[Day 158] Camden (Is a Girl)

“…so much potential…”

I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t believe they were already using that line on me.

“…Didn’t your parents teach you better than this?” I froze, glaring. “Camden?” I hated it when adults used my name like they knew me.

“I guess they weren’t alive long enough to drive it home.” I snapped bitterly. I slumped into the headboard of the creaky bed. It annoyed me so much that I rarely got any sleep, but I couldn’t complain. This halfway house was the only home I’d known for six years. Part of my mind considered the various foster homes, but I shook away those memories. It didn’t count if your very existence in a place was resented.

The social worker sighed and scribbled down some last few notes on her pad. “If you don’t decide you want to live with the ladies tomorrow, I can’t guarantee you’ll stay out of jail.”

I snorted. “I’m only seventeen. They can’t put me in jail.” Yet.

“Yet.” Diane regarded me carefully, frowning. She was a nice lady, I supposed, but she was next to useless.

“Fine.” I sat up again. “I’ll bite. So I’m gonna be talking to some lesbians tomorrow?”

Diane sighed again. “They’re a lovely couple. Annabelle and Betty are their names. Do not call them ‘the lesbians.’ ” I would have laughed at that, had she not looked so stern. “Camden,” There she went with my name again, “this may be your last chance. If you don’t accept their offer of a home, you’ll be out on the streets in four months. You know…”

“Yes, I know. I can’t stay here past my 18^th birthday. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

“Apparently, not clear enough, as you still don’t seem to be taking this seriously.”

Ignoring the jab at my maturity, I leaned back again. “So how do I know that these lesbians don’t just want me for a young sex toy?”

Diane threw up her hands and raised to go. “Please just act civil tomorrow. Please. If not for yourself, for me.”

“What makes you think I care about you enough to bother?”

“Camden, someday, you’re going to have to care about someone again.”

I ignored her, turning to my painfully out of date 1^st Generation iPod. After the third time of her using my name, I couldn’t be expected to continue listening. It just wasn’t fair.