whole day here, reading alone. "Maybe I caught it on the playground equipment?"
She frowned, rubbing at it and looking again. "It looks like a cut, but I could have sworn—"
"I think… I hit my face?" I offered. "I got too hot. And there was a scorpion," I suddenly recalled. "I jumped up because there was a scorpion on my leg, and maybe I bashed it then?"
"Were you stung?" she asked, concerned, as she dabbed one last time at my cheek.
"No," I said, sure of that at least. "Is it going to scar?"
"Hmm. Maybe. I don't think it's too bad," she said. "At least it isn't bleeding anymore. Come on." She pushed the soiled tissue into her purse and turned to head back to the parking lot.
"What does it look like?" I asked as I stretched my legs to catch up with her.
"A star. That's an odd-shaped bolt you must have hit," she said, smiling down at me warmly and wrapping her hand around mine.
I had the thought that it was odd that I didn't remember the pain of hitting myself on the play equipment, but, as I trotted to keep up with her, my brain cleared, and I calmed. We left the empty playground behind, and I never looked back.
Chapter 1
The orphan bus slowed, dust from the gravel road kicking up so I couldn't see out the window I was pressed against. My backpack sat in my lap; my arms looped through the straps holding it protectively against me. Brakes hissed and squealed as we made a turn, slinging me hard against the glass and making the guy next to me slam into my shoulder.
He mumbled what I assumed was an apology in a language I didn't recognize. I just shrugged without looking over at him as he straightened back up. Instead, I pressed close to the glass, my breath fogging the cold window. I wiped at it, trying to catch a glimpse of where we were, the dust not rising as high now that we were travelling slower. But there was little to see outside beyond corn. Long rows of corn, thunderous storm clouds, and hills in the distance. Then, briefly, a bright glint that could have been a river.
As stormy as the sky was, it looked less like it was warning of the danger of extreme weather and more like there would be a brilliant sunset over the farm country. Probably the imagery would be completed with a few picturesque barns and some fat, happy cattle. This deep in the Midwest, it was all corn, cattle, and windmills, for hours of driving on end.
We passed a side road, and then we swung around hard, pulling into a farmyard.
As I breathed in, I couldn't smell anything beyond body odor, old sweat, and someone's fart. The yard was framed by long, low buildings, easily 100 feet or more long, and the setup said some kind of factory farm.
Not a fart then. Methane. A pig farm.
Great.
The bus creaked to a halt in an array of hisses and grinding brakes, clouds of dust hiding the view.
Our chaperone stood up at the front of the bus and began calling names from her list, most of them Hispanic and male. Typical. Just 'randomly' assign all the tough Hispanic guys to a farm in rural wherever-we-were so they could slave away as cheap labor.
That's not racist.
"Aster Sylvie," she continued.
I perked up at my name, changing my mind. Rural wherever-we-were was definitely better than spending more weeks on this bus, stuck with feeling that we were riding endlessly. And at least, getting off here, I was still in the Midwest, far enough from the major cities to be safe from foreign weapon strikes, but close enough to food production not to starve.
"Lucky," muttered the girl who was sitting on the other end of the bus seat with me and the guy as I shuffled my bag into a better hold and stood up.
"Now you get more space to sleep," I told her, and she and my seat mate shifted to let me slide by. "Good luck."
"Yeah," she said, desolately, before elbowing the guy. "You window or me?"
At his blank look, she pointed at my now-empty seat and then at herself before dramatically arching her eyebrows in query. He just shrugged and leaned back, crossing his arms so she could slide past with her own bag.
I turned my back on them and made my way to the back of the group of guys waiting to get off. They weren't all Hispanic, but enough of them were that it couldn't be coincidence. All of them were more built than I was, so if this was farming country, I wasn't entirely sure why I had been picked. I also didn't care.
At least I was getting off the bus.
