No More Trash Bags

“RUBY, get down here. NOW!”

No ignoring that bellowing. I mean, Ms. Imogene wasn’t the worst foster parent I’d ever had, and she definitely wouldn’t be the last, but she wasn’t winning any awards. 

The room I shared with my foster ‘sister’ Jacqui was cramped, the faded floral wallpaper stuck in a bad 80s time warp. I marked my place in the book and set it on the scratched nightstand, stretching as I stood. Rare time alone was gold—Jacqui was off visiting relatives, so I had the room to myself for once. “What does she want now?” I muttered, dragging my feet toward the door.

Jacqui and I got along ok. We are smart enough to know everything is temporary. Foster means don’t get too close—it will add wood to the dumpster fire of life. Neither of us had much. Maybe because we didn’t have parents around, or sometimes you just got yanked from a placement and didn’t even have time to grab your stuff. My clothes were cheap and worn. When I arrived at Ms. Imogene’s, everything I owned fit into two plastic grocery bags—mismatched socks and dingy underwear.

It’s bad enough that I only had a few pairs of ratty underwear, tops, and pants. Dragging my life in plastic bags made me think of people with shopping carts—no home, just surviving. A suitcase would be nice. Something that says, “I’m not just passing through, or maybe I am. But I matter.”

As I opened the door, the cigarette smoke and fried whatever the hell someone had last eaten hit me in the face. Man, I don’t know that I ever want kids, but I can tell you I don’t want to listen to someone else’s little kids screaming all the time. 

As I turned the corner and stepped onto the landing, I could see Imogene’s kids, Peter and Kenny, throwing toy cars around and crashing them into everything in sight. I wanted to press my hands to my ears and bolt out of the house. Peace and quiet were hard to come by in this house. The TV constantly blaring, the kids yelling endlessly, and Imogene was always on the phone, yammering to somebody. This time wasn’t different.

I could hear Imogene on the phone as I walked towards the kitchen.

“Well, okay, I’ll let her know…….Mmhmm,” her big arms flapping as she held the phone and took a beer from the fridge. Then, she waved me to sit at the table. 

“I’ll tell you, it would be nice to have a boy so my boys could have someone to play with.” The kitchen was as dingy as my room, with orange counters and grime-covered cabinets that hadn’t seen a sponge since the moon landing.

“Ok, well, thanks for calling and letting me know. Ruby’s right here, so I’ll let her know. Buh-bye.” Imogene clicked her phone off and looked at me. I already knew what was coming. I was going to be placed somewhere else. I’d been at Imogene’s for about 7 months but hadn’t even finished the school year. Shit! It’s not like I loved it here, but like I said, Imogene wasn’t the worst foster parent I’d had. There were worse. Much worse.

“That was Mrs. Vargos. She wanted me to tell you that you would be going to a different foster home at the end of the week. Probably Saturday, maybe Friday. You better start packing up. Tomorrow’s Monday, and you’ll be busy with school.” Imogene barely looked at me as she delivered the news.

I had to hold back from saying, “Are you serious? I better start packing?” Should I get some moving boxes?” Whenever I didn’t blurt out the smart-ass thing I was thinking, I gave myself an invisible point in a game I’d never win. My thoughts popped out of my mouth like a damn gumball machine. Even so, I felt that familiar knot in my stomach, my heart beating just a few beats faster.

Changing foster homes was like playing the lotto. You could win sometimes, maybe big, but you will most likely end up broke and miserable. Maybe you end up at a house like Imogene’s— nobody is particularly mean, but you’re not particularly a part of the family either. Is it worse to be ignored or worse to get too much attention? It’s always a gamble, and I didn’t feel like my numbers were hitting lately. 

As I lay in bed that night, I heard Jacqui come in. I pretended to be asleep. I wasn’t ready to tell her the news yet. It took a while before I could sleep. I was leaving in a week, so it was probably best to just get it over with and tell her tomorrow. 

The following morning, the alarm jolted me awake with its awful noise. Lacking a cell phone, Jacqui and I relied on an alarm clock that seemed as ancient as everything else in this house.

“BEEEEP! MEEEEP! HOOOONNNK!” It sounded like someone was trying to kill a cartoon goat. I reached over and slapped the stop button. I looked over at Jacqui, pulling the covers over her head. I guess she hated the alarm clock as much as I did.

“Hey girl, get up. I’ll jump in the shower first to give you a sec.” Jacqui peeked out from under the covers, looking at me with hazel eyes, and mumbled, “Cool, thanks.” I saw the stuffed rabbit she slept with. She said her dad gave it to her right after he took off.

