Page 142 of Hell Hath No Fury

“Language!”

“Kammie doesn’t sit down and talk with anyone. She is a gross, fat bitch, and she needs to leave me alone, or the next time, she’s not gonna be walking afterward.”

“Ashe Dillinger, if I have to warn you one more time about your foul language, you will be spending every last day you have here on lawn duty. Now explain to me why you once again opted for violence?”

“She called me a whore.”

“But you’re not a sex worker, Ashe. So why does that bother you?”

I peered at her, frustrated that she made me relive the awful experience yet again, something I did every time I thought or talked about it … and even when I didn’t. “She called me a whore for what happened at my last foster home.”

Dr. McCormick gulped. She knew this was touchy grounds. It had taken me all of the three years I’d been living at Carvill’s to work through it. “Well, she is wrong for that, Ashe, and I will be sure to have a talk with her about that kind of behavior.”

I rolled my eyes. “Another talk. Another warning. Another lackluster effort at giving me even the slightest bit of relief. You can’t even give me one week of peace, can you?”

“Ashe, please… You’re older, more mature. Perhaps, you could help guide—”

I didn’t let her finish. No, not after she made me go there. Made me remember his disgusting, hairy body on top of me. The smell, the sweat, the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. My gut turned as I rose to my feet. “Yet another sign of justhow little this non-profit actually cares about the kids who reside here. And yes, Kathleen, I am still a kid for another week.”

Dr. McCormick rose to her feet as I stormed toward the door. “I did not give you permission to leave, young lady!”

“Big whoop. I don’t give a shit anymore. In one week, I’m Andy fucking Dufresne.” With that, I turned on my heel, swung open the door, and left, raising a John Bender fist in the air as I exited.

“You get back here right this instant!” Dr. McCormick called out to my back as I disappeared down the hallway. A relieved breath escaped my lips when I saw Monica waiting for me there, joining my side as we continued down the hallway toward the entryway at a fast pace, her wary eyes moving from Dr. McCormick’s open door to me and back again. She never dared go against them as I did. She was too innocent for that, too pure.

Monica clasped her hands together. “OMG, tell me everything!”

“Same old stupid shit. She never does anything about anything. She never will. I’m almost out of here, though. It’s not even worth it anymore.”

Sadness took over Monica’s features as we neared the front doors. “I still can’t believe it’s finally here. I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you.” Her young, doe eyes flit toward the floor. She was still only fifteen, still had her parents, though they visited infrequently, and she still had her youth. She didn’t deal with loss very well. And though I did have every intention of getting her out of there somehow, some way, I knew it would mean a change in our relationship if I wasn’t able to.

I stopped her just before the front entrance doors, the receptionist desk behind us with Mrs. Keane eyeing us suspiciously from behind it. I swatted Monica against the tit with the back of my hand, and she flinched, letting out a little squeak. “I already told you, bitch, I’m gonna find a way to get your assout of here. I’ll be 18, an adult. It shouldn’t be that complicated. We’ll get you emancipated.”

“I hope so,” Monica responded, her face still long. “I don’t think I’ll make it in here without you.”

I was getting ready to backhand her again when a familiar baritone voice called out from behind me.

“Ms. Dillinger…” I turned back to see Mr. Malcolm a few lengths away with one hand on his hip and the other come-hithering me. “Come with me, please.”

* * *

After a few hours of picking up trash, weeding, and raking—something I’ve done a lot more of since Covid killed the Carvill Children’s Home budget and took out the groundskeepers—I handed my orange vest over to Mr. Malcolm and crossed the campus toward the residential hall. The campus wasn’t big, perhaps the size of a middle school with several buildings encircling a quad that once competed with the likes of prestigious universities in its beauty but now acted as a physical representation of the neglected state of the home. Like most other small businesses and non-profits, Carvill felt the full weight of the pandemic and just narrowly made it out the other side. The owners, Jack and June, were retired and barely around. They spent every summer up north at their lake house in Ohio or their beach house in Nantucket. And during the winters, they were holed up in their house on the hill overlooking the Carvill campus. Everything started falling through the cracks when they made their son CEO. The campus deteriorated, building issues remained unfixed, and residency dwindled as more adoptions were taking place during the pandemic … like we were puppies or something, and Jack and June Carvill, atthe behest of their son, made the decision to not take any more kids in to prepare for closure of the organization when the last child left. Bobby Carvill wanted to wait out his parents’ death then bulldoze everything and turn the land into a golf course. He had made that perfectly clear since taking over as CEO. I could only imagine how many of those children he pushed out of here wound up back at other homes when the foster parents realized what little devils we all were. Carvill was for children with behavioral problems after all.

We were ten months into 2021, and this place that once housed fifty-eight foster kids at its height in 2016 had very few remaining, only thirteen to be exact, which fortunately for us, that meant we no longer had four to a room. We could’ve even had our own rooms if the residential building wasn’t in such horrible condition. As the oldest and the odd one out, I could’ve had my own room, but I didn’t want to leave Monica with someone else. Instead, Monica and I shared a room ourselves and a bathroom with two others next door. Unfortunately for me, Kammie lived next door with her Manson-esque mini me, Juliana. Sharing that bathroom was the basis for much of our conflict, but did Dr. McCormick ever think to move us or them? No. She wanted us to ‘talk it out.’ Not to mention, instead of giving that room to another kid, boss lady decided to use it for more storage.

Idiot.

As I made my way into the building and down the noisy hall toward our room, I crossed my fingers, hoping Kammie wouldn’t catch me before I made it. Not because I was scared or anything. I’ve never been scared of a damn thing in my life. You don’t live through what I have otherwise. But because I was exhausted and sweaty and just wanted to change clothes, watch some YouTube on my phone, and get some sleep.

Luckily, I made it to my room without issue, and I quickly opened the door and made my way in. The room was small, but it was enough. Monica perked up from the bottom bunk of our bunk beds when I entered the room.

“Hey!” She looked me over, eyeing the grass stains on my knees. “Lawn duty?”

I just nodded, stripping my clothes and tossing them into the hamper below theStranger Thingsposter. I crossed the room toward our dresser and dug through it for a fresh pair of clothes.

“Least it wasn’t the toilets again.”

I chuckled, pulling a Batman shirt over my small frame before slipping my legs into a pair of Soffe shorts. “You’re telling me. I’m surprised the bitch didn’t make me do both. She wasn’t too happy with how I talked to her. But I’m just sick of her bullshit.”