I shuffled slowly behind them, carrying my backpack in my arms. Putting it on my back was an invitation for pick pocketing, so I ignored our chaperone's scowl when she saw it. Instead I took my paperwork from her and stepped down onto the packed dirt of the barnyard. It was dusk, flashes of movement in the darkening sky hinting at bats hunting bugs amongst the security lights that were dotted along the buildings.
The construction looked new. I was pretty sure the smell meant it was a pig farm, from the sweet edge to the odor. Less grassy-smelling than cows. I wasn't rude enough to wrinkle my nose, but I made sure to breathe shallowly as I walked behind the group towards the families standing and waiting. I wasn't going to insult their livelihood if there was a chance they'd pick me.
I wasn't really sure where we were today. In Wisconsin, Iowa, or Minnesota, maybe. I was pretty sure we were north of Illinois, but they hadn't exactly made announcements on our way here.
There were a good fifty people waiting and maybe fifteen of us in the group who'd got off the orphan bus. Most of them looked like farmers, dirty, wearing a similar outfit of muddy boots, jeans, and T-shirt with holes creeping out around the neck. It wasn't a bad number of possible hosts, but I wasn't farm girl material, and at this point I was seriously suspecting I'd get passed over again and tossed back on the bus. I was thin and weak—and looked it—and my greasy hair and face tattoo would probably scare them off if my obvious uselessness didn't.
We all came to a stop under the glow of the closest security light, and I swallowed hard. A few Hispanic men immediately came forward out of the crowd, and I blinked, re-evaluating the situation. Maybe they'd been trying to match races rather than being racist?
They walked over to the guys standing sullenly in front of me, voices pitched low, speaking rapidly in Spanish and, after only a few minutes, I was left alone, standing awkwardly in front of the group who'd come to meet the bus, while the lucky guys trailed after their new "families." There were some murmurs from amongst the locals, but no one stepped forward, and my heart sank. Back on the bus for me, one of many times I'd been rejected over the last month. Back to hours on the road, endless sitting beside strangers only to stand in front of other strangers, to be rejected again. I turned away, walking back towards the chaperone, as I had a good dozen times before, when a woman's voice called out strongly, "Wait, honey."
I froze, then turned back around to see a middle-aged woman with her dirty blond hair half up in a sloppy bun, wearing a brown sweatshirt that said simply "Farmer Girl." Her boots were just as muddy as everyone else's, but her jeans had rhinestones that glittered as she approached.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice softer now that she was closer.
I licked my lips before answering. "Stella."
"Where you from?"
I shrugged. "Military family."
Her face softened. Everyone knew what had happened to the kids who'd been left behind when both parents had been called to the front.
"Your parents coming back for you?" she asked, softer still, as if making sure her voice didn't carry.
I firmed my chin and shook my head. My parents lay in graves in lands I'd never go to, the fighting too intense to send their bodies home. No. My parents were never coming home. She looked at me a little more sharply, running her eyes over my face, then sighed and pinched her brow. "You a gang banger?"
"No," I said, truthfully. "The tattoo hides a scar. Now I get picked on less."
"Your only tattoo?"
"Yeah," I said, a bit desperately. "I've never gotten in trouble." What more could I do to prove it to her? "I haven't been on a farm but I'm a hard worker, and I…"
There was a lot I'd be willing to do for a chance at a home.
"You willing to learn?" she asked, cutting me off, and I just nodded, meeting her gaze while trying not to look as desperate as I felt.
She stared at me.
"I'm underweight," I finally admitted. "Not too strong. But I'm willing to try if you are."
She nodded slowly, thinking, and then gestured for me to follow her towards the crowd.
My heart leapt and I took a step back. This was it. "One second, um, I need to say goodbye."
She shrugged and crossed her arms.
I ran back to the bus and up the front steps. In the first seat, there were 3 kids sitting and watching the proceedings. The kid in the middle was a slender Asian kid with a kink to his hair. I dug in my backpack and pulled my lunch bag out, passing it to him. "Good luck."
His eyes lit up and he unzipped the top and dug for a sandwich, the two teens on either side of him leaning in hopefully. "Thanks."