As I wiped the mirror down to get the fog off, my brown eyes stared back at me. My hair was piled on my head; it wasn’t a shampoo day. I wondered what people thought of me when they looked. A fifteen-year-old teenager, tall for her age, maybe even a little pretty? Or could they only see my label, “foster,” a kid with no home, with no one to claim her?  

I saw a girl who could pass for normal if you squinted hard enough. A girl who might have a mom yelling at her to grab breakfast while she rolled her eyes. A dad waiting to drive her to school and annoy her with questions about homework and boyfriends. But those weren’t my eyes in the mirror—they were just eyes, in a face, on a girl that belonged nowhere.

“Imogene told me I’m gone by the end of the week,” I told Jacqui as I closed our bedroom door.

“Shit, girl. Do you know why? Or where?” I could tell Jacqui knew how I was feeling.

“Right, yeah, they told me. I’m going to live in a palace made of gold, wear couture all the time, go to private school, and have the perfect foster parents.” I was being a smart-ass, but that would be amazing. 

Jacqui snickered, but then her face grew more serious. “Seriously, bitch, I’m gonna kind of miss you.”

“I know. I’m the fucking coolest.” I said nonchalantly. The truth was, I didn’t believe in happy endings, but I believed in survival. I thought that if I could just make it to adulthood with my sanity intact, maybe I could make my own moderately satisfied ending. I didn’t need a fairy tale. I was no Disney princess. Just a job that could pay the bills, a place that I could call my own, and if I was lucky, people in my life that could stick around for a while.

The week at school was busy. It always was when you had to move to the next place, trying to get in any last-minute assignments or tests that could impact your grades. Moving in the middle of the school year was crazy. The teachers always wanted to give you something to take to the next school to tell them where the class was. Since I didn’t know where I was going, I had no idea if it would be a better or worse school district. Would I be the girl who was hopelessly behind or the one who looked like a genius? As I closed my locker, I wondered if finishing that chapter on Quadratic Functions and Their Graphs was even worth it. No one cared much about my grades. A “C” was as acceptable as an “A.” Even so, I’d probably finish it, chasing after that lifelong dream of being moderately satisfied. It wasn’t much of a dream, but it was mine. No princes, no castles of gold. A place of my own that I could unpack, and if I did pack, I’d be headed to someplace I picked out.

On Wednesday afternoon, Jacqui and I were hanging out in our room. Turns out I was leaving Friday after school. Jacqui tossed a pack of gum onto my bed while I folded my clothes. 

“Something to chew on when they start asking dumb questions,’” she said, grinning, “I got cinnamon cuz you’re so spicy!” I rolled my eyes but slipped it into my bag anyway.

“That’s a pretty good dad joke for someone who doesn’t have a dad,” I quipped back. Another eye-roller. Jacqui and I were full of them. What’s the saying—if you’re not crying, you’re laughing, or something like that. We talked that night, knowing that we didn’t have long. We didn’t talk about anything earth-shattering. Dumb stuff—cute boys, bitchy girls, teachers we begrudgingly liked. It was a good night. Maybe Jacqui and I can stay in touch.

The bell rang at the end of the day on Friday. My books had been turned in, and teachers’ notes had been gathered. Jacqui and I met at the school entrance to say goodbye.  

“Imogene said you could call me at the house.” Jacqui looked awkward. I took the paper and put it in a zippered pocket in my purse. I wasn’t going to let this get lost.

“Ok. If I don’t call, it’s only because they won’t let me.”  

Jacqui nodded in understanding as she replied, “They better let you, or I’m kicking someone’s ass.” Foster kids were used to saying goodbye.

I heard my name and saw my case worker waving at me in her blue Honda.

“Well, I guess this is it. Don’t try any more dad jokes. It’s not a good look.” I smiled, giving Jacqui a quick hug.

I turned and walked towards the Honda, wondering what awaited on the other side of this car ride. 

“Hey,” I said as I climbed into the front seat of Mrs. Vargos’ car. I’d had her as a case worker for a couple of years. She was always nice to me and could be pretty cool.

“I have a little surprise for you before we head to your new home.” I waited. Surprises make me nervous.

“Ruby, I’ve been looking forward to today.” Her voice squeaked, and that one crooked tooth of hers was trying to take the spotlight like always. “Let’s head to the mall, grab some food in the food court and go shopping.” 

Mall? Shopping? Food court? What in the hell is going on? This is someone whose life wasn’t one big hand-me-down. I tried to play it cool, but deep down, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh, cry, or bolt. 

“Sure, I could eat,” was all I could manage. 

Mrs. Vargos continued chatting as we drove, but I wasn’t listening. I didn’t want someone buying me clothes and picking out what I would wear. Was there a Goodwill at the mall? We were probably going there. I’ve done plenty of shopping at the old G.Dubs. Sometimes, you could find a few cool things, but mostly, it all looked like it came out of someone’s seventy-year-old grandma’s closet. 

We walked into the mall, bright lights and chaos everywhere. “Eat now or later?” Mrs. Vargos asked, her tone light.

“I’m hungry,” I mumbled, barely looking up as I tried to take it all in. We grabbed food from different places and sat together. Eating lunch at the mall like normal people felt strange but kind of nice.

“So,” Mrs. Vargos said, smiling, “do you want to hear about your new foster parents? I think you’re really going to like them.”

She explained that the Dixons were a warm, funny couple who’d been waiting for this—for me. Her excitement was genuine, but I couldn’t shake my doubts.

Yeah, we’ll see, I thought. Mrs. Vargos and I went from store to store for three hours, building what she called a “capsule wardrobe.” She never judged my choices, “oohing” and “ahhing” at every outfit. For a minute, it felt like I’d stumbled into some feel-good rom-com—Foster Kid edition. Goofy, but … normal.

When we finally finished, we walked out to the car, trying to carry all the bags. Mrs. Vargos had helped me get “good deals” and “stretch my dollar.” I’d never even thought about these concepts. Five pairs of ratty underwear were never a “good deal,” and the waistband was the only thing that stretched.

As we piled the last of the bags into her car, the parking lot lights glaring down at us, Mrs. Vargos said, “One last teeny surprise.” She reached into the back of the trunk, feeling around under all those bags. With several tugs and grunts, she pulled out a brand-new suitcase. It was deep blue, and all the latches were shiny and new, glittering under the street lamps. 

I stared at the suitcase. It felt too good, like I’d borrowed someone else’s life. My hand hovered over the handle. Was this mine? It was just a suitcase, but it felt like more—like a question I wasn’t ready to answer. Am I being dumb to think it could get better?

“This is for you. No more grocery or trash bags to carry your stuff. You deserve better. Look! The suitcase even has a lock! Let’s put your clothes in there. I’m not even sure they will all fit!” she laughed.

As we drove to the Dixon’s, my mind was racing. The suitcase, the shopping, a new foster home. Were they as nice as Mrs. Vargos said? Had they really been waiting….for me?

Soon, we pulled into Dixon’s driveway. The house was two stories, with bushes and flowers planted next to it. I didn’t see any cars in the driveway, but then I noticed they had a two-car garage. Mrs. Vargos and I got out of the car. This was always the worst part—the not knowing. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my pants.

Mrs. Vargos walked to the front door like she owned the place. The front porch light was on. Before we could even knock, the door opened. A middle-aged couple stood at the door. They were perfectly average-looking, but their smiles reached their eyes.

“Grace! So good to see you!” Mrs. Dixon reached out to Mrs. Vargos with both of her arms. Grace?  Huh. 

“Mr. And Mrs. Dixon, this is Ruby. We’re exhausted, aren’t we, Ruby? We did some serious damage at the mall!” Mrs. Vargos’ voice squeaked again, just like earlier. The Dixons stood in the doorway, smiling excitedly to see me. Me. Not a chore to be done or a box to check, but a person they’d been waiting for. 

My heart thudded against my ribs. I wanted to trust their smiles, but trust wasn’t free—not for me. People could be kind until they weren’t. The warmth of the house and the smell of something baked all felt like a trap. Trusting people could be as good as putting a weapon in their hands.

Still, part of me wanted to believe. 

“Ruby, you’re finally here! It already feels brighter with you here. Come in—let us show you around.” Something inside me shifted like the tiniest crack of light breaking through the dark.

The next hour was a whirlwind of laughter and chatter, with Grace and the Dixons treating the day like Christmas morning. It was hard to take in. When Mrs. Vargos left, the house felt quieter, and I found myself alone in my ‘new room,’ trying to take it all in.”

Mrs. Dixon had lingered at the door, her voice soft. “I know the room seems plain, Ruby. We didn’t decorate because you might want to choose what feels like home.” She gave me a warm smile. “Take your time settling in—it’s been a long day. Maybe this weekend you could invite Jacqui over. I’d love to meet her.”

I sat on the bed, staring at my suitcase. What if my moderately happy ending starts now? Walking into the Dixons with a suitcase full of my stuff felt different from arriving at Ms. Imogene’s.

As I unzipped it, I ran my fingers along the smooth edges of the suitcase, its sturdy frame a quiet promise. It felt like something a real person would own—someone who belonged somewhere. But was that me?  

I wanted it to be me. I wanted this house, this room, this family to be different. 

This suitcase—my suitcase—held everything I owned. For the first time, my life felt… like mine.