The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 11

Grace’s eighth birthday went unnoticed. Since the red room, she’d lived in seven foster homes. All were business ventures operated by unremarkable people lured by government money and, occasionally, the chance to feel noble.

She’d heard stories from other foster kids about disgusting men creeping into bedrooms in the middle of the night, disgusting women pretending to be unaware. One of her many roommates, an eleven-year-old girl named Brittany, lifted her blouse soon after showing up and showed Grace a lump of scar tissue she said was the result of being scalded on purpose by a foster mom.

Grace had no trouble believing that; from what she’d seen, people were capable of anything. But Brittany liked to lie, including about stupid stuff, like what she’d had for snack at school, and she also stole Grace’s underwear, so Grace didn’t pay much attention to her.

In three years, Grace had never been physically or sexually abused. Mostly, she was ignored and left to do what she wanted if she didn’t bother anyone, because having a foster meant serious income for foster-folk and they tried to crowd as many kids as they could into their homes for as long as possible.

That didn’t explain why the caseworkers kept moving Grace from house to house, but she didn’t ask because she didn’t care. One place was the same as another, long as they gave her time to be by herself and read.

One day a caseworker named Wayne Knutsen who’d moved her from House Six to Seven showed up and smiled uneasily.

“Guess what? Yup, sorry, kiddo.”

A ponytailed, potbellied man, Wayne was always accompanied by the smell of spearmint and, sometimes, stale body odor. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look huge and fishy. Even when he smiled, he looked nervous, and today was no exception.

Grace got ready to pack up her stuff but Wayne said, “Sit down for a sec,” and when she did, he offered her a Tootsie Roll.

Grace pocketed the candy.

“Saving up for your retirement, huh?”

Grace had learned that some questions weren’t meant to be answered so she just kept her mouth shut. Wayne sighed and looked sad.

“Those big old kid-eyes of yours, Ms. Grace Blades. It’s like you’re saying it’s my fault... I know it’s only been four months with this one — you been okay?”

Grace nodded.

“Damn. I have to tell you, moving you again, I’m feeling like a week-old pile of dog-do.”

Grace didn’t answer. It wasn’t her job to make anyone feel better.

“Anyway, I checked your records, this’ll be eight damn times. Man.”

Grace sat there.

“Anyway,” Wayne said again. “Well, I figure you’re old enough, you might as well know how the system works. How it sucks. Are you? Old enough?”

Grace nodded.

“God, you’re a quiet one... okay, here’s how it is, kiddo: The geniuses in the state legislature — that’s a place where stupid people meet and pass stupid laws because special interests pay them to do that.”

Grace said, “Politicians.”

Wayne said, “Yeah, you’re a sharp one. So you know what I’m talking about?”

“Rich people pay other people to listen to them.”

“Hey!” Wayne slapped Grace’s back a bit too hard. “You really are a genius. Yeah, that’s right, kiddo. So anyway, one of the laws the idiots passed gives more money to people who take in special-needs children. Know what that is?”

“Sick kids?”

“Sometimes but not necessarily. Could be sick, could be anything... different. I mean it makes sense on a certain level, kids can need extra help. But special needs is a tricky deal, Ms. Grace Blades. It could be something really bad — a one-legged kid, a one-eyed kid, you can see how that would be justified, they’d need special help. But the way the law’s written, it gets corrupted — gets used the wrong way. Know the right doctor and you can get a kid certified as SN for anything — clumsy, just plain stupid, you name it. The point is, there’s bigger bucks to be made with special needs than with regular kids and unfortunately for you, you’re a regular kid.”

He winked at her. “Or so I’ve been told. That true? You regular?”

Grace nodded.

“Quiet,” he said. “Still waters... anyway, that’s the situation, Ms. G. Blades. You’re being displaced because Mr. and Mrs. Samah can up their income significantly by taking in a new available kid with a seizure disorder — know what this is? Nah, forget it, you don’t need to know all this crap.”

“Okay,” said Grace.

“Okay?”

“I’m leaving. It’s okay.” She didn’t like the Samahs anyway. Two boring people who kept a pair of nervous, smelly dogs, bland food and not that much of it, a bed as hard as wood. Sometimes Mrs. Samah took the time to smile but it was hard to figure out what she was smiling about.

“Indeed,” said Wayne. “So let’s pack up and move on.”

“Where am I going?”

“Well,” said Wayne, “maybe this will work out, I’m sure aiming at that — something long term. ’Cause I’ve had my eye on you since I had to move you from the Kennedys after they scored a special-needs baby. A Level Five baby, which is the highest, meaning the most dough. Kid had some sort of birth defect, the Kennedys get paid to use oxygen tanks and all sorts of drugs. I mean that’s okay, a baby who can’t breathe needs extra attention. But I still think it sucks, why should you be penalized for being normal? And hell, even being smart doesn’t help, if it did, I’d file papers for you, myself. Special needs because you’re a sharp one, right?”

Grace nodded.

“But no go, that’s what’s crazy, kid. If you were retarded, you’d be in good shape, but there’s no law benefiting smart kids, doesn’t that suck? Isn’t the world a suck place? Which is why you’re my last case, after I move you out of here, I’m quitting and going to law school. Know why?”

Grace shook her head.

“ ’Course not, how could you?” Wayne winked again. Gave her another Tootsie Roll that she stashed with the first one, you never knew when you were going to be hungry.

Wayne Knutsen said, “That candy’s what we call a guilt offering, kid. Anyway, I’d like to tell you I’m going to be a lawyer so I can change the system and turn water into grape juice, but I’m no better than the rest, I intend to make some serious money suing rich people and try not to think about the time I spent in the system. It was supposed to be a temporary job, anyway.”

“Okay,” said Grace.

“You keep saying that.”

“I feel okay.”

“The system’s okay by you?”

“It’s like animals,” said Grace. “The jungle. Everyone takes care of themselves.”

Wayne stared at her, emitted a low whistle. “You know there’re some Level One things I was thinking of tagging you with — mostly psych stuff — emotional — whatever. Excessive dependence. But that’s not you. I could’ve also tried excessively irritable, but that’s not you, either. Then I figured why saddle you with stuff on your record, you’ve done this well so far, you’ve got a decent chance. ’Mi right?”

Grace, not sure what he was talking about, nodded, yet again.

“Good self-esteem,” said Wayne. “Thought so. Anyway, even if I Level One’d you, it wouldn’t have helped because this new kid, the seizures, is a Five, no way you could compete. Anyway, let’s go pack your stuff. This time maybe I got a good place for you. I think. If not, sorry, I tried.”