LUNES
7:11 AM

Reid Harlow

God, I fucking hate Mondays.

It's no better when you just moved into a new foster home, because you've been kicked out of the last one. Actually, kicked seems more like a nice approach to the whole situation. It was actually because my foster father and I were screaming in the front yard due to a disagreement and somehow, it led to one of the neighbors calling the cops.

I told my side of the story, he told his.

Guess who they believed?

It's cool. I don't fucking care. The foster system has always been full of shits when it comes to recruiting people to take in helpless children that need a home. I could probably count on one hand how many times a foster family seems genuine about their intentions.

And I've been in the system since I was five.

I reach into the trash bag my social worker had given me when I was hurried out of the home. She assured me she believed me, that what I told the police was true, but even with her—wide-rimmed glasses, a soft empathic smile—it seemed forced. She looked like she was trying to insert herself as someone I should trust, but couldn't. I mean, this lady knows everything about me and yet, the one thing she never afford to ask me was: was I happy?

I mean, granted, I probably would've never answered but the fucking effort would probably be nice.

"REID!" The bedroom door swings forward, the hinges squeaking at the opening. My roommate, a former foster kid, walks in with his arms wide open. He stood at about six-foot, and had jet-black hair and a glassy fair complexion. He had mono eyelids, a straight nose and his hair was cut off with a slight fringe. His name was Presley and he's Korean, I think.

"Don't call me that," I snap, returning back to the trash bag in front of me. My backpack sits at the edge of my bed, a twin-sized mattress, and has a couple of fresh notebooks the foster parents here—Sebastian Godfrey and Noelia Soberano—gave me. It was for my first day of school here. "It's Harlow."

"Alright, Harlow it is," Presley nods, swinging an arm around my shoulders. "You almost settled? There's breakfast downstairs and the rest of the family really wants to meet you."

I give him a look, which reads that I don't believe a single one of his words. And I truly don't. "Why would they want to meet me?"

"Well," Presley drags, his arm still settled around my shoulders. "You came in pretty late last night, and everyone was off to bed so, maybe that's a reason?"

I could sense the hint of humor behind his words, trying to cut the tension in the room, but it didn't work for me. I knew the bottom line of our relationship and it would not progress further than a couple of conversations here and there.

I shove his arm off my shoulders, dropping the trash bag to the floor. I'll handle this later.

Presley mumbles something under his breath, backing away from me as he goes towards his side of the room—with the neatly made bed and trophies that stock the shelves. He crosses his arms. "You know, I get it. I was a foster kid too, and I didn't like meeting new people either. But it's not so bad here. Sebastian and Nini are good people. They actually care about us."

I scoff, I'll believe it when I see it.

"I thought her name was Noelia?"

"Oh, so you do care about us," he teases. I shoot him a dark look. "What? I thought you were the type of person who didn't care to learn people's names or all that stuff. The type of person who likes to be alone. I mean, you dress the part."

I scowl at his words, but glance down at my attire. Since I was in my old clothes last night, Sebastian and Noelia—or Nini—told me to wash up and change into some fresh ones. They gave me some options from Presley's clothes, but I ended up choosing the darkest colors to find. I don't need a fucking spotlight on me when I enter Liberty Arts High.

"You owned them," I defend.

"And that," he points at me, "is precisely why I don't wear them."

My jaw clenched down, stopping me from throwing insults. "I wasn't aware the fucking fashion police was here."

"If you want to go full fashion, I could go full fashion," Presley holds up his hands, "but you're going to be late soon and there's still breakfast to be eaten."

I stare at him with a hard look, trying to read him. I didn't want to be bothered with heading downstairs and meeting the rest of the family. I'm temporary. Soon enough, I'll be out of their hair and they'll forget the presence of what's known as Reid Harlow.

"You have fourth lunch, by the way," Presley insists, adding onto his argument, "which means if you can starve for at least five hours, be my guest. But I gotta warn you, Lynch is going to be a rough class to pass through."

I suck in a deep breath, meeting Presley's eyes for the first time. His eyes reads that he was genuine, and his intentions are pure. I didn't know whether I liked that or hated it.

"Fine," I give in, pulling my backpack off the bed and swinging the strap over my shoulders. Presley grins a boyish smile, one that radiates complete joy and happiness, no sadness present. "How long till the bus arrives?"

"Bus? You're not going on the bus," he swings his arm back around my shoulders, the grip a little firmer this time. "I'll drive you. It's on my way to my college anyways."

With that being said, Presley drags me out of the bedroom and forces me down the steps. We descend into the dining room where I thought we would've been greeted with a rowdy crowd—but instead are pleasantly met with one child sitting at the glass dining table, reading a comic book.

His back turned to us, his chin pressed against his forearm as he flips through the comic book, occasionally grabbing a strip of bacon from his plate or taking a sip of milk from the glass.

"That's Nico Suarez," Presley reveals, pointing to the curly-haired boy. "He was placed here a couple months ago, and he's still getting used to living here. He's really quiet, always keeping to himself. He just started warming up to Nini."

Presley's arm still around mine, "how old is he?"

"He's eight," Presley declares, before his brows crinkled and he rethought his declaration. "Seven. He's seven."

"This is the entire family that wants to meet me?" I look around the empty kitchen, seeing how the stoves are turned off but the pots and pans still sit on the gas, some plates pushed into the sink and a couple of miscellaneous items scattered across the island and the dining table.

"Well," Presley sucks in wind, "I might've lied about the entire family being here..." I give him a stern look, "but I could've sworn the majority of them were here just a few minutes before I headed up to grab you."

I give him a deadpanned look, to which he doesn't react to but recoils his arm around my shoulder and walks towards Nico. Nico Suarez, dealing in his own space.

Let the poor boy live.

Presley places a hand on Nico, causing the little boy to jump, almost surprised at the fact that Presley was here. He lifts his head off his forearm, looking up to meet Presley's gaze. "Nico," Presley said softly, "this is Harlow. He's going to be our new foster brother. Say hi."

Nico turns around, his green eyes meeting my blue ones. I could detect some fear riding behind his eyes, and I don't blame him. I'm dressed in monochrome colors and I own a glare that could burn thousands of people. I look like I was attending a funeral. I probably am.

My own.

I wave him off, losing contact with green eyes and returning back to the familiar brown ones. "He doesn't have to. I got his name, and stats. It's alright."

I could almost see Nico release a fresh breath of air, nodding as he turns back to his comic books, taking the glass of milk with both hands as he brings it to his lips.

Presley gives me a little smile, and just before I return back with a daggered look, I hear a noise enter into the atmosphere.

"—Ariah, you have to be careful when you're at the table," the familiar feminine voice enters—Nini, I assume. "You can't just color and forget about your surroundings."

Nini reenters the kitchen, her long dyed blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, she wears fitted mom jeans and a colorful blouse.

A little black girl is by her side, reaching near her shoulders but not quite. The little girl—Ariah—wore a white tee and jean overalls, pairing both hands with a wristband.

"Nini," Presley announces, causing the foster mother to look up to see him—and me. "I thought Ariah was wearing the dress?"

"She was," Nini said, her eyes sparing a split second to me before returning, "but she spilled orange juice on herself and had to change."

When Presley took that answer, Nini looks to me, a wide smile graces her lips. "Reid," I wince at the name, causing Nini to abruptly stop. She turns to Presley. "What did I do wrong?"

"He goes by Harlow—I know, strange. I like his first name, but it's his preference," Presley raises both hands, as if he has nothing to do with it. He doesn't. It's my fucking name and I choose which one I get to be called.

"Sorry," Nini looks back to me, a small show of guilt pressed through her expression. "Harlow. It was nice of you to join us. Have you eaten anything yet?"

"No," I shake my head, not sure if I even want anything. All these new names are making my head spin, and I'm not sure I can handle another introduction.

"Well, I was making pancakes," Nini points to the pan sitting on the stove, "and I was finishing up making some traditional Filipino food—Nico usually really likes it—before Ariah spilled orange juice on herself. Do you have anything specific you want?"

I'm not used to this question. At most of my other foster homes, they would've sat a plate of whatever they cooked up in front of me and expected me to eat it. They don't bother asking for allergies, for likes and dislikes. Just here. Supplements.

"Um," for the first time in a while, I was rendered speechless. "Um."

"Anything is fine, Nini," Presley jumps in, a hand clutching my shoulder. Despite the fact that I'm about two inches taller than him—standing at six-foot-two—he still manages to gain some leverage when it comes to comparison. "Harlow isn't picky."

Nini gives one more look at me before nodding, seeing no objectives on my end. She parts from holding onto Ariah and turns to the kitchen, turning up the gas as the little click, click, click inflames the gas.

