New Lease on Life (That You Can't Afford)

     Wyatt was 10 months into being 17 and had bruised knuckles for the first time in years. He sat at the near-empty dinner table with them fisted over his knees, trying to reign in the old-familiar anger. 

     A few minutes ago, Wyatt had gotten into a fistfight with one of his foster siblings. The other boy had been sneering, slinging around slurs and the other kids laughed along. Wyatt had heard those words before, usually aimed as an ace-up-the-sleeve insult boys used to piss each other off, but he’d even heard it whispered about his friend once. He’d beaten those kids senseless back then, so this boy wasn’t about to get any special privileges.

     Wyatt had been doing really good keeping his extreme temper in check lately, actually. But damn did it feel good to let go for the moment.

     “We can’t keep going like this,” his foster mother said.

     Four years ago, Wyatt had gotten into another fistfight with one of his foster siblings. It was a cycle as normal to him as breathing; he’d ignore the people in the house until one little slight set him off, and he’d swing for all he was worth. This time, though,  it seemed it was the last straw. His foster parents sat him down and began a conversation he was well familiar with by this time.

     “We can’t keep going like this,” they’d said then, too.

     Seven months was not the longest or the shortest time he’d ever spent with a house, (not the shortest he’d ever spent in this house,) and under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have cared. But this time, he’d met Blake. Wyatt had never had someone, (a friend,) like Blake before, and suddenly that was all it took for him to be desperate to stay in this home. He begged to stay, but didn’t actually expect the foster parents to let him.  With conditions, of course. But still, it was maybe the nicest he’d ever been treated by a set of foster parents before, that they actually bothered to hear him out.

      “And most importantly,” they’d told him, “you will never lift a finger to harm any of your foster siblings again, understood?”

     He agreed with full intent to follow his new rules.

     And he’d almost made it.

     “I-I didn’t--” he said, tightening his fists under the table, trying to keep control. “I know I messed up, but it-- it was just this once! I’ve followed the rules this whole time, I just messed up one time! Besides, he was asking for it!”

     He felt his lip twitch up in a suppressed snarl. He knew full well it wasn’t helping his case, but he almost couldn’t help that some anger was still trying to bubble to the surface. 

     Both adults stared at him in silence, disappointment practically palpable. He crossed his arms and met their gazes defiantly. The house was quiet in a way it usually wasn’t, in a way that meant the other kids were undoubtedly hidden away trying to eavesdrop, ears pressed against the hardwood floor upstairs. Brats.

     He hated that he didn’t know what the adults were thinking. Mr. and Mrs. Bonfils were very plain people, almost cookie-cutter at first glance. But even in his limited interactions with them, there was some hidden depth that couldn’t help but be apparent to Wyatt after living under their roof all these years. The fact that he was still under their roof at all spoke volumes. So it went, he could never really guess what they were going to do when it came to confronting him.

     Rebellious spirit be damned, Wyatt found himself squirming under the weight of the silence. He huffed a tense sigh.

     “I won’t do it again, ok? So just-- I should be fine to stay, right?” 

     There was no immediate answer, which only made his frustration and anxiety spike even further. He shifted in his seat when his foster father finally spoke up.

     “Look, Wyatt. In two months you’re going to turn 18 and age out of the system. It would be a waste of everyone’s time, yours included, to move you around when you’re almost an adult. We’re not sending you away.” At the teen’s visible relief, he lifted a finger in the air. “However. You still broke our agreement, and it’s been abundantly clear the whole time you’ve been with us that you don’t really want to be here. So as soon as you turn 18, you’re leaving.”

     “L--” Wyatt frowned, “leaving?”

     “We have no obligation towards you once you’re an adult. So you’re going to be moved out on your birthday. You’re not staying a day past, so make sure you’re prepared, understood?”

     Wyatt frowned, processing what he’d just been told.

     “…Why…?” he muttered. “Henry still lives here, and he’s 20.”

     “Henry is practically family.” The foster mother pursed her lips again. She seemed to mull something over before continuing. “Wyatt, if you wanted to be part of this family you had to act like it. It’s a little late for that, now.”

     Wyatt hunched his shoulders and dropped his gaze. He didn’t want to be part of their family. He just didn’t want to be thrown out, either. He didn’t want to scramble to scrape together his savings and find somewhere he could afford to stay. He didn’t want his friends to know.

      “... But it was just one time,” he protested weakly.

     “You still haven’t even said sorry,” she said.

---

     Wyatt could work with this. Two months was better than getting moved away within the week, at least. He repeated that mantra in his head a few times as he made his way up to the little room he shared with some of the other kids. It was empty right now, which was excellent for the purposes of digging out his little alcohol stash. He pocketed a small bottle of whiskey, a pack of cigarettes, and his lighter before kneeling up onto his mattress and shimmying up to the windowsill. 

