Page 8

Kenna

—Four Years Ago—

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"Shut up!"

Dishes clattered. "Sit down.

A cupboard door slammed shut. A baby cried.

Kenna glanced around for one of the adults. After dinner, there was always chaos in the group home. Twenty-four girls, from infants to seventeen years old, lived in the building, with four people in each room.

"I'll tell if you leave." Samantha sat on the top bunk, swinging her feet. "You'll go to juvie."

Juvenile Hall wasn't a threat. She'd been there once before when they couldn't find a foster home for her.

"If you leave, I'm going with you." Bethany scrambled off her bed. "I'm not staying here."

"You're eight years old. You're not coming with me." Kenna looked at Samantha, who was a threat at sixteen years old. "Go ahead and rat me out, and I'll tell them how your boyfriend meets up with you every day after school."

"Bitch," muttered Samantha.

She opened the door a crack and checked the hallway. Once the coast was clear, she hurried to the stairs and squeezed into the space between two bookcases, listening for anyone approaching. The front door was the easiest way to sneak out after dinner. Once she returned, she'd come through the kitchen door left open for Ramona, who stayed late to help with the infants.

She popped out of her hiding spot and opened the door, shutting it softly behind her. No one could hear her in the house with all the screaming and crying. And what would they do if she was caught sneaking out? Send her away?

It wouldn't matter where she went. In another year, she'd be on her own. She'd get a job, save money for a year until River graduated, and then they could look for their dad together.

She looked behind her. Nobody followed.

Bending over, she pulled up her pant leg and grabbed the cell phone she hid in her sock. At the group home, she kept the phone hidden in her binder in her backpack. Ms. Guilly never went through her schoolwork but inspected their beds and the closet daily. Some of the girls that arrived tried to bring drugs into the house. All phones found were confiscated.

Ever since Kingsley gave her the phone, she'd hidden it from everyone. Everyone except her art teacher, Miss Meade.

During class, Miss Meade would let her charge the phone as long as she completed her work. Since art class was her favorite subject and she loved to draw, it was easy to stay on task.

She pushed Kingsley's contact number and walked faster. When he picked up the call, she said, "I'm out."

"Good girl. Hang tight. I'll be there in a few."

She disconnected the call, unable to hide her smile. Everything inside of her felt lighter and happier. The days Kingsley came to see her were her favorite days. He was her best-kept secret. Every foster home she went to never found out about him.

The group home proved to be the most challenging place for him to visit. There were too many people around all the time. But she was older now, and it was worth the risk of getting caught sneaking out to have a chance to spend time with him.

At the corner, she stopped, looking left and right. Before she spotted him, she heard his Harley. The rumble of his motorcycle was loud and deep, making her chest thrum.

She rocked on the edge of the curb, anxious for him to get to her.

The moment he pulled up beside her, she shoved her phone in her pocket and took the helmet he handed her. She'd rode with him many times. With him, she felt free and happy.

He never spoke; he only winked and gave her that grin as if she were his favorite person when he handed her a helmet. She climbed on behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, grabbed his belt, and held on. The motorcycle shot forward. A thrill swept through her, prickling her skin.

After what felt like an exhilarating journey through the town, they reached the outskirts, away from the street lights. The wind whipped past her. She loved feeling the world blur around her. Having Kingsley here was a splash of adventure and safety all at once.

Kingsley slowed, stopping at their secret spot—a hidden clearing by the river, surrounded by towering cedar trees.

She hopped off the motorcycle and removed the helmet. Her hair fell in her eyes, and she brushed the strands back with her hand, uncaring about how she looked.

Kingsley swung his leg over the seat of the Harley and shared a smile with her. She threw her arms around him and squeezed. "I missed you."

He was a piece of her life now. As much as her mom, dad, and sister.

He set her away from him and pulled out a thin box from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. She stepped closer.

"For you," he said.

"Me?" She unwrapped it eagerly and found a set of colored pencils.

Emotions closed her throat. She ran her thumb over the box. They were the same kind of pencils Miss Meade used.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I thought you could use them." He cupped her cheek. "Why don't we sit on the rocks, and you can tell me how you've been doing before I have to take you back to the group home."

She sat down on the river rock, side by side with him. During the stolen moments with Kingsley, she learned what happiness felt like.