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“If you get adopted,” I’d answer, “I get your hoodie.”
So we clung to each other instead.
We said it like a joke.
The truth was, we both knew no one was coming for the quiet girl with “failed placement” stamped all over her file or the boy in the chair.
So we clung to each other instead.
We aged out almost at the same time.
At 18, they called us into an office, slid some papers across the desk, and said, “Sign here. You’re adults now.”
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We walked out together with our belongings in plastic bags.
There was no party, no cake, no “we’re proud of you.”
Just a folder, a bus pass, and the weight of “good luck out there.”
We walked out together with our belongings in plastic bags, like we’d arrived, except now there was no one on the other side of the door.
On the sidewalk, Noah spun one wheel lazily and said, “Well, at least nobody can tell us where to go anymore.”
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“Unless it’s jail.”
He snorted. “Then we better not get caught doing anything illegal.”
We enrolled in community college.
We found a tiny apartment above a laundromat that always smelled like hot soap and burned lint.
The stairs sucked, but the rent was low, and the landlord didn’t ask questions.