     Luckily, everyone here had long since become complacent with Wyatt’s penchant for sneaking out, so he hadn’t had to worry about his window being permanently locked or boarded up or some shit like that. He slid the window up and swung himself out far enough to climb up to the roof. Keeping his footsteps light, he walked across to a corner that would put his back to the setting sun. He never really got why people cared about watching it go down so much. It just burned his eyes whenever he tried. 

     He dropped into his sit hard. Just sat and did nothing for a few moments. A thick cluster of trees lining the picket fence kept the yard hidden, their branches swaying rhythmically with the evening chill that had settled in the air. They should be turning orange soon. The sky behind them was dull and dusty in a way that meant it would only be getting colder from here.

     Wyatt let out a frustrated growl and pulled out his little bottle. He’d almost nicked the thing when he’d been looking at it at the corner store earlier, but remembered in time that there was a reason he was putting up with his part-time job. Well, now there was an even better reason, he supposed. He drained it in one swig and, drawing his arm back with vigor, threw the empty bottle hard as he could off the roof. It bounced off the fence and shattered at the far back of the yard. Anger properly expressed, he flopped back into the crook of the rooftop, impatient for the alcohol to take effect.  

     With nothing better to do besides face his own misery, he pulled out his lighter and a cigarette, too. It was pretty stupid to smoke lying back. He’d burned a few holes in his clothes that way, including the worst instance,  a shirt he’d actually bought himself from an outlet. Most of his stuff was secondhand and didn’t fit quite right, anyway, though, so most of the time he didn’t care. 

     He briefly flicked out his flip phone, a habit formed by nights spent bored waiting for Blake's replies. The guy took forever to type. Of course, he hadn't sent him a message today, so there were no replies waiting for him, now. He thought about texting him now. He thought better of it. He let the hand with the phone drop onto his chest with a sigh.

     Two months. He had to figure something out by then. He definitely couldn’t tell anyone about this. Any adult would just find a way to make it his fault. Well-- it was his fault at the end of the day, wasn’t it? Maybe Harris and Tomas wouldn’t blame him, but… no, he couldn’t leech off them any more than he already did. That wouldn’t be fair. And he definitely didn’t want Blake to know. He didn’t need to make himself even more of a charity case. Even worse than being shamed for all this, Wyatt thought, would be to be pitied. He didn’t need anyone’s handouts.

     So, that left buying or renting a place. Maybe a hotel if he couldn’t figure something out soon enough. He could always ask for more hours at work to save up. He cringed. That would definitely eat into his homework time, though. How much leeway did he have before he was denied graduation, again? He knew it wasn’t a lot. If he started slipping, Blake would definitely start asking questions. Maybe he could start taking night shifts…

     The sound of a window opening barely registered to him, but the sight of a head popping up over the lip of the roof accompanied by a startled squawk definitely caught his attention. He blinked away his thoughts and watched the kid get herself halfway up, pausing to glare at him. 

     “Hey, the roof’s supposed to be empty, why’re you here?” She shouted. 

     Fionn Carver was a very new addition to the house; as in only-a-week-or-so new. She was a gangly little brat with short-cropped black hair and a big personality. Well, from what Wyatt had seen of her, anyway. She was apparently quite fearless, which was accentuated more as she pulled herself the rest of the way up to the roof and came over to sit a couple feet away. Wyatt huffed and took another drag. 

     “Hey, are you allowed to have that?!” Fionn said, looking thoroughly scandalized.

     “Nope,” Wyatt replied.

     “Th-that’s…” She crossed her arms and tilted her head at him, it was almost cartoonish how telegraphed her emotions were. “What’s your name again?”

     “Wyatt,” he said.

     “Ohhh. The other kids told me to stay away from you.”

     “Assholes,” he muttered. Fionn didn’t seem to hear.

     “So what brings you to the roof, scary guy?”

     “‘Scary guy’?” He raised an eyebrow at that. “I just told you my name, you know. Whatever. I’m here so I don’t get smoke in the house.” He pointed to his burning cigarette.

     “Isn’t that bad for you, though?”

     “Yep,” he said. Nobody ever let him forget it. They just didn't understand how little he cared. Not like they really did, either. Just wanted something to make him feel bad about, most of the time.

     She frowned, but seemed to let it go fast, shrugging and leaning on her knees. She smiled and stared at Wyatt expectantly in silence. He barely knew this kid, but somehow her being quiet for longer than a few seconds was already enough to unnerve him. Or maybe that was just the various substances talking. 