I gave a sharp nod and ran back off the bus, zipping up my backpack. When I reached the woman who was waiting, I flashed her a nervous smile then fell in step with her as she began talking. "We're a small family and we have a family farm."
"Pigs?" I guessed, just based on where we were and trotted to catch up.
"Cattle."
That was a relief. I brightened despite trying not to show any preferences, which she must have noticed because her shoulders relaxed. "You ever work with livestock?"
"No," I admitted quickly. "Nothing bigger than pet rabbits, and they weren't for meat. But
I can learn."
"Crops?"
"I've canned jams and jellies," I offered. "And I can cook some."
Mom had learned to can with me, a bonding experience built on donations of grapes from the neighbor's garden in South Dakota. My heart clenched at the memory, and I blinked hard, lifting my chin as we reached the back of the crowd. The last few folks parted to let us through as the bus started up with a rumble and a belch of exhaust gas.
If I was lucky, they'd noted down what township they'd left me at so my extended family could find me later, but I wasn't crossing my fingers.
"What's your full name?" she asked, leading me to a battered truck that was dusted generously with gravel and muck of various sorts.
"Aster Sylvie," I got out. "But my momma called me Stella."
Her mouth softened as she worked the ancient lock. "I'm Donna McCullick. We don't have much, but I couldn't leave you standing there."
"Thank you," I whispered and climbed in after she'd swung the door open for me. I set my backpack on the floor in front of my knees, then quickly buckled up so she didn't have to prompt me. She swung up on the other side, setting the truck rocking, didn't bother to buckle, and we set off with a roar of exhaust.
The road was rough, and the truck had terrible shocks. I grabbed the handle above my head and held on. Donna steered with one hand while punching various buttons on the dash with the other, and the windows on both sides slid down to let warm night air in.
The truck wasn't a crew cab, just an old working vehicle, luckily not turned in during the steel shortage.
Leaving the farm, the air was already lighter, smelling of fresh-cut hay and night-blooming flowers. I cleared my throat and pitched my voice up over the air rushing through the cab. "What are the rules?"
She heaved a sigh. "Let me talk to my husband. He didn't know I was coming to see you kids."
I cringed at that. That meant I was a surprise. Probably an unwelcome one. She noticed my reaction and leaned over to thump me on the knee. "It'll be fine."
"Do you… do you have enough food to share?" I forced out. Lots of places had shortages, but I had hoped that farm country would mean food.
She cast an appraising look at me. "We'll fatten you up."
I sighed and leaned back in the seat, my stomach rumbling. I'd had a processed cheese sandwich at lunch, but that had been a good six or seven hours earlier. I'd been saving my food, stretching it out for the times when there wouldn't be enough for everyone.
We fishtailed around a corner, the headlights lighting up a long rutted drive ahead of us, and I shot my other hand out to clutch onto the dash as we bounced around at speed. The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart, but we managed to reach a group of farm buildings crouched around a blue-tinted security light. The truck slowed as we approached an old farmhouse with peeling white paint, the windows glowing with light, and we pulled up alongside several other parked vehicles.
Donna hit the button for the windows before turning the engine off. As she got out, I snagged my bag and jumped down, slamming the door as carefully as I could. A chunk of rust fell to the ground, and I winced. The air was heavy with the scent of silage, and I could see a large garden alongside the barn.
"Let me do the talking, Stella," she said. I followed her up a concrete walk that was half-buried in the lawn and a little hard to see because the security light was focused on lighting up the barnyard instead. The house was warmly lit inside, casting a welcoming glow towards us.
She stomped across the porch, making each step hard enough to knock mud off her boots, and swung the screen door open. I caught it from her hand and followed her lead in taking my shoes off in a mud room smelling of cows and the barnyard.
Then it was fake it until I made it. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped into a dining room thick with the scent of roast meat and potatoes. A man and two teens, a girl and a boy, both nearly adults, sat eating at a table long enough to sit eight. One place setting sat waiting for Donna.