I feel my hand being tapped, and I look down to see Ariah has since approached me. She wears a pair of glasses on her face, her hair pulled into two afro buns, and she smiles—her front tooth chipped.

"Hello," Ariah greets, holding out a hand, "I'm Ariah Washington. I'm eleven and I really think you should add some color to your outfit."

I grit my teeth, stopping myself from scowling an eleven year old. Beside me, I could hear Presley trying to hold in a laugh—but not doing too well. "I'm Harlow," is all I offered, baring down my tongue from saying more. "I'm seventeen."

That's it. I refuse to say more. If I do, I might make a comment about how the chip of her tooth looks like the cup from Beauty and the Beast, or how she looks like a yoga instructor with her wristbands. I refrain from spilling my thoughts, deciding better than to stir shit on my very first day.

"I could help you, y'know," Ariah continues, bidding no attention to how I'm reacting, "my friends at school say there's like a clothing drive downtown on Saturday. We could go together." She smiles.

I scowl.

Presley is bursting out laughing now, and I almost wanted to punch him. He tries to swing an arm around my shoulder, but I quickly shove him off, showing the fury riling in my chest.

"Ariah," Nini begins, reproaching the dining table. She taps Nico on the shoulder, waking him from lying against the glass. "Be nice."

"I am!" Ariah defends, crossing her arms. "I'm trying to give him fashion advice. Mom, I'm really trying here."

The mom took me back for a second, and I rationalize everything that swirled through my head. Neither Presley nor Nini looked too shocked by this suggestive name, and from the looks of it, Ariah genuinely means what she said.

Despite not being blood, despite the both of them being two different shades of skin, Ariah still called Nini her mother.

"Ariah, just go eat your breakfast before Presley takes you to school," Nini shakes her head, turning to me. "Harlow, darling, I have your plate ready."

I don't move from my spot, still trying to process the phrase mom floating around like another ordinary word. It isn't, at least to me it isn't.

Presley grabs my arm, forcing me to follow him to the next available seat and I sit down. Nini places a plate of steaming breakfast delights in front of me, with a white china plate that reads Reid.

It was a fucking DIY project.

I clench down my jaw, refusing to ignite the thought that this place could possibly be my home. It's temporary, as of which everything else in life is, and it'll be nothing more than a house that was offered for me for a couple of months before I move again.

Before I leave.

And this plate, will be nothing more than porcelain with the name of someone who was.

━━━━━

LUNES
7:51 AM

Reid Harlow

"Do you want me to drive you home?" Presley asks, stopping in front of Liberty Arts High's entrance. The school building itself looks large and upgraded to a modern format, but nothing screams more of a cover-up than a picture-perfect front.

"I can drive," I declare, unbuckling the seatbelt. "Maybe you should leave your car here and I can drive home."

"You're funny," Presley said with no humor laced in his voice, and I turn to him with a dead smile. "Seriously," he continues to press, "do you know how to get home?"

"I'll figure it out," I said, prop opening the door, taking a step outside.

"I mean, it's not an issue if you want me to drive you home—"

"I don't want you to do anything," I snap, causing Presley to shut up. I don't feel any remorse. "I can handle myself and I'll see you at home when I'll see you."

I slam the door closed and head up the entrance, not bothering to check if Presley was hurt by my actions. I didn't care. I shouldn't.

I rip open the front door and a waft of warm air greets me, a contrast to the state's cold. I stop before proceeding, taking a look at the front as I try to adjust to my third new school in this year alone.

It looks like every other school; a normal high school, with normal high school students and normal teachers. Everything is the same as the last one.

Except for one thing.

In the distance of the front office, sat a group of three. For the other two, I could call them complete strangers, but as of the third one, she couldn't quite be deemed one.

Her familiar black hair flows in unruly locks, as if she doesn't take much insurance to care for them, her big doe eyes frame her face as she tries to explain something to her friends, determination locks on her features.

I couldn't quite hear what they were talking about, but it didn't matter to me.

It was her.

I know her.

She was the girl from the bench.

━━━━━

AVA'S NOTES

first time writing from a guy's perspective and showing insight on his living. it took a while because i had to create the side characters of the foster family and intertwined that into the plot. i want to show how foster families could be beneficial in comparison to how harlow views them.

don't worry, we'll dig into why he doesn't trust them later on.

thank you again for reading!! 

please vote and comment!