If things get hard what do you do?
I vanish. It's in my blood. My father vanished when I was five, my mother when I was ten. My brother did it when I was thirteen. I'm fifteen now and just as good at vanishing. My difference? I know how to reappear.
"Where have you been?"
I look at my foster parents. I shrug.
"That's not good enough, young lady. Where have you been?"
"Out and about."
"For nine hours?"
"Yeah." They don't need to know where I've been. They don't need to know I took off because a teacher called me "the orphan".
"We can't take this anymore."
I glance warily up at them. They don't get it do they? This isn't about them. Why does it matter if they can't take it anymore?
"We called social services and-"
Not again. Not again. This would be my fifth move. Fifth. In five years. I'm not listening to them. I don't need to hear it again. I have the whole speech memorized. The whole "We tried but you're not helping. It's nothing personal." And they never understand. They never understand that it is personal. It is.