As I walk around the bustling evening of London, I weave my way through the crowded streets. A thick blanket of dark cobalt blue intertwined with plump grey clouds rests overhead. Dancing snowflakes slowly retreat from the overfilled clouds down to the ground. Some girl with a pink and orange tie-dye shirt was linking her fingers with another girl with a blue, pink, and purple striped crop top and they were snapping a selfie in front of Big Ben. I gave a slight wave as I walked by them and the stripy crop top girl waves back.
I pat my pocket as I walk away with the striped crop top girl’s gold locket. The winter London weather is nippy, the frigid air piercing through my thick layers. I scratch my arm, even though I can’t scratch properly because of the thick winter jacket I’m wearing. I can see my breath, snaking out in thin tendrils in front of me. My boots crunch on the snow-covered cobblestone as I make my way home. I’m staring at my phone, texting Jess, my foster mom, that I’ll be home in five.
Thump! I crash headfirst into an unsuspecting stranger, spilling his belongings across the snowy road. His leathery brown wallet clunks a few feet in front of me. While he’s turned around to pick up his scattered valuables, I grab his wallet and stuff it in my hidden coat pocket. He scrambles to his feet and picks up the rest of his belongings. “Thanks, miss,” He says in a lilting British accent.
“You’re very welcome, sir,” I reply with false cheer. He walks away with a blunt wave and I continue to crunch my way home.
When I reach the house, I fumble with my keys until I clumsily insert them into the brass lock. Pushing the heavy red wooden door, I stagger my way in, out of the mind-numbing cold. I kick off my boots and hang up my furry winter coat. “Jess! David!” I yell, “I’m home!”
“KITCHEN!!” Jess yells back. As fast as I can go with my frozen toes, I dash to the kitchen.
“Empty your pockets,” Jess orders. I turn out my jeans pockets and empty my backpack on the rickety wooden kitchen table. It groans under the weight of stolen goods. Daniel and Jess rummage through the pile of cash, gold bracelets, watches, diamond necklaces, the girls, gold locket, and much more. I finger the wallet in my bra discreetly and give a forced smile.
“Nice job, kid,” Daniel clasps my shoulder. The sweet staleness of the smelly tobacco brand he smokes envelopes me and I pinch my nose as I shrug out of his grip.
Daniel’s a scraggly guy. He's in his late forties, with a thick red beard, green snake-like eyes, and gang tattoos running up his sagging pale arms and neck. Jessica is his wife. She’s in her early thirties and could pass for an eighteen-year-old, with curly brown hair, big hazel eyes, and freckles running over her pasty nose and cheeks. She has one tiny tattoo of an arrow that swirled into her name on her right pinky. It’s a unique, one-of-a-kind tattoo. If you saw her walking around in the London streets, you’d never think that she’s the kingpin of several successful drug organizations and is the ex-girlfriend of many mafia bosses. The girl is dangerous.
“Oh, stop giving us that look,” she snickers in her annoying British accent, “we compensate you nicely for an amateur like yourself. We don’t have to feed you, clothe you, shelter you, or provide you with the internet.” I roll my eyes.
“Jess, you’re my foster mom whether I steal for you or not. You are legally required to keep me healthy and safe. And, if I was so bad, why do I bring home most of the bacon?” Jess takes a deep sigh and shoos me away.
I scurry up the cedarwood steps and push open the door to my room. It’s the only thing in this house that’s just..me. The furniture is sandalwood, the walls a faint purple. Pictures of me and random aesthetic photos I pulled off the internet speckle the walls. A framed picture of my mom when she was my age sits on my desk. She’s sitting on a large white throne chair, her barefoot legs propped over the sides. Caramel skin reflects the light—besides our hair, it’s the only feature we both share—her gold dress matches with thick gold bangles and oversized hoops. Mom’s curly black hair spills over her shoulders, and an intricate sapphire and gold tiara decorates the top of her hair. Her name was Nkosazana.
I don’t remember much of her because seven years ago, my kingdom, Aburĩria, was usurped by The traitorous Kingdom of Atchoo. They raided the kingdom, kidnapped my mom, and sent me on the next flight to London, England far, far away. I was adopted by Daniel and Jessica Hazelwood. They also have nine other foster children, who steal things for them in exchange for food and money.