     “What?” He snapped.

     “Well?” She said, and waited expectantly for a few more seconds. When Wyatt simply glared in response she frowned and sighed, and continued, “aren’t you going to ask me why I’m on the roof?”

     “...No?”

     “What? Why not?” she pouted. 

     “Not really my business kid. If you want to tell me just tell me, I don’t care.” 

     “Ugh, I can’t make any friends at school!” Fionn wailed, flopping back against the roof tiles dramatically. “It’s already been like, a whole week and I don’t have anybody to hang out with yet! How messed up is that?”

     Wyatt heaved a smoky sigh. The ocean could not explain the depths to which he did not care. 

     “I mean, I know we have all the other kids here,” she continued without prompting, “which is kinda like a built-in sleepover all the time if they’re nice. But it’s not exactly the same either, is it? There’s like, a different feeling to friends in your house and friends at school. Right? You get it, don’t you? I’m not just crazy?”

     “I think you might be,” he muttered.

     “What did you do to make friends when you first got here, guy?” She popped up and leaned on her hands to peer over at him. He glanced up at her from where he lounged, excited and honest, a completely open book. He thought about how he first met Blake.

     “Uh,” he said. “Y’know, I don’t think my methods are reproducible.”

     “What’s that mean?”

     “Fuck, kid, it means what worked for me won’t work for you, alright? Didn’t you come up here to get away from people or something?” He snapped.

     Fionn let out the most dramatic full-body gasp her little frame could handle. Reminded him of Blake. Shit.

     “That was a bad word!!” She exclaimed. That even managed to surprise a laugh out of him.

     “Yeah, you might be hearing a lot of those if you keep talking to me, kid.”

     She gasped again, and leaned back into her own space with fervor. 

     “My teacher said that’s how youths get corrupted, and I’m youths, you know!”

     Wyatt grinned with the mischief of a thousand suns and responded, “no shit.”

     She gasped again and got up, running back over to the window she crawled out from. “You won’t corrupt me today!” She exclaimed as she began carefully lowering herself back onto the sill below.

     “Bye, Fionn,” he laughed as she ducked down. She popped her head back up, blinked at him once, and responded, “bye,” before going back inside proper.

     He snickered to himself in the silence, leaning his head back like before. As the buzz of the interaction wore off and darkness began to truly settle in the sky, Wyatt’s mind flickered back to the impending doom that had sent him up to the roof to get drunk in the first place. In his inebriated state, he found it hard to focus or care. His thoughts instead drifted back to Fionn, and the conversation they’d just had, brief as it was. She was kind of annoying, but hell if he wasn’t almost a little endeared by the end of it. 

     He took a soft drag. Damn, was he actually getting along with one of the other kids for once? Figures it’d be right as he was getting kicked out, too. Still, maybe it would be nice. He looked forward to being bothered by her again, he thought. 

     The next morning at breakfast, Fionn avoided him like the plague. Guess the others warned her a little better, this time. 

---

     Wyatt had made his list and checked it twice, and he was not going to have enough. Between food, toiletries, rent, and all other theoretical necessities, Wyatt couldn’t cover it all on his wage. Which meant he had to cut something out. And, well, when it came down to it, food was a no-brainer and toiletries would be essential if he didn’t want people asking questions. He was still on the fence about whether he wanted to get a hotel room. It would keep him secure for a night or two, but it was still too expensive to be a long-term option, and he wasn’t sure if it would just be a safer bet to save the money for food. 

     So… he was going to get a bit more familiar with the great outdoors, he supposed. It was now a matter of scouting out the safest place to bunk. Wyatt wasn’t exactly a stranger to spending nights on the street. He’d run away from enough households that he knew a few tips and tricks. But he’d never really had to do it long-term before, and, honestly, even though he had time to prepare he was starting to get anxious, like really anxious. 

     All that time mooching off the theatre club paid off, though. He kept it together enough that he was pretty sure none of his friends were any the wiser. Save for one interaction, he kept it together.

     It went like this: Blake had Wyatt’s hand clasped in his own, explaining how it would be healthy and free to let him paint his nails as he turned it this way and that. Then he gasped and flashed that blinding smile of his, the one that made Wyatt think he would seriously have no trouble getting any guy he wanted (or at least, any guy with taste.) 

     “Oh, by the way! Was there anything special you wanted to do next week?” He said. Wyatt quirked an eyebrow.

     “What’s next week?”

     “Wy-aaat,” Blake complained, slumping over into his space. “You forget this every year!”

     “What, our fuckin’ anniversary?” he snarked.

     “Your birthday, dummy! We gotta do something special!”

     And Wyatt despaired.