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  ISBN-13: 978-1494430917

  Something Like Spring © 2014 Jay Bell / Andreas Bell

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to those who always help make these stories shine. So many of you have been there with me since the beginning, when Something Like Summer was just an experiment with a title none of us could agree on. Now we’re four books deep and having more fun than ever. At least I am. ;) Linda Anderson, Katherine Coolon, Claire King, Zate Lockard, Kira Miles, and of course my mom. Oh, and that artist guy I’m married to. Can’t forget him! Thank you one and all for helping me chase after my dreams.

  To Jordan - I’m sorry your spring was cut short. You spoke your beautiful words, and those without heart came to silence you. But you sang your song anyway, and I have no doubt you’re singing it still. I look forward to the day when I can sit by your side again and listen.

  __________

  Something Like Spring

  by Jay Bell

  __________

  __________

  Part One:

  Houston, 2006

  __________

  Chapter One

  My name is Jason Grant, and today is the first day of the rest of my life. Or so I’ve been told. Many times, in fact. Caseworkers like to put a positive spin on everything, as if a cheery smile is enough to change the world, make it the kind of place that welcomes a guy like me. Not that I mind. I want it to be true. Part of me, way down deep, likes to believe this time will be different. It won’t, and I think you know that too. I’m sorry if the words in this journal sting, Michelle. I like you. I’ve had a shitload of caseworkers, but in the months we’ve known each other… I don’t know. You’re different somehow.

  But I know what you’re doing. I know that asking me to write down my thoughts is your way of figuring out what’s wrong with me. You want to know why I keep getting kicked out of foster families. Twenty-three times now. The family you’re about to take me to is number twenty-four. Once it all falls apart, this one will be the last. I’m almost sixteen, and I’d rather focus on finding a job than finding a family. Besides, there’s a very good reason it won’t work out. Remember the old building? The group home with the shared rooms? My roommate, Mickey, he told me the reason why. He said—

  “Ready to go?”

  Jason jerked, the pen scratching out one final line. Not that it mattered. His handwriting was so messy that Michelle Trout probably wouldn’t be able to read it anyway. He looked up to find her leaning against the doorway, her gentle smile matching the warm feeling inside his chest. Maybe it was the ash-blonde hair that reminded him of his mother, or the well-maintained figure. She was probably the same age Jason’s mother had been, when last he’d seen her.

  Michelle nodded at the open book in his lap. “You’re writing in your journal? That’s great!”

  “Yeah,” Jason said sheepishly. “Just started.”

  “Well, today’s the big day!”

  Jason broke eye contact with her. Why couldn’t they let him stay here? He made sure not to cause trouble for that very reason. Orphans belonged in an orphanage—not that people used such terms anymore. Instead they skittered around the word, but sometimes Jason felt like embracing it, wearing it with pride. He was an orphan. Nothing wrong with that. Regardless, some people were remarkably good at making him feel ashamed. The woman at his most recent foster home kept calling him a bereft child. She was so overcome with pity for him that she would say this with tears in her eyes. Oh, my poor bereft child! By the end of Jason’s stay, she had called him a little bastard instead, those wet eyes full of fury.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Jason lied. He considered begging Michelle, trying to explain that he felt more at home here, where everyone understood that he didn’t have a family, where people didn’t pretend. Instead he closed the journal and stood up.

  Michelle pushed away from the door, fully entering his room. “Gosh, maybe I should have rented a moving truck.” She glanced around, as if seeing stacks of moving boxes, when in reality there was only a small suitcase. And a battered old guitar. Jason slung this onto his back, the frayed strap tight and reassuring against his chest, like a permanent hug. He grabbed the suitcase when Michelle reached for it.

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “Oh. Here.”

  He tried to hand Michelle the journal, knowing she’d want to read what he wrote, but she shook her head.

  “That’s for you,” she said. “It’s private.”

  Glancing at her to make sure she was serious, he tucked it under his arm. Then he studied his shoes—seeing them shuffle nervously as Michelle checked his room for anything he might have forgotten. Afterwards he watched the scuffed leather lead him down the hallway, step by step, as he followed his caseworker outside.

  Michelle was quiet, which was unusual. Jason wondered if she also felt sad, or if his own silence was making her uncomfortable. Once standing beside her car, he stared at the interior through the passenger-side window, waiting for her to dig the keys from her purse. He’d ridden in her car once before when she took him out for McDonald’s, the light smell of her perfume slowly overwhelmed by greasy burger aroma as they sat in the car and ate. He’d liked that—how the car had become a private restaurant for two. Easy chitchat had spilled from her lips, none of it probing, none of it asking for explanations. That had come later, or so he had thought, when she’d given him the journal.

  The door locks popped up. Jason put his suitcase in the back seat and brought the guitar with him to the front. He’d ride with it between his legs, which wouldn’t be comfortable, but at least the instrument would be safe.

  “Okay!” Michelle said, buckling herself in. “You ready? Scratch that. Are you excited?”

  Jason gave a hollow smile. “Very.”

  Michelle chuckled. “You’re a horrible liar, you know that?” Her happy expression faltered for a moment as she reached out to brush the bangs from his eyes.

  Jason wanted to grab her hand and press it to his cheek. He didn’t know why, but he suspected it would bring him comfort. Instead he remained absolutely still until she pulled her hand away.

  “Want to get a haircut?” she asked. “Dazzle them with your good looks?”

  Jason reached up and brushed the bangs back over his eyes. He liked hiding behind his hair. Seeing the world through a tangled brown curtain wasn’t always easy, but well worth the sacrifice. Like wearing sunglasses, this created a sense of detachment, transforming the world into a distant movie on a screen.

  “Is that a ‘no’?” Michelle prompted.

  “I don’t want it cut,” Jason said, “but maybe a perm. A really tight one. So tight that if I hit my head on anything, I’ll bounce right off again.”

  “A head full of springs.” Michelle’s eyes sparkled as she started the car and pulled out. “That would save you from having to wear a bike helmet.”

  “Too bad I don’t own a bike.” Jason smiled, feeling a little better. As they dr
ove, he realized he was making a big deal out of nothing. He’d been in this situation plenty of times before, enough to make this routine. He was a pro. If there were such thing as the orphan Olympics, he’d have a gold medal in manipulating foster families. He’d be there for a week, maybe two, and when he got tired of it, he’d finish up with one of his famous stunts.

  “I know you’re going to behave this time,” Michelle said, having similar thoughts.

  “Of course.”

  “No pearls in the clam chowder?”

  Jason smiled, for real this time. He’d been proud of that one. Foster home number twenty-two. The mother there often wore a double string of pearls. Jason had stolen the necklace just to upset her. He’d had no intention of keeping it or selling it. When the woman made a giant pot of clam chowder for him and the other kids, he found inspiration, cutting the pearls loose and returning them to the original owners—the clams.

  “She could have broken a tooth,” Michelle said.

  “Most people don’t chew their soup,” Jason replied. He had been careful not to swallow any pearls, but a few had been lost before anyone figured out what he’d done. The only way to recover the precious objects was to wait for them to come out the other end again. Since nobody could be certain who had swallowed what…

  “Think she’s still making the other kids poop into a pasta strainer?” Jason asked.

  Michelle shook her head, trying her best to look stern. Or to hold back laughter. Eventually she gave up, and they shared a good chuckle. Outside the car, the buildings of downtown Houston gave way to an old suburb. The trees here had grown tall and strong next to equally robust houses.

  “Found me a rich family, huh?” Jason asked.

  “Yup!” Michelle said. “Absolutely loaded. That’s not the best thing though.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Michelle bit her bottom lip, slowing and pulling over to the side of the road to park. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I really really shouldn’t, but this family adopts. If things work out, well, there’s a very good chance.”

  Jason leaned back in his seat, feeling uncomfortable again. Adoption was the jackpot for people like him. The chance to not only have a foster home, but to be knighted as an official member of the family. An orphan no more! Anyone else at the children’s home would have been thrilled with this news. For some reason, all it did was make him uneasy.

  “That’s why, this time,” Michelle said, “I’m hoping you can give your new foster family a chance. You’ll be an adult soon, and this could be a really good start for you.”

  “The first day of the rest of my life?”

  Michelle nodded, believing in her own convictions. “They’ll be able to put you through college. I’m not asking you to love total strangers like they’re your real parents. I know it doesn’t work like that. But I am asking you to think of yourself. Do what’s best for you and don’t—”

  “Screw things up again,” Jason said, finishing for her. She shook her head in protest, but they both knew the truth. Michelle didn’t need his journal because she probably had a big fat file with his name on it that explained everything wrong with him.

  You never learned to shut your mouth. That’s what Mickey, his former roommate, had told him. Mickey was twelve, had a nose like a boxer, and was constantly breaking out in hives. He wasn’t an easy sell. He’d seen Jason get placed in three foster homes before someone finally gave him a chance too. Mickey was packing his bags when he shared what would be their parting words. You never learned to shut your mouth. You’ve got everything going for you, but you’ll never make it, because you never learned to play the game.

  Mickey was right. Jason never could keep his trap shut. He couldn’t help himself. But Jason had learned to play the game. He just wasn’t after the same prize.

  “Which one is it?” he asked, nodding through the windshield at the street.

  Michelle pointed. The house was twice as wide as the one he’d grown up in, the one belonging to him and his mother. Twice as tall too, since the home was two stories. A huge oak tree shaded the three-car garage, a perfectly manicured lawn wrapping around the house and disappearing beneath a privacy fence. Jason smiled, mostly for Michelle’s benefit.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s great,” he said.

  Michelle studied him. “Is it really? Just between you and me, what’s it like being sent to a new family? In this line of work, we’re taught most kids are nervous the first day, but that they quickly adapt and become well-adjusted members of the family.”

  Jason snorted and looked away.

  “Exactly!” Michelle leaned forward to catch his eye again. “I always felt that sounded too simple. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could go through the process, convince myself I was going to live with a new family and that I couldn’t return to my own. At least then I would have a better understanding of what you and the others are going through.”

  Jason shook his head in disbelief. “You’re awesome. You know that, right?”

  Michelle remained somber. “So tell me. Try to explain what it’s like for you.”

  Jason thought about it and exhaled. “What was your first day of school like?”

  “Disappointing,” Michelle said instantly. “I was dying to go, since my brother is a year older than me and always raved about it. Of course he lied through his teeth about what school was really like. He kept telling me that toy companies would stop by every day to test market their latest products, and that everyone got paid to play with dolls and things. And the playground was supposed to be full of circus animals, like a petting zoo except with tigers and elephants. So when that first day of school finally came, I was practically peeing my pants in excitement. You can imagine how I felt when I actually got there.”

  Jason laughed. “That’s cruel, but not exactly what I was aiming for. Unless you felt really confused and sort of out of your element.”

  “That would be high school,” Michelle said, gazing through the windshield. “Normally when I started at a new school, my brother was there to guide me. The first day of my freshman year, Jace had the flu and stayed home. Even worse, my best friend had moved away that summer.”

  “Yeah,” Jason said encouragingly. “Remember what that first day was like. A new school is always confusing. Everyone seems to know what’s going on and how everything works except for you. If you’re a stranger, you don’t have a friend or family member there to make it fun instead of frightening. After an entire day of mistakes and embarrassing yourself, what do you feel like doing the most?”

  Michelle swallowed. “Like going home.”

  “Except you can’t,” Jason said. “Going home is impossible. There are no home-baked cookies at the end of that first day. No hug to make you feel secure again.”

  Michelle glanced over at him, eyes concerned. “Is that how bad it is?”

  “Just at first,” Jason said quickly, not wanting to upset her further. “Just like at school, after a week or two you get used to everything and it isn’t so intimidating. So I guess what the textbooks say isn’t so far off. It’s rough at first, but people adjust.” What he didn’t tell her is that the feeling of wanting to go home never went away.

  Michelle mulled over his words. “What I still don’t understand is why you keep putting yourself through this. If you would settle down with one family, you wouldn’t have to feel that way ever again.”

  Jason nodded. That’s all he could really do. He knew she meant well. Her tone wasn’t judgmental or scolding. Michelle genuinely cared. And she was right. If he would stop sabotaging his chances of getting adopted, maybe he would find some sort of peace. But what he couldn’t communicate was just how badly he wanted to go home. No matter how impossible that might be, he wanted it more than anything. Regardless, he put on a brave face for her benefit. “Maybe this family is the right one.”

  Michelle looked relieved. “They’re going to love you. Ready?”<
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  He nodded again, and the car rolled forward, delivering Jason to a home he knew would never be his own. The rest happened in a blur. A doorbell that sounded like heavy brass bells. The grinning faces of Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard as they ushered him into a living room where other kids waited. Introductions that were totally lost on him. Then Jason was plopped down on an expensive couch—one of three, all facing each other—his butt growing increasingly numb as the adults spoke. Michelle sat next to him, addressing Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard across a wooden coffee table painted white. Jason did his best to ignore the stares of the other kids, who were lined up together on the side couch.

  No amount of experience helped with this stage of the process and the pressure it brought. What did these people expect of him? Was he supposed to impress? Should he juggle flaming swords before swallowing the blades? Jason had no idea what they wanted, and so he did what he always did on first days. He shut down.

  Michelle did all the talking, occasionally shooting him a panicked glance that said he was bombing. He felt like apologizing to her, but instead all he did was nod when addressed. Most questions in this situation could be answered in the affirmative. Are you okay? Are you happy to be here? Would you like a glass of water? Yes, yes, and yes.

  His new foster parents didn’t seem perturbed by his behavior. They wore the same satisfied expressions they had when he’d met them at the children’s home last month. He knew they were pleased with themselves, rather than with him, and why shouldn’t they be? Not many adults were willing to take in a fifteen-year-old, especially one with a troubled past. They weren’t exactly young either. Mrs. Hubbard was plain with pulled-back brown hair that had lost its shine. Her clothing and jewelry compensated for her dull appearance. The woman practically had money coming out her ears.