When I make sure nobody will burst into my room, I pull out the wallet and peek inside. There’s absolutely nothing. No money, no credit cards, no receipts, no addresses, not even a photo. Nothing, except a wrinkled, messily handwritten note:
202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡciqoAOnuGY
202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡflslC6f967
Meet me in the clock tower at midnight.
I have a job you might be interested in.
And bring my wallet with you.
202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡax4QyFULV9
202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlEujv13N2V
What…? I’m so confused. Footsteps. Creak. Step. Creak. Step. Crrrreeeaaakkkkkkk. Creeaaakkkkkkkkk. I stash the wallet under my bed and flop on it. Seconds later my door is flung open. Priya, the oldest foster kid stands in the doorway.
“Jess and David want everyone downstairs for dinner.” She recites.
“K.” She slams the door on her way out and I just sit on my bed confusedly.
“HEY! Kids, get down here or you’ll be licking the soup off the floor for dinner!” Jess screams. I start down the steps. Before my feet even hit the floor, Jess hands me a styrofoam bowl of lukewarm tomato soup and points to the table. It’s a long table, the kind that belongs in a castle. Jess plunks down on the farthest edge and Daniel sits opposite. There are five chairs on either side of both of them, each occupied by kids of different ages.
There’s Priya, the oldest, and she claimed the spot at Jess’ left. She’s about seventeen, five feet tall, and very pretty. Her hair is braided into thick double braids on either side of her heart-shaped face. She’s wearing a faded rolling stones t-shirt and even more faded ripped jeans. Her dirty converse shoes don’t even have laces. At Priya’s right, I plunk down. Before I start eating the watery tomatoes, I tuck my hair into a curly ponytail.
Next are Mia and Elle. They’re the same age, (15) but not related. Mia is Filipino and Elle is White. Mia’s dyed red ombre hair is long and waist length, in contrast to Elle, whose baby pink hair is cropped at the shoulders. Then, there are the octuplets. Not really, but we call them that because they’re so close. Tam, Lilac, Cilvia, Lacey, Declan, and Olly.
Tam and Lacey are fraternal twins, (Tam’s a boy, Lacey’s a girl) both fourteen years old. They both have bright red bushels of hair, pale skin, a pile of freckles under their eyes, and green eyes like emeralds. Their mother and father both passed in a car crash last year, and they’ve been in the thieving business ever since.
Lilac, Cilvia, and Olly are unrelated siblings from the orphanage. Lilac is fourteen, with short purple hair, brown eyes, and tan skin, Declan is thirteen, with caramel skin and curly hair. Cilvia is eleven, with long dreads, hazel eyes, and dark skin, and Olly is nine with a fluffy brown haircut, pale skin, and blue eyes.
Mia looks at the soup disdainfully and picks at it with her plastic spoon. “Ewwww, Jess, you couldn’t spare more than twenty dollars for this crap?” She tries to bend the spoon in half but it’s no use. Daniel and Jess only give us plastic silverware, lukewarm soups, meals, and styrofoam cups, plates, and bowls, just in case we decide we want them dead. The spoons and sporks don’t break, the soup isn’t hot enough to burn anyone and styrofoam is not a good weapon It’s annoying, sure, but when we’ve been living with them for so long, we kind of get used to it.
“Well Mia, if you don’t like what we serve you—” We interrupt her, finishing her sentence.
“You can go dumpster diving. We don’t have to feed you clothe you, or provide you with quality internet.” We all chorus together, mimicking Jess’ accent.
“Shut up,” She huffs. Jess rolls her eyes and continues to eat her filet mignon, while we’re stuck with tomato soup mix from a box. Silently, we all shove our now cold bowls of tomato soup into the middle and retreat to our rooms. As soon as I’m in, I shut my door, lock it, and toss my clothes on the ground. I pull on black ripped jeans, a black crop top, black sneakers, and a black COVID-19 mask. I place some clothes under my covers and open my window. Jumping out, I land on my feet and race toward Big Ben and the idiot who would change my life forever
202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDrBeFCsbhL
